Chapter Text
Hyacine’s first-ever roommate was a cat.
Not literally, of course, but there was no other logical explanation for the teenage girl curled up on a bed, purring . Hyacine’s eyes told her that it was human-shaped, but every single other piece of information she was receiving was whispering to her to ‘get the lint roller now!’ Even her silvery gray hair, half concealed beneath her hood (which, by the way, was a hood with cat ears ), was fluffy like a cat’s fur.
Hyacine tiptoed into the room, attempting not to wake up the sleeping cat girl, and her shoe nearly crashed into a cardboard box. She looked down, only to see the most unorganized, chaotic box pile she’d ever laid eyes on. Inside the boxes, it wasn’t any better - they were filled to the brim with random objects - unfolded clothes, electronic gadgets she didn't even recognize, even jewelry.
“Dear Aquila, is that a box of cat toys?” she whispered to herself.
“What about it?” said a voice from behind her.
Hyacine jumped, spinning around. “Nothing!”
“Oh, OK,” the cat girl yawned, leaning against the wall. “Must’ve been the wind.”
Despite her relaxed demeanor, her luminous sky blue eyes felt like they could pierce through Hyacine, and even with her slouched posture she still stood a full head above her. Hyacine was not sure how she was able to sneak up behind her so quietly.
“Don’t mind the mess, I’ll clean it… sometime. Don’t count on it. You can call me Cipher. Or Cifera, if you want to be sorry, because I’ll open a window and steal your blanket in the middle of the night.”
“Hyacine!” said Hyacine, still rather nervous. “I also have a name, as in, of course I have a name but I also have a name I don’t like, Hyacinthia - a full name, you know, an embarrassing one. Oh, not that Cifera is embarrassing, it’s very pretty! Cipher is great, too. Yeah.”
Cipher clapped her hands, delighted. “Ooh, that’s a fun name to say! Hyacine. Hyyyacine. Okay! Well, Hyacine, welcome to the mess! This is my dorm, as you couldn’t tell before -” she gestured around at the mess - “and I’m going to make a wild guess that you’re my new roommate?”
Hyacine nodded nervously.
“Welcome to the mess, then!” Cipher said, dramatically flinging her arms outward. “And the greatest beginning to a new chapter of your life!”
Just as Cipher said that, there was a sharp beep from somewhere in the box pile. She winced. “I have no idea what that is. It’s probably fine.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Hyacine’s mouth. “You’re sure it’s not a bomb, or…?”
Cipher snorted and patted her head. “Don’t be silly. I’m going to annoy my friend before that bomb goes off, want to come?”
Hyacine laughed at that. “I have to unpack,” she said with great reluctance. “Another time?”
Cipher shrugged. “Your loss!” she said, sauntering toward the door. “You’ll see him around, I’m sure. His name is Mydei and he kind of looks like a brick wall, but on fire.”
The door clicked shut, and for a moment, the silence of the room felt loud. Hyacine glanced at Cipher’s cluttered chaos, and at her own neat stacks of boxes, and laughed. She set her bags down, silently promising herself she’d make this place hers.
As she began to unpack, her smile never quite left her face.
As the orange rays of the setting sun began to shine through the windows, Hyacine stepped back, admiring her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but most of what she’d set out to accomplish was done; tea was brewing in the little kitchenette, her bedding was laid out neatly (next to Cipher’s unmade, rumpled up blankets), her towels were folded up in the bathroom (across from Cipher’s un-folded towels hung up lopsidedly on the bathtub), and she’d neatly laid out her books and papers on one of the desks (the desk that wasn’t covered in crumpled papers with oddly cult-like markings on them).
Hyacine stood wide-eyed in front of the desk, staring at the pile with growing concern. “Um, Cipher…?”
Cipher, curled up in a position no human had any business in, cracked one eye open. “Oh, those? That was because I was bored.”
“Bored?”
“Yeah,” she said, rolling over and letting one hand dangle over the edge of the bed. “I dunno, a cult seemed funny to join. Very mysterious. Builds character.”
Hyacine opened her mouth, closed it, and silently stepped away from the desk.
Cipher snorted. “Relaaax! It was a fake one. Probably. I think that’s the one I read about on the back of a cereal box. Don’t get too worked up - oh, you should go out to explore!”
Hyacine glanced out the window, where the sun was beginning to set. “Now?” She asked tentatively.
“Why not?” Cipher said, stretching. “Did orientation not show you the common room? It’s awesome . There’s a fireplace and everything.”
Hyacine hesitated. “A fireplace?”
Cipher stretched into a grin. “Yeah, a fireplace. It’s brick, it’s got fire, it’s a place… very good fireplace.”
Hyacine blinked, trying not to smile. “That certainly is a fireplace, from the sound of it.”
Cipher snorted. “It’s got good chairs, too. Not like these squeaky mattresses.” She patted the bed beneath her, which made a dying croak.
“...You’re lying on the support beam.” Tempted, Hyacine glanced at the door. “You don’t mind?”
“Go explore, Hyacine!” Cipher said, waving her off. “Kids like you should be out blazing new trails, not holed up in a dorm with her weird roommate and her boxes full of beeping bombs.”
Hyacine laughed. “So there are bombs in there!”
“I said nothing,” Cipher said lazily. “Oh, don’t forget your tea.”
“Oh!” Hyacine rushed to the kitchenette to turn the boiling kettle off before it screamed. Steam hissed as she lifted it carefully.
“Forget things a lot, do you?” Cipher sounded amused.
Hyacine coughed, pouring tea into a little mug with a rainbow as its handle. “Maybe. Would you like a cup?”
“Hm?” Cipher glanced up. “That’s okay. Also, if you see Mydei, tell him he owes me five bucks.”
As the door closed behind her, Hyacine breathed in.
The hallway air was noticeably cooler, tinged with the faint scent of new paint and a waft of something sweet in the oven coming from one of the dorms. Her footsteps were swallowed up by the soft carpet as she made her way down the hall.
Every now and then, a burst of muffled laughter or some notes of music drifted through a door, and the small peeks into the students’ lives made her smile. She didn’t know anyone here, but there was something comforting about the noise, like the building was coming alive.
She passed a faded bulletin board filled with flyers curled over time; tutoring advertisements, studying groups, a ‘lost cat’ poster with a photo of Cipher posing. She laughed. There was a wildly colored flyer for a ‘Music Night on Sunday!’ that had fallen to the floor due to a hasty tape job; she dusted it off and stuck it back on the board with a thumb pin.
Hyacine slowed as she reached the entrance of the common room, as stated by a carved, worn wooden sign. The space inside was warmly lit by the flickering fireplace Cipher had mentioned. There were many unoccupied seats scattered around, as well as a pool table, a small, old-looking TV, and a writing desk with piles of paper on top.
Someone was sitting in front of the fireplace.
A boy sat on the edge of the couch, brooding. Firelight danced along his blonde hair that was woven into thick braids like a Spartan warrior, and caught in the deep auburn it faded into. His eyes were fixed on the fire, like he was trying to pry answers from the depths of the flame.
His name’s Mydei, and he kind of looks like a brick wall on fire . Hyacine almost laughed.
She hovered at the door another second, unsure whether to interrupt, then stepped in with no particular plan. The only sounds in the common room were the crackling of the fire and the quiet hum of the vending machine.
A floorboard squeaked under her shoe, and he glanced up, one eye meeting hers.
“Uh - hi,” Hyacine said cautiously, lifting her half-forgotten mug of tea like a peace offering. “I live down the hall. Just exploring.”
“Mm.” Not friendly, but not hostile, either.
The fire crackled.
Hyacine tried again. “I’m Hyacine. I just moved in today.”
“Mydeimos,” he said, confirming her suspicions.
“Do you, uh, live in this wing too?”
Mydei nodded, eyes going back to the fire. “Since last year.”
Silence fell again, once again emphasizing the crackling of the flames.
Hyacine gathered her courage again. “It’s surprisingly quiet. For a common room, I mean.”
Mydei nodded. “Everyone’s busy. Last day before classes.”
“The quiet doesn’t bother you?” Hyacine asked, reaching for something to say.
“Fire’s good for thinking,” he said, his voice reminding her of the slow burn of coals. “Sit.”
Hyacine nervously sat down on the couch, not too close to him. “Cipher talked about you,” she ventured.
Though his head didn’t turn toward her, his shoulders shifted slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Hyacine took a sip of her tea. “She said you owe her five bucks.”
Unexpectedly, Mydei barked out a genuine laugh - rough, warm, and surprisingly calming. The sound filled the room with warmth, and Hyacine’s chest lifted. She found herself smiling, surprised at how reassuring such a simple sound could be.
“Cipher’s been telling me that every week for years,” Mydei said, a tiny hint of a smile in his voice now. “It’s more of a running joke at this point.”
“She’s very…” Hyacine trailed off, thinking about how to describe her.
“Interesting? Dramatic? Annoying?” Mydei nodded. “Definitely an acquired taste. You’re her new roommate?”
Hyacine’s eyes widened. “How’d you know?”
“She’s loud,” he said bluntly.
Hyacine laughed too, and she thought she saw Mydei’s smile lift a tiny bit. “How long have you known her?”
As Mydei opened his mouth to speak, the door burst open. “There you are!” Cipher’s voice rang out like she was summoned. “Oh my goodness, are my ears mistaken? Mydei, did you just laugh ? I feel like this needs to be written in the history books.”
Mydei didn’t look up. “I laugh at good jokes, not your weird cult drawings that you stuck all over my door.”
Cipher gasped, looking offended, as she flopped onto the armrest next to him (ignoring the open seat between him and Hyacine). “Excuse me? Those were a gift ! Hand-crafted cereal box cult sigils.”
“You got into that cult off a cereal box ?” Mydei said incredulously, pausing mid-brood to look at her in disbelief.
Cipher burst out laughing. “Yes! And you know what they said - they said those sigils were meant to protect you - from cereal killers…” The rest of her sentence dissolved into laughter. Hyacine couldn’t help but laugh.
Mydei shook his head, his lips twitching.
Cipher, looking proud, got off the armrest and spun dramatically, falling into the nearest beanbag. “I don’t care what anyone says, that cereal box cult was awesome for the three days I was in it.”
Mydei nodded. “You’re right. And we totally needed that chanting. At 2 AM, when everyone was trying to sleep.”
Hyacine’s eyes widened. “You chanted out loud?”
Cipher waved her hand. “Only a little,” she said dismissively. “Only enough to summon a cereal killer shield.” She snickered again.
“It was loud enough to wake the RA,” muttered Mydei. “Your roommate needs help.”
“Oh, buzz off,” Cipher said, leaning forward to swat him across the knee. “If you're going to warn her about anyone, why don’t you warn her about Professor Anaxagoras?”
Mydei shuddered. “Because I’d rather not talk about him.”
“Exactly.” Cipher nodded, satisfied, and turned toward Hyacine. “You haven’t met him, have you?”
Hyacine shook her head, wide-eyed. A professor who could scare Mydei ?
“Oh, you will,” Cipher said ominously. “Professor Anaxagoras - Anaxa, if you want to be publicly humiliated in front of an entire class - teaches philosophy and chemistry, but I’m pretty sure he’s a resurrected alchemist. Also, I’ve never seen him in the sun, so don’t be too surprised if it turns out he’s an ageless immortal vampire.”
Mydei said nothing, solidifying Professor Anaxagoras as a terrifying entity in Hyacine’s mind.
“See?” Cipher said, pointing at his face. “That’s the expression of someone who’s seen things.”
“I took his class last year,” Mydei muttered. “Never again. Never.”
“Everyone takes his class,” Cipher said. “You’re not alone.”
“ He hated me .”
“He hates everyone. He once made a kid cry just by asking them to list the periodic table,” Cipher added helpfully to Hyacine. “He didn’t even raise his voice. He just stared at the kid until he started crying.”
“...Wasn’t that you?” Mydei asked innocently.
Cipher’s jaw dropped. “ME?! That was that crybaby Damionis who was taking Law! I cried because he asked me to define existence. That’s a whole other story. I resent that comparison.” She turned to Hyacine, eyes wide and serious. “You will see. I truly believe that man is an 18th-century alchemist.”
“Does he have some… baggage?” Hyacine asked cautiously.
“Good luck asking him,” Mydei muttered, leaning back against the back of the couch.
“A tragic backstory, no doubt,” Cipher said dramatically. “Maybe he couldn’t figure out how to turn his own pee into gold, so his wife left him?”
Hyacine wasn’t sure if she should laugh, panic, or start preparing a will, so she did a little of all three, internally. “I hope I don’t have his class this semester,” she said weakly.
“Oh, you do,” Cipher said brightly. “First years always get Anaxa’s class - it’s called “Introduction to Logical Thought”. Don’t ask why - some higher-up really hates kids, I guess.”
Hyacine nodded into her cup. “Maybe we’ll become best friends.”
A moment of silence, and then Mydei snorted, and Cipher laughed so hard she almost fell off the beanbag. “You and Anaxa getting along?! Oh Zagreus, please invite me! I want to see the exact moment your soul leaves your body.”
“...So the midterm?” Mydei said.
“I’m doomed,” Hyacine said, accepting her fate.
“Exactly!” Cipher grinned, showing her catlike snaggletooth. “The key is to accept it, and never let him smell your fear.”
“He can smell it?!”
“No. Not smell,” Mydei rumbled. “He just knows when you haven’t done your reading.”
“You’re scaring her, Mydei!” Cipher said with a perfectly innocent expression. “Just don’t make eye contact and you’ll be fine.”
“Or speak at all,” he muttered.
Cipher tapped her chin. “Or breathe too loudly! And if you’re late once, I’ll help you start a new life. I’ve never faked anyone’s death before - that sounds fun.”
“Yay,” Hyacine said feebly, taking another sip of her rapidly cooling tea.
There was a moment of quiet, as guitar music from a dormitory floated into the common room. The singing voice was off-key, but the singer seemed to be having a lot of fun. The sun had set, and the fireplace was the only thing lighting up the common room.
“Well -” Cipher stood up and stretched with a yawn, her hoodie ears flopping about. “I’m off to bed! Coming, Hyacine?”
“Yeah!” Hyacine scrambled up, cradling her mug. She looked back at Mydei.
Mydei gave her a small nod. “Pleasure meeting you.”
“You too,” she said, smiling as she realized she meant it.
As soon as the door was wide enough to reveal Cipher’s bed, she was splayed across it like she’d been shot. One of her legs dangled off the mattress.
“Sorry I’m not in Anaxa’s class with you,” she said into her pillow. “You’re gonna have to go through hell alone. Although I heard someone’s retaking it just for ‘fun.’ Nutbag.”
Hyacine laughed softly, placing her now-empty mug on her desk. “Do you always sleep like that?”
“Like what?” Cipher rolled over, one sock half off.
“Like someone dropped you out of the sky.”
“It’s more efficient,” Cipher said, grinning sleepily.
Cipher was already half-asleep when Hyacine finished brushing her teeth, but as her roommate emerged from the bathroom, she blinked one eye open. “Oh! Wait - I almost forgot.” From her bedside table, she grabbed a small key and threw it across the room with surprising accuracy. Hyacine caught it, startled.
“For the door,” Cipher mumbled. “In case you ever want to lock me out if I go cereal killing. Or, y’know, if you just want to get in.”
Smiling, Hyacine pulled out a keychain. Attached to it was a little worn pegasus charm, with button eyes. She delicately looped the keychain through the key.
“What is that?” Cipher said, sleepily curious.
“It’s Ica.” Hyacine held it up to the moonlight. “My good luck charm.”
Cipher laughed, softer than anything Hyacine had heard before. “Hyacine, are you sure you’re not a princess? Or lost kid?”
Hyacine rolled her eyes, her smile growing. “I’m sure.”
“Well,” Cipher mumbled, “I hope Ica has sweet dreams…”
The room quieted again, then filled with the sound of her rhythmic breathing.
Hyacine changed into her fluffy pajamas, then climbed into bed, drawing the blankets around her. The mattress was a bit firm, and the blankets were a bit thin, but somehow Cipher’s steady breathing brought a presence that was more comforting than the softest bed.
Hyacine closed her eyes and slept, a smile on her face.
The morning air was cool and crisp, and dewdrops rolled off the long blades of grass. Hyacine pulled her jacket tighter around herself, feeling a bit like a lost duckling as she followed Cipher, who was striding along with a root beer in hand. The hazy orange of the rising sun peeked over the buildings, lighting up the maze of unfamiliar paths and looming buildings of the campus.
Hyacine looked around, trying to get her bearings. A few groups of students passed them, talking excitedly amongst themselves.
“You look like you just woke up,” Cipher teased.
“Where are we?” Hyacine asked tentatively.
Cipher glanced up at the nearest building. “Very good question! This is the Arts building, which means Science is…” She looked around, muttering to herself. “Ah, wrong way - wait, no, that’s right. Don’t worry, Hyacine, your reliable upperclassman will for sure lead you to salvation!”
Hyacine hesitated. “...I thought you were a sophomore?”
Cipher waved her off, hoodie ears flopping. “I deserve the title of upperclassman after surviving a full semester of Anaxa’s class.”
“Right.” Hyacine was unsure whether that was meant to be reassuring.
They turned a corner and passed by a group of students crowded around a bulletin board, chattering excitedly. One was wearing three T-shirts over his hoodie.
“...Is that normal?” Hyacine whispered to Cipher.
She barely glanced at him. “Oh, we get all sorts of crazy fashion choices on campus. Especially during finals. Some begin their descent into madness earlier than others.” She squinted at the board and made a dismissive noise.
“What is it?” Hyacine watched Cipher theatrically take another swig of root beer.
“Nothing exciting,” Cipher said, leading them around another corner. “Just some students having a -”
She stiffened, hackles rising.
“Cipher?” Hyacine asked, suddenly wary. She looked around.
For a moment, Cipher’s luminescent eyes dimmed and went out of focus, like she was seeing a memory from long ago. Her usually playful but guarded expression shifted into something more subtle - soft, but vulnerable.
Then she was back, like nothing had happened. “Yes! Here we are!” She quickly herded Hyacine into a building on the left, a smile stretched across her face that was far too wide to be natural. “Locker time! Oh, these lockers aren’t fun. The lockers in the Arts building are always funny - there’s weird drawings stuffed in them all the time.”
Cipher’s voice was animated again, but Hyacine couldn’t shake the feeling something had thrown her off - something she was trying very hard not to show.
Cipher steered them briskly around the corner, to a hallway lined with rows of lockers as far as the eye could see. There were more people around now; the lively chatter of students filled the halls.
“So, lockers,” Cipher said, scrutinizing Hyacine’s locker. “Mm, not bad. No graffiti yet. Exterior is an eight out of ten.”
“Why eight?”
“Small dent near the bottom,” Cipher said gravely, like a professional locker appraiser. She tapped a carefully trimmed nail against it. “That’s classic sabotage. Your hidden rivals in the shadows are trying to shake your confidence.”
Hyacine laughed. “There are shadowy evil factions?”
“Oh, yes,” Cipher said, grinning, clearly enjoying herself again. “One dent leads to two. Two dents lead to five, and eventually you don’t have a door anymore, just a floating lock that you still need to input the code for.”
Hyacine turned her attention back to her locker, recalling the code. “So… you turn left first? Or right?”
“No,” Cipher said helpfully. “There are no right answers here.”
Hyacine exhaled, smiling. “You’re not much help, y’know.” Her hands slowly turned the small lock, locking onto a small ‘33’ with precision, then back the other way, counting carefully until she hit the next number. “There’s twenty-one, and then…?”
“Pain!” Cipher supplied. “Alright, alright, it’s fourteen.”
Hyacine turned the dial, and as soon as the arrow met the small number, the lock sprang open with a satisfying click . “Told you!” Cipher said.
Hyacine’s brow furrowed. “How did you know?”
“I have the Sight,” Cipher said very seriously. “It’s a rare gift passed down through generations.”
“And you used it to read a locker combination number off a welcome sheet I forgot to put away?” Hyacine shook her head, laughing.
“Did my girl just use sarcasm?” Cipher put a hand over her chest, wiping away imaginary tears. “This is an amazing day… I’m so proud…”
Hyacine rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.
“You’ll be fluent in a week, I think,” Cipher continued. “You’re a fast learner. Oh - here comes someone interesting!”
Hyacine followed her gaze up, and her breath hitched.
Walking through the hall by herself was a girl with flowing purple hair that caught the faint morning light. Her footsteps made no sound on the tile floor - she seemed to glide more than walk, like a pale mist washing over a forest. As if by instinct, the crowd around her thinned and conversation quieted a little.
Hyacine’s breath quickened as she passed by. She could almost feel a chill brush against her skin, like the temperature dropped a fraction everywhere this person went. For that moment, time felt like it slowed to a halt to let her pass, the world narrowing to the pale figure ahead. Hyacine suddenly felt hyper aware of the awkwardness of her large jacket, the brightness of her hair, the sound of her own breathing.
Then the mysterious girl vanished into the crowd, leaving behind a strange sense of fascination that Hyacine couldn’t quite understand.
“Who was that?” She asked Cipher, breath still a little short. Conversation started back in the halls, a few hushed whispers trailing after the mysterious girl.
“Castorice,” Cipher said, almost reverently. “She’s first year, same as you.”
Hyacine blinked. “ First year?”
“Mhm. Can you believe it’s her first day here?” Cipher shrugged, a faint hint of bafflement in her voice. “And yet, she’s already a complete enigma. No one knows anything about her, except that she’s brilliant, but if you ask me, she seems like the type of person not to put up with much nonsense. Maybe she’ll borrow a page from Anaxa’s book and make you cry by glaring at you?”
Hyacine shook her head, a nervous smile tugging on her lips. “Let’s hope not…” she murmured as she closed her locker.
Without warning, Cipher spun her around, putting a hand on each of her shoulders, and looked directly into her eyes (bending a little to do so). “Hyacine. You’ll do fine.”
Hyacine swallowed. “Yeah, maybe,” she said, still unsure. “I hope no one hates me.”
“Pfft,” Cipher said dismissively, patting her head and earning a few strange looks in the process. “Nonsense, no one could hate you.”
Hyacine laughed. “That means a lot, Cipher.”
“Anytime. Go show ‘em what you’re made of!”
Feeling a bit steadier, Hyacine smiled and watched Cipher drift away with a lazy wave. As she rounded a corner and vanished from eyesight, Hyacine found her eyes wandering back to where Castorice had disappeared. The memory of that silent figure lingered in her mind, unsettling and strangely captivating.
Hyacine headed into the first class of the day, the mysterious purple-haired girl and her silent walk settling down in a little corner of her mind.
Hyacine’s first day was a blur of desperately tracking down four-digit room numbers, sitting in way-too-small desks or way-too-tall tables, and lectures that were either much too slow or much too fast. By the end of the day, her shoulders ached from the weight of the books in her backpack, and her legs had a half-numb feeling that was her body’s signal telling her it was rebelling.
Still, she was smiling.
“This school is a labyrinth,” she declared breathlessly, struggling to keep up with Cipher’s long strides. “I was following a hallway, and it stopped, and I couldn’t believe it went any higher, but it did .”
Cipher huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, welcome to the vertical maze. Allegedly, there’s a stairwell that, if you enter, you can never leave, and some black-robed guy in a steel mask called the ‘Flame Reaver’ chases you endlessly, and if you go up or down the stairs you’ll end up exactly where you were before. Basically if you see a stairwell labeled ‘The Scary One,’ don’t go in it.”
“That one was made up, right?” Hyacine said, still out of breath. “I can tell that much at this point!”
Cipher paused. “Define made up.”
Hyacine groaned. “Anaxa can’t be worse than this…”
Cipher snorted and rounded another corner - at this point, Hyacine wasn’t entirely convinced they were still on campus. She breathed a sigh of relief as they slowed.
Then, she realized this hallway felt different; the walls were painted pure white, and the clean tile floors reflected the overhead lights like a mirror. Upon closer inspection, the polished wooden trim was simply colored like wood, but one single color, as opposed to the strips of shades in real wood.
“That’s kind of creepy,” Hyacine said, pointing it out to Cipher.
Cipher barely spared it a glance. “ That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
Hyacine looked around again. “This doesn’t feel the same as the rest of the school. It’s too… shiny?”
Cipher barked a laugh. “There’s one way to describe it! Professor Anaxagoras (you’d better get in the habit of calling him that before it’s too late) runs a very tight ship. Of course, he can’t chase everyone with muddy shoes away -” as she said that, she gestured at the floor behind them, which, upon closer inspection, was smudged by hundreds of faint footprints - “but that’s the closest you get to disruption,” she finished with a smirk. “Everything else is spotless and painfully precise -”
“Oh no, I forgot Ica!” Hyacine exclaimed, stopping in her tracks to pat down her pockets.
Cipher stopped too. “You made it through all day without noticing you were missing your keys?”
Hyacine shrugged, sheepish, as she flipped open her bag to check. “I guess I was too caught up in everything else…” She looked inside and sighed in defeat.
Cipher shook her head affectionately. “Is this something I’m gonna have to deal with regularly? The entire day . Should I be worried or impressed?”
“Maybe a bit of both,” Hyacine laughed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Sorry, Cipher.”
Cipher bumped her with her shoulder, causing her to unbalance a little. “Don’t stress it! I’ll let you in when we get back - just don’t make a habit out of it.”
Hyacine smiled gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said.
“I know. Ah, here we are!”
Lo and behold, an arched wooden door appeared at the end of the hall, way too ominous for a classroom.
A faded brass plate above it simply read:
PROFESSOR ANAXAGORAS
“Your stop, Madam,” Cipher said, grinning.
Hyacine exhaled, trying to push out all the nervousness that was still fluttering around in her stomach.
She set her shoulders, determined to make a good first impression on this apparently unimpressionable professor. Just another classroom, another day .
She pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, heart pounding.
The door made no sound as it slowly swung open.
The room was formal and orderly; the surface of the tile floor gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing ahead. Rows of long, curved lecture hall desks stretched out before her, all occupied.
All occupied.
She risked a glance upward and around, pulse quickening, searching for any sign of an open spot. Of course, no one was looking at her, but it still felt like hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching her every move.
Her gaze flickered higher, scanning the last row -
There! The sight of an empty seat sent a wave of relief crashing over her, almost forcing out an audible breath. Then her eyes shifted sideways, and she saw who it was next to -
Flowing purple hair, a presence like mist washing over a forest.
For a brief moment, she locked eyes with Castorice.
Notes:
Chapter 1 is a wrap, complete with the bow-tie of a generic cliffhanger! I hope the beginning of this emotional rollercoaster was a good representation of what you'll be seeing down the line.
This fic exists solely to give the Amphoreus characters a happy-ever-after. Planning started shortly after 3.3, so, people from the future, you may look back at this and laugh once the characters are 100% definitely gonna be so absolutely revived (I say as they drag me into the rubber room) - but for now, they'll have their own little happy story in this universe, which I hope you'll stick around for. I promise it'll be worth it ;)
Chapter Text
Oh, Aquila.
Oh, Aquila.
Oh, Aquila, please save me.
Hyacine walked toward the open seat, each step heavier than the last.
Aquila, please keep me from passing out. I’ll be good, I promise…
She willed herself toward the spot next to Castorice, all the while looking directly down at her shoes, which were tapping against the tile floor a little too loudly. Just act natural, Hyacine. Walk like a normal person. Walk like you’ve been walking all day.
But as she neared the back row, she looked up to catch herself from falling over the stairs, and then she met Castorice’s eyes again, and that thing happened again - her brain felt like it short-curcuited. Language was no longer an option on her menu. Was she even breathing? Did she remember how? It wasn’t just eye contact. It felt like the air between them had thickened, and maybe the Earth was suddenly a lot heavier, because for the life of her, Hyacine could not remember how to breathe, as if the immense gravity of just being around this mysterious girl was pushing the air out of her lungs.
The awkwardness was suffocating, but she couldn’t look away.
A tiny part of her still-functioning brain recognized that perhaps breathing was not a good skill to forget - but more importantly, standing there, out in the open, was perhaps drawing more attention to herself than she’d like.
Just sit down, Hyacine. What’s the worst that could happen?
But she couldn’t. The moment stretched on, long and awkward, like that moment time had slowed for Castorice in the halls earlier, but this time Hyacine was caught in the dilation. Her thoughts, however, did not slow, racing through a million scenarios and finding none satisfactory.
Her mouth moved on its own accord - “Um - is it okay if I sit here?”
The question came out a little fast, like the pressure around her suddenly loosened right as she began to speak. She inwardly cringed at the hint of desperation in her tone.
There was a long, agonizing beat of silence as Hyacine and Castorice simply looked at each other, not blinking. Hyacine felt the beginnings of a flush creeping onto her face as the seconds seemed to stretch into hours, even days.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Castorice nodded, almost imperceptibly, and her eyes shifted back to her hands, placed neatly on her desk like a sculpture, like nothing had happened.
Hyacine had to stop herself from heaving a breath of relief. “Thank you,” she said, then cringed again as her voice came out breathlessly. She slid into her chair with all the grace of a baby giraffe.
The silence that followed couldn’t be described as comfortable, but compared to the moments before, it felt like Aquila’s ultimate blessing. Hyacine awkwardly pulled her books out of the bag she set beside her, fumbling with the zipper a little longer than necessary, and wincing at the small zip that sounded like thunder. She could feel her palms beginning to sweat.
What now?
She opened her notebook and stared blankly at it, hoping for advice to appear on the pages. Write something, she told herself. Doodle, draw - anything that makes you look normal.
A small spiral appeared under her pencil, almost apologetically. She scowled down at it. Her fingers, almost by instinct, retraced the spiral, with sharper and bolder lines.
As she absentmindedly continued to retrace, the classroom noise blurred to a distant hum, and all she could think about was the silent pressure of Castorice’s presence next to her, like a weight pressing into her side. Her traitorous eyes kept flicking to Castorice, who remained perfectly still, hands folded calmly on her desk.
Hyacine looked down at her ‘drawing’ - the spiral had transformed into something wild. It did not magically turn into an actual good drawing. She drew a fancy box around it, because giving it a frame made it look intentional, and maybe a little less psychopathic.
Her eyes darted up again, against her will.
This time, she thought she saw Castorice glancing at her. Just for a heartbeat - too quick to be certain.
Hyacine’s entire brain went into overdrive. Were her nerves so frayed that they were causing hallucinations? Was she finally ready to pass into the afterlife? Maybe she’d finally hit peak weird and was now imagining people staring at her. Great. Hyacine took a small, deliberate look at Castorice’s face, feeling like a main character in a spy movie. But nothing - just the usual calm, unreadable expression, staring blankly down at her still-clasped hands.
Her heart thudded a bit more. She poked at the spiral again, wondering if putting it in a frame made it look more or less creepy. The classroom noise settled a little into the familiar background. The scratch of pencils, the rustling of paper, the quiet murmuring - all of this was familiar. She was in familiar territory. This was good.
She took a deep breath in, then out.
Then, without warning, the door slammed open with the theatrics of a fireworks show. Around the room, heads jerked up, a few students jumped, and silence fell upon the room like a soundproof blanket had been swept across the walls.
“I trust you know why you’re here.”
In strode a man, his tall frame impeccably straight, shoulders squared like a statue. The long, dark robes he wore rippled behind him, each sway perfectly calculated and controlled as if to announce his presence without a single wasted movement. His steps were purposeful and measured, each landing with absolute uniform precision in front of the other with the unfailing rhythm of a metronome, as if he walked to the pulse of a grand machine.
His pale green hair, reminiscent of freshly fallen leaves, was tucked into a ponytail that flowed behind him as he moved, and a black eyepatch, inlaid with fine golden patterns that looked like they told the secrets of the universe, covered his left eye. His right eye, sharp and cutting, swept the room with a feverish intensity that made Hyacine instinctively sit up straighter.
This had to be Professor Anaxagoras.
He came to a stop before the podium, dropping his papers onto the stand with a thud that boomed throughout the room. “You are not here to think,” he declared. “You are here to learn how to think. Which, unfortunately, is much harder.”
A few students shifted nervously in their seats, writing down his every word like it might be on the test.
Professor Anaxagoras said nothing for a moment.
“Your instincts deceive you. Your impulses betray you. Your emotions lead you astray.” As he spoke, he paced around the front of the room. “If you allow them to influence your words, your castle of truth will falter and crumble.”
He let that sink in.
“By the end of this semester, you will not only know how to identify fallacy, but to eliminate it from your thoughts. As your body purges disease, you must also purge myths and untruths from your mind.”
His eye swept across the room again. Hyacine swore it lingered as it passed over her and Castorice.
“How does a legendary athlete achieve their status? How does the world’s fastest runner run so fast? We will look at our minds as bodies, because that is what they are; an incredibly complex machine that controls our decisions and actions, stores your past as warnings for the future, and changes as it learns the truths - or lies, if the mind is one of a fool - of the world.” As Professor Anaxagoras spoke, he placed a unique emphasis on each word of his lecture, his speech ebbing and flowing to create a rhythm that was easy for Hyacine to digest in a way that no teacher had done before. “An athlete’s body is born with the fate to become that of a fast runner, but they still must train rigorously to allow fate to escort them to the top of the world. Our minds are much the same; those without talent will fail this class, but those without the dedication to hone their minds will as well.
“You know me as Professor Anaxagoras. Not Anaxa , or Nax . Names have meaning, and each syllable contains far greater meaning than belies. That is rule number one. Rule number two: silence is golden. There is a time and place for speech, and you will know when that time comes, but when I am teaching, you are to listen.
“Now. Let us see how sharp your minds are, and how much sharper they have the potential to become.” He spun, his robes sweeping out dramatically, and with a piece of chalk, scrawled out in orderly letters:
IF P, THEN Q.
He turned back around. “We call this phrase modus ponens , or ‘affirming method.’” Pens began to scratch around the room, and Hyacine hastily wrote it down. “Premise one: if your parents love you, then they send you to university. Premise two: they sent you to university. Do they love you?” He paused for a moment, then tapped the blackboard, sending a sharp rapping echoing throughout the room hanging onto his every word. “Wrong. That is a fallacy. Would anyone like to try to identify it?”
Hyacine did not want to try to identify it. However, she turned it over in her head, brow furrowing.
“Yes, you with the blue shirt,” Professor Anaxagoras said, pointing at a timid student with her hand quivering in the air.
She blinked, startled. “Um… I don’t know the fancy term, but… isn’t that kind of backwards?” she hedged. “Like… just because they send you to university doesn’t automatically mean they love you. It could be for a different reason. Like pressure, or status, or something.” She laughed nervously. “When I say it like that, it sounds kind of sad.”
“Good,” said Professor Anaxagoras. “Very good. We call this affirming the consequent . A common misstep.” He turned back to the board, underlining the phrase IF P, THEN Q with a sharp line. “You’ve reversed the logic. They sent you to university, Q , but that does not necessarily mean they love you, P . They may. Or they may simply want you out of the house.”
A few quiet laughs scattered through the room, and Hyacine let out a sound that she immediately hid behind her hand. The girl sank into her seat in relief, cheeks pink, and the rest of the class silently hailed her as a hero.
“This statement -” Professor Anaxagoras tapped the board again - “ modus ponens , is simply a diving board. If you jump off it - the illustrious P diving board - you’ll most certainly land in the Q swimming pool. However, just because you are in the Q swimming pool does not definitely mean you jumped off the diving board. Perhaps you entered from the shallow end with a floaty toy.”
Hyacine saw heads nod around the room, like the metaphor had unlocked something for them.
From the far side of the room, someone raised a hand confidently.
"Back for more, Mr. Elysiae?" Professor Anaxagoras said sharply.
A boy with tufted, spiky white hair grinned rakishly, his legs kicked up on his desk. “Sir, your lectures are so riveting and expertly unhinged, how could I stay away?”
Another ripple of laughter passed through the room. The boy’s posture was more suited to a hammock than a lecture hall - one arm slung lazily over the back of his chair, the other skillfully twirling a pen.
Professor Anaxagoras raised an eyebrow. “If I recall, Mr. Elysiae, you only barely passed this class last year, which was not a surprise, given your approach to studying. I also happen to recall you not being enrolled last week.”
“Please, sir, call me Phainon!” the boy replied brightly. “And I transferred this morning. I can’t pass up a chance to metaphorically cannonball into the modus ponens swimming pool, sir!”
That got more chuckles. The professor’s face remained expressionless. “Well, Mr. Elysiae -” Phainon let out a disappointed groan - “I hope you will contribute something of value this semester to all the first year students. Perhaps how not to study if you value your future career.” The class laughed again. “You may ask your question.”
Phainon leaned forward, grinning. “So, using modus ponens , if I say 'If I pass this class, then I’m a genius,' and then I do pass, does that make me a genius?"
Anaxagoras arched an unimpressed eyebrow. “It makes you unable to distinguish between universally agreed title and personal claim.”
"But, continuing this train of thought," Phainon continued, holding his hands out like a magician preparing a reveal, "if I fail, I am too brilliant to follow mortal logic?"
The professor nodded. “It certainly means you will brilliantly fail your final. Do continue.”
As the class laughed again, Hyacine couldn’t help but stare at Phainon. There was an easy grace to him in the way he cracked jokes and subtly shifted, like he was dancing through the conversation with his words, not just speaking. His voice had just enough of a lighthearted lilt to not feel mocking.
“Let us continue, then,” said Professor Anaxagoras, snapping Hyacine’s attention back to the lecture. “This - modus ponens - is foundational. It is not complex, but you cannot imagine succeeding in maths without understanding what addition is. Similarly, you must not only know the definition of modus ponens by heart, you must also have enough experience with it to use it like you know three plus two without blinking. I would hope,” he added, darkly amused.
Turning around, he scrawled a new phrase under the first with clean, efficient movements.
IF P, THEN Q
NOT Q, THEREFORE NOT P
“This is modus tollens , Latin for ‘denial method’ - the subtraction to modus ponens ’ addition. This is a tool of rejection, merciless when used properly.” He spun to face the class again, robes flaring dramatically. “To return to our modus diving board metaphor, it is the idea that if you are not in the pool, you most certainly did not jump off the diving board - unless you overshot the pool, of course, which we choose to willfully ignore in this metaphor.”
Nervous laughter came from the class.
“Let’s test your reflexes,” Professor Anaxagoras said, clapping his hands sharply. “Premise one: if someone is in this room, they are alive. Premise two: they are not alive. What can I conclude?”
Some more hands raised, fueled by the courage of the first girl.
“You, with the freckles,” the professor called.
The boy looked around for help, clearly regretting everything. “U-uh… it means that th-they must be… alive…?”
Professor Anaxagoras was silent for a moment, staring at the boy with unreadable eyes for a little too long.
“Incorrect.”
The word sliced through the air like a knife, sharp and clean. The boy sank into his seat as a couple of students winced sympathetically.
“You are in the correct room, but not the correct mindset. Tell me, class,” Professor Anaxagoras said, voice deadly and composed. “What happens when you put the wrong coordinates into a map? What happens when a surgeon makes a wrong incision?”
He let that hang.
“People suffer.”
The silence deepened.
“This is the consequence of flawed logic,” Professor Anaxagoras continued. “It does not only make you wrong - it makes you dangerous. Every bad decision, every historical atrocity, every broken system and irreparable mistake has behind it a mind that thought it was being reasonable. That believed it had found truth. But truth is not found by stumbling about in the dark. It is carved, whittled, sharpened - like a blade. And a lie disguised as truth threatens to undermine the very foundation of the system from which it was built.” He knocked on the board. “ Modus tollens .”
Professor Anaxagoras stepped back, folding his arms and looking around as the room absorbed the weight of his words. “Remember this: the mind is only as sharp as the truths it holds, and truths are not subject to feelings or convenience. Emotion is the enemy of clarity.” His gaze shot around the room, as if challenging anyone to express their argument otherwise. “In fact - if you allow yourself to question your conclusions because of emotion and doubt, you may as well surrender the practice of logical thought entirely.”
Hyacine frowned slightly, feeling something stir quietly but firmly in rebuttal to the bold statement - but before she could dwell more on it, Phainon raised his hand again. “Ah, Professor, if emotions are the villain, then my love for pizza must be a logical fallacy, then?”
Some nervous laughter.
“Who knew Domino’s was built on the shaky foundation of faulty reasoning,” Phainon mourned, wiping a fake tear.
This time, the laughter was a little more free, as if a nervous tension had been slightly eased. Hyacine caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye, where Castorice sat as still as ever, arms folded immaculately. And then, so faint that it might’ve been nothing at all, Hyacine heard it.
A laugh.
It wasn’t full. It was the barest puff of air, a ghost of amusement in the back of her throat, there and gone in a blink.
Hyacine froze. Her pen stilled mid-sentence. The noise was quiet enough that only she could’ve heard it. With great willpower, she forced her eyes to not dart toward Castorice. Her chest fluttered.
She pressed the tip of her pen into her paper, not writing anything, the moment ringing in her mind like it had struck some sort of bell. The moment replayed in her mind again and again; the exhale, the barest hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth that Hyacine had seen out of the corner of her eye.
A warmth bloomed quietly in her chest. She didn’t know why it mattered so much - why seeing a new side to this mystery girl was making her heart feel as light as a helium balloon - but she didn’t question it, just stared forward, trying her best not to let the heat creep onto her cheeks.
Castorice laughed.
And if the fact that it was Phainon who made her laugh, Phainon who was the one who dragged this new side of her out, made Hyacine’s chest a little tight, what did it matter?
The rest of the lecture unfolded, with Professor Anaxagoras pacing like a stormcloud at the front of the room, firing questions like arrows and laying out logic with chalk lines like sword slashes. He moved through each concept thoroughly and efficiently, tearing down any fallacies that could threaten their infallible nature.
Hyacine did her best to keep up. Her notes were a mess of hastily scribbled phrases and half-drawn diagrams, but despite the fast pace, something about the rhythm pulled her in. It wasn’t just memorization, or formula; it felt like a puzzle or a dance. There was something thrilling about having to think this fast and deep.
Every so often, Phainon chipped in with another terrible metaphor or irreverent joke, and while Professor Anaxagoras’ remarks were always dry and cutting, Hyacine noticed he never actually asked Phainon to stop. The jokes brought a levity to the classroom that noticeably eased the tension.
Throughout, Castorice remained silent, her eyes staying fixed on the board. She took no notes; in fact, after seeing her laugh, Hyacine didn’t see her move for the rest of the class, save for the occasional blink. Still, every time Phainon broke the seriousness of the lecture, Hyacine felt herself waiting, breath bated, for that little flicker of a laugh, but she never heard it.
By the time the hour drew to a close, her head was full and dizzy, like someone had opened her brain and poured soda into it.
“And that ,” Professor Anaxagoras said, perfectly timing his pause with the ringing bell announcing the end of the period, “is your first step into the beautiful, cold world of pure thought. Good day, class.”
Chairs scraped and papers rustled as students gathered their things. Hyacine sat still for a moment, then flipped her notebook closed. Her eyes darted toward Castorice once more, who was already on her feet, fathering her things with the same stoic precision she’d maintained all class. It vaguely reminded Hyacine of how Professor Anaxagoras moved, not a single unnecessary motion, but while his movements were dramatic and flourishing, Castorice’s were quiet and muted.
Hyacine stood, pushing her notebook into her bag with fumbling fingers. She meant to say something, even just a “see you tomorrow!”, but by the time she looked up, Castorice was already gone.
Quietly, Hyacine let out a sigh, equally relieved and disappointed.
“Tragically,” Phainon announced, “this mind must descend from the dizzying heights of philosophy, back down to the cruel mundanity of homework.”
Smiling at Phainon’s bold declaration, Hyacine slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way down the aisle, following Phainon on his way out the door.
Then she hesitated in the doorway.
All of the class had trickled out. Phainon, bowing to both Hyacine and Professor Anaxagoras (the latter of which ignored him completely), made his sweeping exit out of the room. Castorice had vanished entirely, like a mist dissolving into the air.
Hyacine looked back at the professor standing at the lectern, who was reviewing his notes with a kind of focus that warned off interruption. Ignoring all warning signs, Hyacine stepped forward, shoes echoing in the now-empty room.
“Professor Anaxagoras?” she asked hesitantly.
He didn’t look up. “Speak.”
“I… wanted to ask something about what you said earlier. About emotions making our logic unreliable.”
His gaze remained fixed on the papers under his hands. “You disagree.” It wasn’t a question, but a conclusion to an unseen hypothesis.
Hyacine shifted her weight, suddenly hyper aware of how loud the echo of her voice was in the silent room. “Um… not entirely. I was just wondering something.”
“Speak clearly, then,” said Professor Anaxagoras, stacking his papers. “Debate is no time to waver in your opinion.”
Hyacine straightened her shoulders. “You said emotions lead us astray. But isn’t it also emotion that tells us when something’s wrong? Or worth fighting for? If it’s gone, what’s telling us…” she paused, brow furrowing as she thought about how to phrase it. “What’s telling us why we care about being right?”
That made Professor Anaxagoras look up. “Curious. Go on.”
“I mean,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “if we didn’t feel anything, why would we care whether anything was true or false? Or about whether justice was served? Or… anything really.”
He was silent for a moment.
“Emotion,” he finally conceded, “creates urgency. But urgency is not evidence.”
Hyacine tilted her head, confused.
“Let me rephrase.” He set his stack of papers down, then folded his hands on top of the lectern (the same way as Castorice, Hyacine noticed). His eyes narrowed slightly in focus. “Think of emotion as a compass. It urgently points somewhere, but this direction is not always true . Now think of logic as a map. Maps are how you get anywhere worth going, without walking off a cliff.”
Hyacine nodded earnestly. “So we need the compass to know which direction to go, and a map to figure out how to get there.”
He inclined his head a little. “Better. The majority of people follow the compass alone, then wonder why they’re lost."
Hyacine let out a small laugh - then immediately regretted it and tried to mask it with a cough. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“Don’t be,” said Anaxagoras dismissively. “At least you aren’t dull.”
She stared at him, startled.
“I expect most students to parrot,” he said, briskly picking up his notes. “You, however, I will have to keep an eye on. Miss…?”
“Dawncloud,” Hyacine said quickly. “Hyacine Dawncloud.”
“A little on the nose,” he said, mouth twitching into the faintest whisper of a smile. “Miss Dawncloud, was your instinct to ask that question emotional?”
Hyacine thought for a moment. “I guess it has to be,” she said slowly. “According to what I said, the reason we ask any question is based on emotion, right?”
Professor Anaxagoras paused tucking his notes into his satchel. He looked at her, really looked, with a quiet sort of scrutiny - like he was figuring out a puzzle that had rearranged itself when he wasn’t looking.
“Hmm. A contradiction, then,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“If the pursuit of logic is dictated by emotion, how do you know it isn’t lying to you?” He slung his satchel over his shoulder. “Your logical process, something that is meant to be pure, infallible fact, is built on a foundation that shifts beneath your feet. How do you separate delusion from the truth?”
Hyacine hesitated. She wanted to quickly say something clean and clever, but she didn’t. Instead, she frowned down at the floor, considering.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think… that’s something I’m still figuring out.”
Professor Anaxagoras studied her for a long beat, unreadable. “Good,” he finally said, nodding faintly, like something in her answer had satisfied him. “That is a question worth spending a life on. I suggest you keep asking the questions you don’t have answers to, Miss Dawncloud. The rest - facts, forms, fallacies - you can memorize. The truly valuable questions take longer.”
For a moment, he looked very, very tired.
“You will find no answer to the questions truly worth answering, and yet, to not ask is to fail yourself.”
Hyacine nodded, feeling the weight of his words.
He turned, robes swaying faintly. “If you have further queries, you may continue asking, provided they do not waste my time.”
“Where are you going?” Hyacine asked, hurrying to keep up with his long strides.
Professor Anaxagoras glanced at her. “Home. Even the most educated scholar needs food and water to stay sharp.”
Hyacine blinked, a little surprised at the sudden casualness. “Oh. Right.”
“You may join me if you like,” he said out of the blue. “There's lasagna in the oven, if you’re not busy. We must hurry if we don’t want it to burn.”
Hyacine’s eyes widened in surprise, but a soft smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Lasagna? That sounds… really nice.”
“I did not know I was cooking for company.” He pushed open a door, flooding Hyacine’s nose with the fresh air of campus. “Consider yourself lucky.”
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “I’d like that.”
They fell into a steady pace, the campus quiet around them as the late afternoon sun dipped lower.
“Why do you choose to cook when you could just order something?” Hyacine asked, curious.
Professor Anaxagoras turned a corner. “Cooking requires patience, precision, and care. These qualities I find essential both in the kitchen and in the mind.”
Hyacine considered that, nodding slowly. “So, it’s more than just food. It’s… practice.”
“Exactly,” he said, eyes briefly flicking toward the setting sun. “A reminder that some things demand time and attention to truly be understood.”
“Earlier in class,” she recalled, “you said the mind is like a muscle that has to be trained.”
“Like the human body,” he corrected. “But yes, the comparison stands.”
“So…” Hyacine trailed off in thought. “How do you do that? It seems more complicated than just going to the gym every day, because then at least you have a clear number that can measure your progress.”
“Correct,” Professor Anaxagoras agreed. “It is much harder, and much less rewarding for most. Strengthening the mind isn’t about achieving goals you can check off a list; it’s about learning to embrace the uncertainty, to have the courage - and passion - to dive headfirst into it.” His eyes scanned the horizon. “Your sore muscles manifest in the form of unwillingness to continue, and that is precisely the part most people fail to move past. Intellectual growth is difficult; it requires patience, persistence, and a willingness - desire, even - to be in unfamiliar territory.”
He turned to her, his expression serious but not unkind. “It’s a slow process. You’ll stumble, feel lost, and sometimes want to give up. But those struggles are where the true strengthening happens.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Hyacine said, downcast.
Professor Anaxagoras chuckled softly, the sound low and unexpectedly warm. “It can be. But exhausting doesn’t mean futile. Think of it like forging steel. There is intense heat and relentless hammering, but in the end, something stronger emerges.”
She looked up at him, a newfound determination in her eyes. “I want to learn how to do that. To be patient with myself when it feels like I’m not getting anywhere, and to want to go through the furnace.”
Professor Anaxagoras smiled faintly, the tiredness in his eyes giving way to something warmer. “That is where all truly intelligent people begin, Miss Dawncloud. Curiosity paired with patience will take you far. Now, let’s get back before the lasagna burns.”
The walk back was quieter, the sky painted with soft hues of orange and pink. The air was faintly chilly, but Hyacine felt warmer from the conversation, as if something had settled inside her.
Professor Anaxagoras’ home was a modest building tucked behind a cluster of old, gnarled trees, their leaves gently swaying in the evening breeze. As he opened the door, the calming scent of old paper and wood smoke welcomed them. The entry opened into a study, dimly lit by golden lamps and littered with books in organized chaos.
Just beyond was the kitchen, a warm, narrow room. The counter was well-kept and polished, though clearly lived in. Copper pans hung from a rack, their surfaces dulled from age. Hyacine followed Professor Anaxagoras deeper into his home, stepping lightly, half-afraid of disturbing the natural silence.
“It’s… beautiful,” she said quietly, looking around.
“It’s functional,” he replied, but there was a quiet satisfaction in his voice. “And quiet enough to think.”
She wandered back to the archway leading to the study and noticed a cello case in the corner, upright and untouched. A stack of aged sheet music sat on a short bench next to it.
“There’s a cello,” she said, surprised.
From the kitchen, he followed her gaze, eyes unreadable. “I used to play. These days, I find it... difficult to make the time.”
“I’d like to hear it someday,” Hyacine murmured.
A brief pause. “Perhaps,” he said, then opened the oven, releasing a wave of rich, savory scent, sliding out the perfectly baked lasagna.
Hyacine’s stomach made a small sound.
“Not quite as riveting as a lecture, but it demands attention nonetheless,” he said, setting the steaming dish on the table.
“It smells amazing,” Hyacine said, smiling as she settled into her chair.
He took a seat opposite her and gestured to the plates. “Eat, and ask whatever questions you haven’t yet dared to ask.”
A comfortable silence settled as they dug into the lasagna, the only sound the tinkering of cutlery against plates. The food was rich and earthy, the kind of flavor that came from patience and knowing when to stop adding things. Hyacine wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Maybe something more precise or systemic? But this was... warm. Familiar, almost.
Hyacine swirled the last bit of sauce with her fork. “You said earlier that intellectual growth requires the desire to be in unfamiliar territory. But what about when that desire fades? When the questions stop feeling worth answering?”
Anaxagoras leaned back, sighing. “That’s the second great wall every mind encounters. The loss of novelty. Curiosity flares easily when everything feels new, but the deeper you go, the more you’ll find repetition, contradiction, even silence.”
“So what then?”
“Then,” he said, “you begin again - but this time with humility. True learning is recursive. You circle the same ideas until they reveal new angles. Theories are not towers to climb; they’re wells. What you draw up depends on how deep you’re willing to go, and how long you’re willing to wait at the edge.” He shook his head. “How much you’re willing to do, is the part that fate dictates for you.”
She chewed on that for a moment. “And if the well’s dry?”
“Then you dig,” he said simply. “Or you move to another field and come back later, when your hands are stronger.”
She smiled faintly at that.
After a while, Hyacine spoke again. “You said learning is like drawing water from a well,” she said, absently tracing the rim of her glass. “That it’s recursive. But how do you know when it’s time to switch wells? Or dig deeper?”
“You don’t,” Anaxagoras said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “That’s the unfortunate truth. Most people spend their lives circling the same idea, unsure whether it’s brilliance or stubbornness. The best minds aren’t always the ones who know the answers, but rather, the ones who know how to sit with not knowing.”
She tilted her head. “So you’re saying learning is just… being confused for longer than anyone else?”
That earned a low chuckle. “Precisely. With slightly better note-taking.”
Hyacine laughed, then glanced at the wall beside the archway, where a small cluster of framed photos sat. One photo near the center caught her eye: a younger Anaxagoras stood beside a girl, tall and sharp-eyed with purple hair tied in a high, stern braid.
“Wait,” she said slowly. “She was in the lecture. I sat next to her.”
Anaxagoras followed her gaze. “Castorice,” he said. “My niece.”
“Oh! I didn’t know you had relatives here.”
“I didn’t think I needed to say anything. I assumed you’d recognize the shared charm.”
Hyacine huffed a laugh. “She seems…” she paused, searching. “Icy.”
“Shy,” Anaxagoras corrected. “Though she’d glare at me for saying so.”
Hyacine blinked. “Really?”
“It doesn’t look like it from the outside. But that frost is armor, not of the heart. She’s quieter than most expect. Observant. And deeply uncertain around people she hasn’t learned the rhythm of yet.”
He gave her a measured look. “You’re the first person she’s allowed to sit with her.”
That quieted her for a moment. “Me?”
“It’s a small thing,” he said, “but she doesn’t make such choices lightly.”
Hyacine looked again at the picture on the wall, her voice thoughtful. “She seems like someone I’d like to understand.”
“Then try,” he said. “Slowly. As you’ve done here.”
She blinked, touched by the quiet weight of his words.
A beat passed. Then, daring just slightly, she said, “So. Since I’ve now had your lasagna, discussed logical depression, and met your cello, does that mean I’m allowed to call you Anaxa?”
There was a long pause. His brows lifted - but he didn’t say no.
“I thought you were listening when I gave my rules.”
“I was,” she said quickly. “But I also thought… names carry meaning. And choosing when to change one might mean something, too.”
He didn’t answer at once.
Instead, he looked at her - properly looked, like he was measuring something not just in the question, but in the person asking. The candlelight caught the tired lines near his eyes, a faint, long-held weariness of someone without true rest. Hyacine wondered what his life was like.
“Most don’t ask,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t want to assume,” she said.
Another beat.
Then he exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite amusement. “It’s not a small thing, to give someone a name that belongs to the inside. But… very well. Here, now, I’ll allow it.”
“Anaxa,” she said, testing it aloud, grateful.
He gave a rueful smile. “If Castorice hears, she’ll think I’m going soft.”
“Noted,” Hyacine replied, grinning. “No ‘Anaxa’ when you’ve got the chalk.”
“There is only one condition: you never call me ‘Naxy.’ Ever.”
Hyacine burst out laughing. “What?! I wasn’t -”
“You were considering it,” Anaxa said, rising to collect the dishes.
“Only a little,” she admitted, trailing after him with a plate.
The night air was crisp and gentle as Hyacine stepped outside. Anaxa’s porch light cast a warm circle behind her, and the quiet of the evening wrapped around her like a worn shawl. She pulled her coat tighter, still carrying the afterglow of firelight, lasagna, and the strange comfort of abstract conversations.
“For later,” Anaxa had said as he pressed the tin into her hands at the door. The foil-wrapped container was still warm. “If the night turns unkind, or your kitchenette begins to rebel.”
She’d laughed, surprised, and he’d given her a rare glint of amusement. “Just don’t tell the department chair I can cook.”
Now she walked slowly, her shoes soft against the moss that crept along the cobbled path, replaying his words in her mind - about patience, strength, and Castorice’s quiet choosing. The photo lingered, too: the way Castorice had stood, arms crossed, expression unreadable, but not unkind. He had spoken of her with a softness Hyacine hadn’t expected.
Make friends with her , he’d said. She doesn’t warm quickly, but she’s worth knowing .
Hyacine wondered what it might be like, to crack that quiet shell - what stories lay beneath the surface, what worries or hopes Castorice might carry.
As her footsteps resounded softly against the stones, her mind drifted, excited and uneasy for the uncertainty of the future. She supposed this was what Anaxa meant - the fear of the unknown was something to overcome.
Then, faintly, a sound pulled her from her thoughts.
It was unmistakably the strumming and plucking of a guitar, but it was hard to define. She wasn’t a music connoisseur by any means, but it sounded completely random and chaotic - and yet, somewhere in there, she could pick up the faint beauty of a melody. Instinctively, she found some quiet insistence pulling her toward the sound.
Around the corner, a lone figure hunched over a battered guitar, fingers moving rapidly among a tangle of sheet music scattered on the ground. A flickering streetlamp caught the stranger’s face, revealing sharp features framed by wild red hair.
“Mmm… D isn’t right. G is being dramatic. And E - oh, E is just gone now.”
Hyacine blinked. Was this a fever dream? No, that really was a girl with frazzled red hair, plucking at an acoustic guitar completely covered in colorful stickers and graffiti. Sheet music was strewn about, and the case sitting haphazardly next to her had clearly been through some things; colored duct tape held the corners together, and were those scorch marks ?
She continued to mutter to herself (something about double flats?) until Hyacine gently cleared her throat. “...Do you need help?”
The girl looked up, and smiled an eccentric smile that somehow felt completely genuine. Hyacine met eyes that were the color of turbulent storm clouds, but perfectly calm and still, an odd contradiction of nature.
“Ah, perfect! Someone’s arrived!”
Notes:
Deep down, somewhere that he wouldn't even admit to himself, Professor Anaxagoras always wanted a daughter.
Chapter Text
The red-haired girl looked up and grinned. “Ah, perfect! Someone’s arrived!”
Hyacine blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again. “...Was I supposed to?”
“ Supposed to?” The girl echoed, scandalized. “Terribly high expectations of fate you have there, don’t you think? You trust it with your schedule too?” She gave the guitar a disapproving thrum, one of the strings buzzing in protest.
The streetlamp above them flickered again.
“So…” Hyacine nervously tapped her fingers against her side. “Did you? Need help, I mean?”
“Only if you have a spare high E string,” The girl said mournfully. “I’ve burned through two of these, look.” She pointed at two sad-looking broken strings on the ground, then paused for a moment. “Emotional stability would be nice too, actually.”
Hyacine blinked, processing.
“I’ll accept a conversation instead - lighter to carry,” the girl said cheerfully. “Oh, you’re new!”
“How could you tell?” Hyacine asked, amazed. Then she stumbled over a particularly large crack in the ground, almost pitching forward.
She pointed, laughing. “That!”
Hyacine scratched her head, a smile appearing unbidden. “...That works, I guess.”
The girl leaned back on the stone steps. “The name’s Tribios. I’m in music, but this guitar is the only instrument they don’t have a course on, so I… annexed one into the program. Spiritually.”
Hyacine giggled. Tribios’ eyebrows lifted in pleased surprise, like she’d discovered a new note. “It’s my first day, actually! I’m Hyacine.”
“A good name,” Tribios said, nodding with great gravity. “You look like a Hyacine.”
“I… don’t know what that means.”
“Oh, neither do I. It usually works out, though.” She plucked one of the flying pages from the air with practiced ease, glanced at it, and stuffed it in her coat pocket without breaking eye contact. Turning her attention back to her beat-up guitar, Tribios strummed a chord experimentally. The resulting sound was uplifting, but somehow a little curious in a way Hyacine couldn’t quite understand. “Ah, yes. First-day syndrome! I heard it in your walk.”
Hyacine squinted. “You heard… my walk?”
“Mhm.” Tribios nodded solemnly. “Your music sounded too frantic. That fast, fluttery rhythm people get when their hearts and stomachs are arguing.”
Hyacine nodded slowly. She did not understand.
Tribios clearly caught her confusion, but didn’t seem to mind. Strumming a wandering chord that sounded like it couldn’t decide whether to be happy or sad, she nodded thoughtfully. “It’s okay to not understand. Not everyone hears it as music - some people envision it as shades and colors, some people study it as a science.”
Hyacine nodded again. That one made a bit more sense.
“Good!” Tribios said, clapping. “Your aura is very open. Not bad - makes good tea. Let it steep for a while before deciding anything big, would you?”
“I… don’t know what that means either,” Hyacine confessed, scratching her head.
“Perfect,” Tribios said, smiling as if Hyacine had just paid her a huge compliment. “That means you aren’t solid yet. People get solid way too quick.” She shook her head, disappointed at an invisible presence. “It’s much harder to float when you think in bricks instead of bubbles.”
That made Hyacine laugh, small and genuine. She wasn’t sure what bricks and bubbles had to do with anything, but it was oddly comforting to be confused in such a specific way.
Tribios stood up, dusting her hands, and looked Hyacine up and down. “Hyacine, you strike me as a person who’s going to change something here.”
“Like what?” Hyacine asked, brow furrowing.
Tribios shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s your business.”
Hyacine, unsure how to respond, smiled sheepishly at her shoes.
“Thing is,” Tribios said, her tone shifting from the playful lilt to something more serious, “movement always makes the old bells ring loud.”
Hyacine frowned, curious. “Bells?”
Tribios shrugged, a sparkle in her eye. “Broken friendships, campus secrets, music that won’t stop playing - stuff like that.”
Hyacine looked at the guitar, then at the scattered pages caught in the courtyard breeze. “Is that… what you’re doing out here? Listening for bells?”
Tribios tilted her head, as though considering the question from a few different angles. “Maybe. Although I did have a lot of caffeine earlier, so maybe I’m just working off the extra energy.”
That earned another laugh from Hyacine. She glanced back at the crack she’d nearly tripped over. “Were you actually waiting for someone?”
Tribios perked up. “Oh yes! Not, like, a specific someone. Just someone-shaped. With limbs. Preferably interesting.” She stood up and pointed at the jagged crack running through the stone. “That thing? It’s grown two inches this week. Soon it’ll start charging tuition.”
Hyacine blinked. “You were… waiting for someone to help fix it?”
Tribios clapped her hands, delighted. “Precisely! The way I see it, when the world’s got a little fracture in it, someone ought to show up and fill it. Usually takes two hands, though. Sometimes three. Sometimes metaphorical hands.”
“Why didn’t you ask someone earlier?” Hyacine asked curiously.
Tribios crouched near the crack and tapped its edge with her knuckle, like she was knocking on a door. “Because asking’s different from inviting. Invitations wait. Asking pulls. This felt like a wait kind of thing. I figured if anyone were to walk toward my terrifyingly beautiful music, they’d be worth getting to know.” She gave Hyacine a smile.
Hyacine smiled back sheepishly. “…So, what exactly are we fixing it with?” She asked, looking around for tools.
Tribios lit up. “That’s the spirit!”
She dug into her satchel (which Hyacine could’ve sworn hadn’t been there a moment ago) and pulled out an oddly shaped lump wrapped in a paper towel. She unpeeled it, revealing… colored chalk? No - it was some kind of colorful mineral paste, flecked with all sorts of mixed colors.
Hyacine stared. “What is that?”
“Sidewalk clay,” Tribios said breezily. “Made from Play-dough, powdered cement, and some… clay. The teachers don’t approve, but the sidewalk does.”
“We’re fixing this with Play-dough?” Hyacine said, a little less confident.
“Yep!” She handed a stick of it to Hyacine. It smelled, surprisingly enough, like wet clay. “You do the right side. Oh - not so fast, say something nice first!”
“To… the crack?” Hyacine echoed, seriously considering pinching herself to see whether this was all a dream.
Tribios looked very serious. “To the space between things. That’s where all the good magic lives.”
Hyacine hesitated, feeling some red rise into her cheeks. She glanced down at the jagged line in the pavement like it might bite her. “I don’t usually… talk to cracks in the ground."
Tribios grinned, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “No one does. But maybe if you try, you’ll find they’re better listeners than most people.”
Hyacine bit her lip, cheeks warming. She glanced up and then down again. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she leaned closer and said, “You almost got me earlier. But I forgive you.”
Tribios beamed encouragingly. “See? Didn’t bite, did it?”
Hyacine straightened, the clay weighing between her hands. “It felt like I was talking to a sidewalk.”
“That’s so specific that I think it might be true. Maybe the sidewalk was just waiting to be heard.” Tribios pressed her thumb along her half of the seam with theatrical concentration. “It’s like… a wrinkle in the earth’s face. We’re smoothing it out.”
Hyacine couldn’t help a smile. “That’s… oddly sweet.”
“It’s all in the metaphor.” Tribios tilted her head. “Or possibly in the clay. This stuff has a definite personality.”
The clay squished softly under Hyacine’s fingers as she worked it into the seam. “It kind of smells like a creek bed.”
“Exactly! Creek beds are where magic goes to nap. I knew you’d understand.”
“I still don’t know if I do,” Hyacine murmured, but the clay was soft and the company surprisingly warm, and that made it easier to go along with things.
Tribios leaned in, mock-whispering, “Don’t let the ground hear that. It’s very sensitive.”
That got a laugh out of Hyacine. “I’ll try to be more affirming. Seam, you are… very long and charismatic.”
Tribios gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. That’s how new friendships start!”
Hyacine glanced at her. “With ground repair?”
“With talking to the quiet parts of things,” Tribios said, like it was obvious. Then she offered Hyacine a smudged high five.
Hyacine paused, then gave her hand a proud slap. Clay stuck to both palms. They didn’t mind. They stood, brushing dust and clay off their palms. The crack was sealed, warm in color and faintly dimpled where their fingers had pressed it in.
Tribios, inspecting their work with theatrical scrutiny, gave a decisive nod, brushing her hands off on her coat (it did not help). “Solid. Well, flexible, which is better.”
Hyacine smiled. “I should probably head back before I get lost again.”
“Good instinct,” Tribios said, nodding in approval. “The stairwell ghosts get picky after midnight.”
Hyacine paused, mid-step, and turned. “Wait, ghosts?”
Tribios winked, then pointed to Hyacine’s wrist. “Before you vanish - do you have a spare hair tie?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” She slid one off and handed it over. “Do you need it for a magic spell?”
Tribios twirled it onto her own wrist like a bracelet. “For containment purposes, yes. My hair contains multitudes.”
Hyacine was already a few steps away when Tribios spoke up again. “Oh, you’re also down one shoelace, by the way.”
Hyacine looked down - sure enough, her left shoe was flopping slightly. “Wait, seriously?”
Tribios held it up, already tying it into a loose, indecipherable knot. “It had good walking energy. I’ll return it when it’s done resting.”
Hyacine blinked, speechless.
“Thanks for the loan!” Tribios called brightly, waving the shoelace like a flag.
“...You're welcome?” Hyacine said faintly, unsure whether she’d just met a musician, a trickster god, or both.
Tribios saluted with two fingers and plucked her guitar into a soft chord that echoed behind her as she rounded the path and disappeared.
The dormitory building lit up Hyacine with a golden glow, bathing her with precious warmth. Her footsteps echoed quietly on the tiles of the hallway, slower than usual. She rubbed at her elbow absently - her other hand still faintly smelled like clay - and paused at her dorm door, blinking sleepily at the square of paper taped to the wood.
“I’m in the common room!”
Below the message was a cheerful drawing of a person with wild hair and a toothy grin, labeled “ Cipher :) ”
Hyacine smiled at the little doodle. She slipped inside long enough to kick off her shoes and drop her bag, then followed the low glow of the common room lights.
Cipher was curled sideways on the couch, socks up on the armrest, half-lost in a book with the spine cracked backwards. A mug steamed on the windowsill beside her.
“You live!” she exclaimed, looking up.
“Barely,” Hyacine muttered, collapsing into the beanbag across from her.
Cipher marked her place with a bookmark that looked like it had been torn from someone’s shirt. “Let me guess,” she said, grinning as she set the book aside. “You got recruited into a secret society. Or cursed by wildlife. Maybe both?”
Hyacine slumped further into the beanbag. “It was a sidewalk witch, actually...”
Cipher laughed, clapping. “That’s new!”
“She said she was majoring in music, and then borrowed one of my shoelaces.”
“You gave her a shoelace?” Cipher sat up straighter, intrigued. “Willingly?”
Hyacine groaned into her hands. “There was enchanted sealant involved! And she looked like she’d already decided it was hers.”
Cipher grinned. “You’re so easily peer-pressured.”
“She made me talk to the sidewalk.”
Cipher blinked once, slowly. “...And what did you say?”
Hyacine squinted at the ceiling. “Something about forgiveness. I think I forgave the ground for almost tripping me.”
There was a beat of silence.
Cipher looked like she was holding back a laugh. “You forgave the sidewalk .”
Hyacine covered her face with both hands. “She said the magic lives in the space between things…”
“Right,” Cipher said, nodding solemnly. “Like breathing pauses between screams of terror. Or socks between laundry days.”
“I don’t think she was being metaphorical,” Hyacine sighed.
“Oh no,” Cipher said, snickering, “neither am I.”
Hyacine groaned and melted further into the beanbag, but a smile was tugging at her face now.
“Seriously though,” Cipher said, swinging her feet down. “Where were you all this time? It’s almost nine. I was this close to thinking you got murked by the professor on your first day.”
“Anaxa?” Hyacine tilted her head. “He wasn’t that scary.”
Cipher stared at her like she’d just confessed to enjoying cafeteria coffee. “Not that sc - Hyacine, he teaches philosophy ! And makes students cry on a regular basis.”
“He invited me over! We had lasagna.”
“He invited you over ?!” Cipher laughed uproariously, almost falling off the couch.
“...I asked him about emotions and logic and it kind of… spiralled?” Hyacine smiled sheepishly.
“Hyacine, you are a wonder,” Cipher said, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s been one day and you’ve already been adopted. By Anaxa , no less.“
Hyacine let out a helpless little laugh, sinking further into the beanbag. “It was good lasagna.”
Cipher grinned, then leaned her head back with a dramatic sigh. “So, to recap: You’ve befriended the scariest teacher in the school, shared a shoelace with a sidewalk witch, and probably opened a portal in the ground with your feelings.”
Hyacine curled up, pulling one side of the beanbag over her burning face. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I’m proud of you,” Cipher said. “Terrified, but proud. Good job.”
They let the silence sit for a moment, warm and golden, punctuated only by the faint hum of the radiator and the clink of mug against ceramic as Cipher took another swig of whatever hypercaffeinated drink was in her cup.
An owl hooted outside.
The door creaked open again, and Mydei stepped in with a tray balanced in both hands, the sleeves of his cardigan pushed back like he’d done this too many times to bother being careful. He gave them both a tired look. “You’re loud.”
Cipher perked up. “Mydei! We’re celebrating the continued survival of Hyacine.”
“Mm,” he said, walking past and setting the tray down on the low table. “Figured you hadn’t eaten anything warm.”
Hyacine straightened a little in her chair. “Is that for us?”
He poured tea slowly, the soft clink of ceramic filling the space. “Yes - lavender and ginger to calm nerves. Cipher, you look like someone who tried to iron socks.”
Cipher beamed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!” she said, taking a massive sip of her tea.
He ignored her and took a drink of his own, gaze resting somewhere just beyond the window.
There was a pause - gentle, steeped, as Hyacine took her tea from Mydei. Then she said, “I met someone weird today.”
“Happens,” Mydei said, not quite looking over.
“She said her name was Tribios.”
He blinked. “That’s a name.”
“She plays guitar.” Hyacine laughed at the absurdity of her day. “She made me help her fix the sidewalk with clay.”
That got him to glance over, just briefly. “Did she ask for anything?”
“…A shoelace…”
He exhaled a bemused breath through his nose and looked back at his tea. “Could be worse.”
Cipher grinned. “See, this is why we keep him around.”
Mydei didn’t respond.
A quiet moment passed. Then Hyacine, softer now, said, “I also met Professor Anaxa.”
That earned her a slower turn of the head.
“He wasn’t what I expected,” she added.
“Most people aren’t,” Mydei said, nodding.
“He made lasagna.”
Now he looked almost - almost - surprised. “Did you eat it?”
“...Yeah?”
A shrug. “Then I guess it was good lasagna.”
Cipher leaned over to stage-whisper, “I think he likes her.”
Mydei shook his head, a faint hint of a smile. “That is a miracle.”
“Are you really surprised, though?” Cipher said, nudging him with her foot.
He swatted her away, making a noncommittal sound. “Maybe.”
Another beat of silence as they all profoundly reflected on the absurdity of life.
Mydei stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. “Don’t start a cult when I’m gone,” he muttered. “I’m going to bed.”
“Awwwwww!” Cipher said, disappointed. “How did you know what I was going to do?”
Ignoring her completely, he gave a lazy wave and walked off, the door clicking shut behind him.
The quiet returned, soft and settled. Hyacine leaned forward towards the warmth of the fireplace, hands wrapped around her mug. “I met someone else today, too.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another pavement witch, I’m calling campus security.”
“No,” Hyacine said, smiling into her tea. “It’s a white-haired boy named Phainon. He started making jokes in Anaxa’s class. Well, I guess I didn’t meet him - I never talked to him directly - but he was very memorable.”
Cipher didn’t react right away. She just sipped her drink, eyes unreadable.
“He seemed… energetic,” Hyacine added. “Funny, in a cool way. He seems like he’d be fun to hang out with.”
“Mm,” Cipher said.
There was a pause.
“Oh - you know him?” Hyacine asked.
Cipher’s smile was tight. “Everyone knows everyone, sooner or later.”
Hyacine tilted her head, but Cipher went back to her mug, gaze fixed on the steam rising from it. The silence stretched again, edged with something unsaid.
Hyacine looked over at Cipher, about to ask more about Phainon - then stopped as she saw Cipher’s jaw a little tenser than usual.
Instead, she said softly, “I think I’m going to sleep.”
Cipher leaned her head back. “Avoid any more magical errands.”
“No promises,” Hyacine murmured with a small smile, rising to pad out of the common room. Cipher stayed behind, still staring into her tea, as if the steam would whisper the answers of the universe to her ears.
Outside, the owl hooted again.
On the second day of university, the first thing Hyacine smelled was… something difficult to describe with language. It was vaguely burnt and oddly sweet, like someone had confused sugar with smoke. She blinked awake, bleary and confused.
Morning sun seeped through the curtains. From the other side of the dorm, there came a clatter. A pot lid clanged, followed by a small yelp.
She sat up. “...Cipher?”
“Everything’s under control!” Cipher called cheerily.
Hyacine peeked around the kitchenette doorway, then froze.
In the small kitchenette was an active warzone. Cipher stood before the stove, wielding a spatula like a sword and poking at what might once have been pancakes. The pan hissed. One of the cakes looked like it had been flipped too early; the other looked like it had been flipped into another dimension and back.
“Do you need help?” Hyacine asked, rubbing her eyes half out of sleepiness and half out of disbelief.
Cipher pointed the spatula at her. “Don’t interfere! I have a system.”
“...Is the system arson?” Hyacine asked, looking up at a splotch of pancake batter dripping from the ceiling and sizzling on the stove, giving off plumes of smoke.
“Would arson use vanilla extract?” she demanded, holding up a small bottle triumphantly.
Hyacine bit her lip to keep from laughing.
One of the pancakes began to bubble ominously in the middle. Hyacine watched in judgmental silence as Cipher panicked and tried to flip it, sending batter flying everywhere.
“Don’t say it,” Cipher muttered, sliding the remaining charcoal fragments onto a plate stacked with blackened pancake remains and wiping batter off her cheek.
Hyacine raised her hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to!”
“I’m making breakfast for you. Show more appreciation!”
“Is that what this is?” Hyacine asked innocently. “Breakfast?”
Cipher shot her an exasperated look over her shoulder. “Look, some of them are round.”
The door creaked open quietly, and Mydei stepped inside, hands in his pockets. He immediately saw (and smelled) the disaster in the cramped kitchenette, where Cipher was precariously balancing a frying pan, smoke rising up from the stove.
“Cipher,” Mydei called out, his voice a mix of amusement and mild exasperation. “Where are my earphones?”
Cipher glanced over, grinning guiltily as she flipped a burnt pancake. “I needed them! Mine died!”
Mydei sighed. “I’m coming for my stuff. Don’t ruin them, please. What in Nikador’s name are you trying to make?”
Cipher, pretending not to hear, flipped a pancake with unnecessary flourish and caught it halfway onto a plate.
“I think they’re pancakes,” Hyacine whispered to Mydei.
“Some people appreciate homemade food, you know!” Cipher called, nearly knocking the spatula onto the floor as she reached for another plate.
Mydei crossed his arms, opting not to get involved. “Like who?”
Cipher made an affronted noise and plunked down the plate like it was an offering to the gods. “It’s a learning experience,” she said.
“For the fire department?” Mydei offered.
Cipher gave him a long-suffering stare and dramatically slammed the plate of pancake-ruins onto the table, unwrapping a half-frozen stick of butter. “No judgment until you taste it! Mydei, are you joining us for breakfast?”
As he shrugged in reluctant acceptance, Hyacine took the tiniest bite of an edible-looking corner. Her face did... something.
Mydei chewed slowly, brow furrowed. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s brave,” Hyacine added diplomatically.
“ Thank you,” Cipher muttered, spreading butter on hers.
They sat at the small table, poking at the edges of the breakfast attempts. It was early enough that the light was still soft, the air still quiet, the kitchen warm despite the windows fogged from steam.
“Better than the dining hall,” Mydei said through a mouthful.
“Liar.” Cipher poked him with her fork.
“I’m never going to be nice to you again,” Mydei said, yanking the fork away.
Hyacine giggled into her burnt pancakes. Cipher looked pleased. “I’m glad someone is getting enjoyment out of my suffering.”
They poked at their breakfast in silence a little more.
Mydei checked his watch, and rose from his chair. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”
Cipher looked at the mess of pans in the sink and sadly wrinkled her nose. “Oh, I still have to clean this mess…”
He shrugged. “Someone bit off more than they could chew. I’ll leave so you can change,” he added, eyeing Hyacine’s fluffy unicorn pajamas.
Hyacine smiled sheepishly as he closed the door behind him.
“He’s such a menace,” Cipher snickered.
Hyacine hopped off her chair, stretching with a big yawn. “He’s not wrong… I probably shouldn’t show up to Anaxa’s class in unicorn pajamas.”
“Hey, you’d certainly be the talk of the lecture hall,” Cipher said, smirking.
“I hope I’m not already,” Hyacine sighed, padding off to change.
Morning classes passed by in a blur of lectures and assignments, and when Hyacine stumbled into the dining hall, weighed down by a stack of papers, Cipher was nowhere to be seen. She frowned, scanning the mess hall for any mischievous hooded figures or oddly tall kleptomaniac cats, but saw nothing.
She looked around once, twice, and stabbed a piece of fruit with her fork, trying not to frown. Maybe Cipher had homework to do, or maybe she didn’t like the cafeteria food (which was fair, Hyacine thought, grimacing as she poked at her semi-cooked meatloaf).
She took another bite. The sun illuminated her food in great detail. The table was a little sticky under her elbow. The seat across from her stayed stubbornly empty.
She didn’t mind eating alone - but she minded that Cipher was alone, somewhere else.
She sighed.
“Is this seat taken?” Hyacine looked up to see Mydei standing above her, tray in hand, expression unreadable as always.
“No - go ahead!” she said quickly.
He sat wordlessly, setting his tray down. For a few moments, the only sound was the chatter of the cafeteria.
Hyacine looked down at her food. “I think this meatloaf could survive a nuclear winter…”
Mydei snorted, surprising her. He looked at it, then at her. “Eat around the edges,” he advised simply.
She huffed an embarrassed laugh. “...That’s probably good advice.”
There was another lull as he opened his drink and took a sip. “You looked like you were waiting for someone,” he said.
“I don’t know where Cipher is,” Hyacine admitted. “She’s probably okay. Just. You know.”
“She skips sometimes,” Mydei said sagely. “Usually I don’t see her at lunch.”
“She was here yesterday,” Hyacine sighed.
Mydei shook his head, a whisper of a smile. “Cipher’s been acting very differently ever since you showed up.”
“What?” Hyacine blinked. “Is it… bad? Did I -”
“No,” Mydei reassured her. “I think she likes being an upperclassman for you, and taking care of you, a little. She’s never tried cooking before.”
“Oh,” Hyacine said, dumbfounded, a little flustered and very unsure what to say next.
Mydei didn’t seem to notice the slight tinge in her cheeks - or maybe he did and chose not to comment. He just returned to his lunch, spearing another bite in silence.
Hyacine poked at her own tray, thoughts swirling. Cipher, taking care of her? That felt… odd. Cipher was all sharp edges and chaos, not exactly the nurturing type. But then again… pancakes. Burnt, probably hazardous pancakes, but pancakes nonetheless.
“She’s very hard to figure out,” Hyacine murmured, mostly to herself.
“She’s always been like that,” Mydei said. “The trick is not figuring her out. Just paying attention.”
Hyacine leaned her chin against her palm. “It sounds like you know her really well…”
“I’ve been her friend since elementary school,” Mydei said, cutting into his food. “Back when she used to climb onto the roof to nap.”
“That sounds more like her,” Hyacine laughed. “I won’t tell her you said she was your friend, by the way.”
“Probably for the best,” Mydei said in a tone that would be considered humorless were it anyone else.
Hyacine tapped her fork against her half-empty tray, thinking of her own stories. “I used to pretend my backpack was alive,” she said suddenly.
Mydei blinked. “What?”
“When I was little,” she quickly said. “I liked Dora the Explorer and I told everyone my backpack could talk. I’d talk to it in the middle of class.” She smiled, embarrassed.
He stared at her, and slowly shook his head. “That might be worse than Cipher’s rooftop obsession.”
“You say that now, but wait until my backpack shows up for revenge,” Hyacine shot back, laughing.
Mydei bit into his food.
“...I once swallowed a marble,” Mydei said flatly.
She stared at him, equal parts horrified and impressed. “Why?!”
“My mom asked the same question.” He sipped his drink like he hadn’t just admitted to endangering his digestive tract. “I don’t remember what I got out of it. I think it was a plastic frog.”
“That is the stupidest and bravest thing I have ever heard,” Hyacine whispered, eyes wide.
He shrugged. “I regretted it halfway through. But I couldn’t lose the bet.”
Hyacine giggled. “I wonder if the marble’s still in there somewhere.”
“I hope it learned its lesson,” Mydei said, deadpan.
There was another moment as they both ate their food in silence. Then Mydei patted his pockets with a small frown. “Mm,” he muttered, displeased, glancing at a worksheet on his tray. It was half-crumpled and covered in numbers and math symbols.
“Oh, did you forget a pen?” Hyacine reached into her bag and held one out for him, a small plastic ballpoint that probably cost less than her half-cooked lunch.
Mydei accepted it without comment, turning it over in his hand. It looked comically small in his grip.
“...Thanks,” he said.
“Sorry it’s so small,” Hyacine said sheepishly. “My hands are… you know.” She held up her small hand for comparison, Mydei’s dwarfing hers.
“It’s good,” Mydei said gruffly. “It writes.”
She shrugged, then caught a glimpse of a paper, crumpled and stuffed under a nearby bench. “Oh, what’s this?”
Hyacine leaned sideways off her seat, plucking the paper off the ground with a small hup! Uncrumpling it over the flat surface of the table, she couldn’t make heads or tails of the paper. It was filled from top to bottom with increasingly erratic writing, entire paragraphs scratched out so hard the marks sometimes ripped through the sheet.
Scanning the paper for any untouched words, she found some passages at the bottom, written delicately, like the author was afraid to write out their feelings.
I thought you were warm, but with now nothing but the lens of memory, I know now it was light without heat - dangerous, impossible to hold. And yet, you branded your gaze into my soul with fire.
The flowers don’t listen, and yet, when we sing, they bloom.
O light, will you bloom for me again?
Hyacine’s chest tightened. It felt too intimate to read, but too honest to ignore. The words settled in her heart, feeling quiet, but resonant - like the echo of a memory she’d never experienced.
She looked down at the words, holding back inexplicable tears, as her fingers traced a small pencil line underneath the last sentence, like maybe it would still be warm from the hand that had left the words behind.
“I think someone didn’t want this,” she murmured.
Mydei glanced up from his math homework. “What is it?”
“Something someone gave up on,” Hyacine said softly. “But I think it’s beautiful.”
He didn’t press, and she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she folded the paper with gentle reverence and tucked it into her bag. Then she realized. “I forgot my key again!” she exclaimed, slapping herself on the forehead.
Mydei looked at her, amused. “Again?”
“I… forgot it yesterday too,” Hyacine admitted, embarrassed.
“I’m sure Cipher will let you in,” Mydei said.
As the lunch break ended, the cafeteria began to empty. Chairs scraped against the floor, trays clattered into the bins, and backpacks swung over shoulders. Mydei finished the last of his questionable meatloaf and stood without ceremony. Hyacine made sure the folded script page was secure, and followed.
Outside, the sun had climbed higher, warming the stone paths and casting leafy shadows across the grass. Hyacine breathed in, smiling as the scent of fresh clover filled her lungs. Groups of students milled about, some walking with purpose, some lingering.
Hyacine and Mydei walked side-by-side in easy silence. She hugged her bag close to her chest, mind still occupied by the strange ache of the lines of the script.
And then - far off the beaten path - she caught a glimpse of her.
Castorice sat alone under the shadow of a tall willow tree, back resting against the bark. Her knees were drawn up, and a sketchbook rested against them. Her pencil was moving slowly and thoughtfully as she gazed up into the leaves of the old willow as a faint breeze rustled her hair just the slightest bit.
Hyacine’s breath hitched, and her pace slowed without realizing.
“Friend of yours?” Mydei said, glancing over.
“No,” Hyacine said glumly, eyes still on her. “I sat next to her in Anaxa’s class, but we didn’t speak.”
“I don’t think she speaks much at all,” Mydei said, nodding. “I saw her in a morning lecture. She didn’t make a sound.”
“I’d like to be her friend,” Hyacine said quietly, almost whispering, as though if she said it too loud, the tree would catch it and whisper it back to Castorice.
Mydei didn’t answer right away. His eyes passed over the figure under the willow, thoughtful. The breeze stirred again, lifting the edge of Castorice’s sketchbook page. She tucked it back down with a motion so silent it barely looked like movement at all.
“Maybe she’d like to, too,” Mydei said.
“Maybe,” Hyacine murmured, hope pulling the corners of her mouth upward.
As Mydei moved forward, her gaze lingered a moment longer on Castorice - on the way her eyes narrowed in concentration almost imperceptibly as she sketched, how the sun caught in the strands of her hair that lit up the deep purple, turning it lavender.
Then, with great difficulty, she tugged her eyes away and turned back toward the path, falling into step beside Mydei again, tucking the image away like a pressed flower.
As Hyacine stepped into Anaxa’s class for the second time, she was fueled by determination and the knowledge that Castorice was not actually an icy person who hated everyone around her. She would absolutely make a new friend today!
She entered a few minutes early, scanning for a seat - but not for herself. There, in the very back again, was Castorice, arms folded neatly on her desk. Her expression was as blank as ever, chin tilted just high enough to seem cold. Hyacine faltered for a moment, but, remembering Anaxa’s message about her being very shy, pressed on. She walked up the stairs, bag pressed against her chest - eyes facing forward this time. Castorice didn’t look over as she approached, eyes still fixed forward.
“Hi again!” Hyacine said, the adrenaline coursing through her veins making her feel brave enough to speak words.
Castorice’s gaze slid to her, and she gave a small nod with the same unreadable expression - but this time, Hyacine saw it as a shy nod, not a cold one.
She sat beside Castorice, trying not to fidget. “I hope you don’t mind,” she added. “I thought I’d sit here again. I mean, I don’t think anyone else was going to sit here, but maybe… yeah. I can move if you have a long-lost sister or something, though.” She shut her mouth.
“It’s okay,” Castorice said quietly.
Hyacine blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then tried not to scream out loud, or allow steam to pour out of her ears, or imitate the inside of a watermelon.
Castorice’s voice was unexpectedly soft, but somehow fit her perfectly. It was low and breathy, like wind brushing over tall grass - gentle but present, like it wasn’t used to being heard out loud. Hyacine found herself holding her breath, as though any sudden movement would spook it back into silence.
She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling too hard. “Cool - great. Um. I’m Hyacine, by the way.”
Another faint nod. “I know.”
Her voice again - soft and nearly weightless. Hyacine felt giddiness swelling in her chest, feeling like she could float like a balloon. She smiled down at her paper, which had suddenly become very, very interesting.
“Castorice.”
Hyacine turned her head toward her, confused. “...?”
“That’s my name.” Castorice turned her head away slightly, hiding her face.
“Oh, I know,” Hyacine reassured. Then she realized how creepy she sounded. “I mean - not in a weird way. Anaxa talked about you, so I just. Remembered it, I guess? It’s… pretty.”
A moment of quiet. Castorice did not show her face.
“Anaxa?” she finally said.
“Oh - I mean, Professor Anaxagoras!” Hyacine said, slapping her hand over her mouth.
Castorice smiled.
It was tiny - it was barely there - but Hyacine saw.
Her heart shot into her throat like it was launched from a cannon. Every thought she’d ever had was now drowned out by the flashing neon sign that said SHE SMILED AT ME??? in sparkling billboard letters. Was this what people who won the lottery felt like? Or got accepted into Harvard, or finished an epic quest to save the world? Where was the slow motion pop song with the random gusts of wind? She scrambled back to look at her notebook. Words. Sentences. She needed to do something normal.
Her hand moved too fast and knocked her pencil off her desk. Smooth. She dove for it like it was a life preserver, heart feeling like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Are you okay?” Castorice asked, peeking over with what might’ve been either concern or amusement.
Hyacine came up from under the desk looking like she’d just run a marathon. “Yep!” she said loudly. “Totally! Great! Wonderful!”
Castorice blinked. “Okay...”
Hyacine turned back to her notes. She was normal. She was fine . She was so normal she could be studied and labelled a ‘perfect specimen’. What was she saying?
There was a long pause between them, filled only with the distant sound of shuffling chairs and the murmuring of the students around them. Hyacine peeked at Castorice. She was sketching again - small, quick lines forming something leafy and blooming.
Hyacine tilted her head, pretending not to look. “Is that a flower?”
“They are called Antilas,” Castorice said, reverence in her voice.
“That sounds made up,” Hyacine said before she could stop herself.
Castorice smiled again and Hyacine felt her heart react the same way as before. “Antilas are coated with a special type of oil that makes them reflect the moonlight, giving them the illusion of glowing under the moon,” she explained. “They only bloom when the sun is down.”
“That sounds poetic,” Hyacine said thoughtfully.
“It’s a plant.”
Hyacine laughed, covering it behind her hand. “A pretty plant?”
Castorice hesitated. “Yeah.”
Hyacine leaned her cheek against her palm, watching Castorice’s pencil movements. The little sketch was taking shape into a narrow-stemmed flower with delicate, curling petals and leaves that fanned out.
“You know a lot about plants,” she said, watching the lines appear like magic.
Castorice gave a small nod, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m majoring in botany.”
“Ohhh,” Hyacine breathed. “That makes sense. You sounded like you were describing a poem earlier.”
Castorice tilted her head, her expression unreadable again, but not in the cold way, more like she was quietly thinking. “It’s just what they are,” she said. “They start speaking for themselves, once you look long enough.”
“Are there Antilas around here?” Hyacine asked curiously.
Castorice nodded, eyes flicking toward the window. “The flower garden near the east conservatory. Past the greenhouses, behind a weird statue with the wings.”
Hyacine perked up. “I think I saw that statue! It was like… half bird, half lizard!”
Castorice laughed. “Keep walking past it, and there’s a garden. Antilas look black in daytime, but they glow purple at night - you have to catch them at moon’s high.”
She went on about the flowers, but Hyacine was not paying attention.
Castorice laughed.
Not a smirk. Not a polite huff. A laugh. Soft and airy and sudden, like the breeze that sometimes caught the corners of notebooks, or a candle flickering to life. It was the kind of laugh that sounded like it wasn’t used very often - like it surprised even her. Hyacine felt like she was actively perishing in her chair.
She turned sharply back to her notebook, face flaming, gripping her pen like it might anchor her to the earth. Be normal , she commanded herself. Don’t draw a heart. Don’t float into the atmosphere.
“I. Um,” she managed, her voice an octave higher than usual. “That’s - that’s really pretty.”
“The flower?” Castorice asked, confused.
“Yes. No. I mean yes, the flower, obviously, but also the whole - you - never mind.” She covered her face with her hands and let out a small strangled noise.
“If you need help, I can show you where they are,” Castorice said, clearly concerned for her mental health.
And that was it. Hyacine had ascended. Her soul had left her body and was probably orbiting the moon that the Antilas loved so much.
“Cool,” she said, in a voice that absolutely did not sound like a broken violin string. “That’d be… cool.” So normal , she thought, clutching her notebook like a life raft. You’re the most normal girl to ever live .
Just then, the door creaked open - Anaxa entering like a thundercloud in motion - and Hyacine nearly sobbed in relief. Something else to focus on.
Anaxa strode to the front of the classroom, his coat trailing like a dramatic punctuation mark to his entrance. The chatter dissolved instantly. With the same flair as yesterday, he dropped a stack of papers onto the desk with a noise that could only be described as judgmental.
“Let’s continue our tragic journey into the realm of logic,” he said dryly. “Try to keep up. I’ll only explain things once. If I ever explain something twice, it’s out of pity, which means it won’t happen.”
Hyacine straightened in her seat, trying to will the flush out of her face. She didn’t dare glance at Castorice out of fear that if she saw her smile again, she'd melt into her chair like a cartoon puddle.
Anaxa scanned the room, eyepatch gleaming under the bright overhead light. His gaze lingered on her for a brief second. Then, so subtly she almost missed it, he winked. Just the slightest twitch of his good eye, half amused, half conspiratorial.
Hyacine blinked.
Had he seen her flailing?
Had he seen her almost confess marriage to a girl over a flower?
Before she could spiral further, a voice somewhere to her left drawled, “I’m just saying, if you wanted us to suffer, there are easier ways to do it than Latin philosophy terms.”
It was Phainon.
Anaxa didn’t even glance his way. “Suffering is the side effect. Stupidity is the disease, Mr. Elysiae.”
The class chuckled. Phainon held up his hands in surrender, grinning like he’d won anyway.
Hyacine dared a peek at Castorice. To her surprise, the other girl was fighting back a smile. Just the tiniest one. Barely there.
The rest of the lecture was a blur of conditional statements and symbolic notation. Hyacine managed to take notes, but her mind kept drifting back to Antilas and sketchbook lines and the sound of that laugh.
As the class ended and students began to pack up, Anaxa cleared his throat.
“One last thing,” he said. “Some of you may recall from last class: logic doesn’t concern itself with feelings. That’s because feelings are unpredictable. Illogical. Easily swayed.”
He looked directly at Hyacine.
“But once in a while,” he continued, almost reluctantly, “feelings lead to quite logical choices.”
He nodded. A small, deliberate movement. Not for the class. For her.
Hyacine’s breath caught. She looked to her side -
- where Castorice was already standing, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, waiting for her to follow.
“Coming?” she asked hesitantly.
Hyacine scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair. “Y-yeah! Yep. Absolutely.”
She was so normal. So composed - except she nearly tripped on her way out. She brushed herself off, embarrassed.
Anaxa didn’t say anything, but when the door closed behind her, he smirked to himself.
Hyacine stepped out of the classroom, her heart still thumping from everything - Castorice’s quiet voice, that laugh, Anaxa’s wink, a certain flower garden she would definitely visit sometime - the whole day had felt like walking through a dreamscape where the air shimmered a little too warmly.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
Calm. Normal .
She saw Mydei.
He was leaning against the wall just outside the classroom door, arms crossed, jaw tight, her Ica key in his hand, comically small. His expression was unreadable - but the way his eyes tracked the retreating figure of Phainon down the hallway was unmistakable. The air between them crackled with something sharp.
“Hi, Mydei,” she said.
He blinked once and looked at her, his expression smoothing a little. “I brought you your key.” He dropped it into her hands. “You lent me your pen earlier, so. I figured I should return a favor.”
She glanced down the hall. Phainon was already disappearing around the corner. “You know each other?”
“No,” Mydei said.
“What were you guys talking about?” Hyacine said curiously.
“Nothing.” Mydei heaved a sigh. “Nothing at all.”
Notes:
Come back next time for Mydei and Phainon's dramatic couple fight!
I do hope you enjoyed my reimagining of Tribios. When designing the story, I noticed there would be difficulty fitting the triplets in in a meaningful way (for... hopefully obvious reasons), but the canon version of Tribios wouldn't fit either, as she was much too characteristically similar to Hyacine - pretty as she may be, she was designed to be a dead character, IYKWIM, meaning there was no tangible personality there to grab ahold of when writing.
I hope that this rebellious, eccentric spirit fits a modern version of her well enough, or that it's interesting enough to let slide. Let me know what you think!
[July 2nd 2025 edit: changed Styxia flowers to Antila flowers, upon realizing the flowers in the Nether Realm are canonically called Antilas.
Chapter 4: Night and Day, Fire and Ice
Chapter Text
FIVE MINUTES AGO
The post-lunch lull of campus was humming through the windows of the dormitory building as Mydei rapped his knuckles against a slightly chipped door. He exhaled through his nose.
“Who is it?” called a familiar voice - sing-song, bored, and unmistakably Cipher.
Mydei wordlessly opened the door.
Inside, the dorm was a chaos of mismatched socks, open notebooks, and half-opened boxes that seemed to be taking over the floor. Cipher was lying upside down on her bed, hair spilling onto the floor and a single silver coin orbiting lazily between her fingers. She peeked at him, upside down. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Try not to sound too excited,” Mydei grumbled. “I’m here for Hyacine’s key.”
Cipher twirled the coin, unimpressed. “You lose a bet?”
Mydei sighed.
“Ooooh,” Cipher said, flipping upright with theatrical effort. “So this is one of those 'I’m stoic but thoughtful’ things. Slow-burn chivalry! Got it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Can I have the key?”
“So,” she said, hopping off the bed and stretching, “what’d you do to make her lend you a key?”
“I borrowed her pen,” he said. “Forgot to give it back. She left for class before I noticed.”
Cipher narrowed her eyes. “You borrowed a pen… and she gave you a key? That’s dramatic, even by Hyacine standards.”
He didn’t respond.
She studied him. “You don’t borrow pens.”
“She offered,” he said, sensing the shift in mood.
“You don’t accept help, either,” she teased lightly.
Mydei folded his arms. “Do you have the key or not?”
Cipher crossed the room to her desk, rooting around with one hand. “Sure, sure. But I’m noting this down - you’ve been hanging around her a lot.”
Mydei shrugged noncommittally. “Not really on purpose.”
Cipher produced the little keychain and twirled it between two fingers. Mydei noticed a pegasus charm hanging off it. “You usually only make friends with... what, ominous clouds? Forest fires?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Cipher -”
“Touchy!” Cipher laughed. She rifled through a drawer and held the key out between two fingers, letting it dangle. “You know she likes candy, right? Preferably fuzzy peaches - anything sweet but dark chocolate. If you're trying to make friends, that’s probably the fastest route.”
He took the key, careful not to touch her hand. “I’m not.”
“You’re always ‘not.’” Her voice softened. “That didn’t stop you last time either.”
Mydei looked away. “This isn’t last time.”
“Tell that to the way you’re standing,” she said, almost gently.
A melancholic silence passed between them.
He took the key and turned to leave. “Next time you skip lunch, tell Hyacine. She worries.”
“Oh no,” Cipher said behind him, pressing a hand to her heart. “Mydei grew a conscience!”
He didn’t answer, but there was a twitch of something - amusement? - in the corner of his mouth as he closed the door.
Mydei leaned against the wall of the hallway leading up to Anaxa’s room, feeling slight trauma upon seeing the imposing door at the end of the hall. The dorm key sat cool and metallic in his palm, the little round pegasus charm with button eyes sitting at the end of it. He looked at it, thinking about how fat it was, and how ridiculous it was making him look.
The door opened.
Phainon stepped out, letting it shut with a soft thud behind him. His posture was casual - collar askew, one hand loosely holding a notebook, hair just as wild and tufted as Mydei remembered. His eyes didn’t register Mydei at first.
But when they did, he froze.
“…Mydei.”
Mydei didn’t answer. He felt his shoulders tense.
“You lose a bet?” Phainon asked, nodding at the key and grinning a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Or did you finally become a hall monitor?”
Mydei didn’t rise to the bait. “Returning something.”
Phainon clicked his tongue. “So noble now! I thought for sure you’d gotten involved in the pink glittery side of the world…”
“It’s Hyacine’s,” Mydei clarified, holding the key up like evidence. “Short, pink hair, looks like she would get blown away by a breeze. Not mine.”
Phainon tilted his head, clearly recognizing the description. “Right.” Phainon gave a small, almost mocking smile. “And now you’re running her errands, like a chivalrous knight.”
Mydei didn’t look at him. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“But you are,” Phainon said, stepping closer with a practiced smirk. “You’re standing in a hallway with that knight-in-shining-pride expression, holding a keychain that jingles. It’s adorable, really.”
Mydei didn’t respond, just gave him a sidelong glance.
Phainon shrugs, almost casual. “I mean, you’re standing like a tragic poem, holding a sparkly horse. Don’t expect me not to comment.”
As he said that, students began trickling out through the door, their chatter obscuring their conversation a little. Mydei shifted his weight uncomfortably.
Then Phainon said, more quietly, “You know, just because we’re not friends anymore doesn’t mean we have to be nothing.”
Mydei looked at him, finally. “You’re the one who made it nothing.”
Something flashed in Phainon’s eyes then. A boiling rage of frustration and guilt. “Yeah?” he said, voice suddenly flattening into a tone devoid of emotion. “Am I?”
Mydei stiffened, just slightly. “ Don’t .”
Phainon’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t what?”
“Whatever game this is. I’m not in it.”
“Stop avoiding the past, Mydei,” Phainon snapped, showing an unexpected burst of something .
Mydei looked at him. Coldly. Carefully. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I don’t know!” Phainon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You don’t talk to me unless I bait you. You avoid eye contact like I’m radioactive. You stand in hallways like it’s a boxing match -”
“Maybe I’m not the one turning it into a spectacle,” Mydei snapped, looking him in the eye challengingly.
There was a pause. Phainon’s jaw tightened.
“I’m not trying to fight with you,” he said, quieter, looking away.
“No,” Mydei replied. “You’re just trying to pretend we’re fine.”
“Maybe it’s because I -” He cut himself off, eyes flicking to the floor. “I don’t know. Something.”
Mydei tried not to show any broiling emotion on his face.
Phainon laughed - sharp, but not quite amused, with a bitter tinge. “You know, you used to be better at comebacks.”
Mydei’s eyes didn’t move. “Maybe you used to deserve them.”
That quieted him.
Mydei slipped the keychain into his pocket wordlessly. Phainon didn’t have his usual look of smugness or triumph. Just silence. That kind of silence that could fill a hallway.
“You never told her, did you?” he said after a pause. “Hyacine. About us.”
Mydei’s silence was its own kind of answer.
“Yeah,” Phainon muttered. “Didn’t think so.”
Mydei shifted, stepping away from the wall. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“No,” Phainon agreed, quietly. “She doesn’t.” He stepped back at last, the edge in his posture fading into something wearier. He glanced sideways - toward the classroom door - as if he’d sensed time creeping up behind them.
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” he said, voice devoid of its earlier playfulness.
Mydei didn’t reply.
Phainon hesitated for half a second more, then turned and walked off down the hall. No parting shot. No last glance. Just footsteps fading into the soft buzz of the afternoon.
The door behind Mydei creaked.
He turned just as Hyacine stepped into the hallway, bag hugged to her chest, smiling dreamily. Her hair was a little messy, cheeks pink with some emotion that had clearly bloomed during class. She paused, catching the tail-end of something she couldn’t name. The hallway felt strange - like she’d walked into the aftermath of a storm that hadn’t made a sound.
“Hi, Mydei,” she said.
He blinked once and looked at her, feeling a little less tense. “I brought you your key.” He dropped it into her hands. “You lent me your pen earlier, so. I figured I should return a favor.”
She glanced down the hall, where Phainon was already gone. “You know each other?”
“No,” Mydei said.
“What were you guys talking about?” Hyacine asked.
“Nothing.” Mydei heaved a sigh. “Nothing at all.”
Hyacine nodded silently.
“You looked happy when you came out,” he said, breaking the silence as they fell into step side-by-side. “What happened?”
Hyacine flushed all over again. “N-nothing. I mean - maybe something. I don’t know. I guess.”
He raised a brow, curious.
She fumbled for words. “Just… flowers.”
“Flowers,” Mydei echoed, lost.
Hyacine’s grip tightened slightly on her notebook. She nodded, staring straight ahead like if looking at anything would make her combust. “...You kind of had to be there.”
He glanced at her sideways. “Was it that flower girl?”
Hyacine stopped walking for half a second. “She has a name!”
“That’s a yes,” Mydei said, satisfied, falling back into step. “Flirting under the scariest teacher’s nose.”
“I was not -” she started, sounding horrified. “There was no flirting . And Anaxa isn’t even that scary!”
“If you say so.”
Hyacine made a strangled noise, face in her hands.
There was a pause, warm and unhurried. The sun had shifted a little westward, casting long golden strips through the windows.
“Do you think she likes me?” Hyacine asked quietly.
Mydei tilted his head at her, thinking. “She let you sit beside her, didn’t she?”
Hyacine nodded, flushing red again.
“Then that’s already more than most people get, from the sound of it,” he said. “I don’t think she’s cold. She’s just… very careful.”
Hyacine smiled at the floor. “Yeah. That sounds right.”
The common room was warm with the fading light of late afternoon. The fireplace was empty, the quiet punctuated by the occasional clink of a mug. Hyacine was cross-legged on the couch, bouncing slightly as she told her story. Cipher was sprawled on the beanbag, tossing a coin up and down.
“So then - then - I said something about a statue - I don’t remember - and Castorice laughed. Like, a genuine laugh, like I said something funny, but I didn’t , I was just saying - aaargh .” Hyacine pounded the arm of the couch with her fist.
Cipher snorted. “Maybe she was laughing at you, not with you.”
“No!” Hyacine exclaimed, scandalized. “It was this little nose-scrunch soft laugh. Like a delicate laugh. The rare wildflower of laughs…”
Cipher shook her head, smiling. “Hyacine, you are in love.”
“No I’m not!” Hyacine said vehemently, face blooming red.
Cipher flicked her coin into the air and caught it without looking. “Right. And I’m the Dean of Student Affairs.”
“You don’t get it.” Hyacine flopped against the cushions. “She was so quiet the whole time. I was just trying to survive the class without freaking out. And then boom - she laughed. Then I had to sit through the entirety of the lecture and pay attention .”
“That’s usually how people react to you,” Cipher said lightly. “Involuntary joy. Sometimes nausea.”
Hyacine kicked a pillow at her. “You’re the worst. You’re not even listening!”
“I’m listening.” Cipher caught the pillow and stuffed it under her head. “You’re spiraling over a girl who drew flowers in her sketchbook and smiled once.”
“She draws botanical studies,” Hyacine corrected, deadly serious. “And she didn’t just smile. She made a noise. It might’ve been a giggle.”
“Heaven forbid,” Cipher said, balancing the coin on her nose.
Hyacine sat up, suddenly energized. “Oh, that reminds me! She told me about this flower garden on campus. I want to find it.”
Cipher gave her a flat look. “You don’t even remember where your key is.”
“It’s somewhere in my soul.” Hyacine sighed dramatically. “Also in the dorm. Again. I’m sorry!”
Cipher flicked the coin so it spun in the air. “One of these days I’m going to change the locks and make you live in the courtyard like a little dorm goblin.”
Hyacine laughed so hard she almost fell off the couch.
And then came a loud -
BANG!
The door to Dorm One’s common room slammed open with comical force, hitting the wall like a cymbal crash. A gust of wind followed it in, scattering a few loose pages from a nearby table onto the floor.
“I HAVE RETURNED!” came the declaration.
Hyacine jumped, head whipping around just in time to see a red-haired figure sweep into the room like a storm wearing a guitar case. A corner of a flier was stuck to her boot and she was holding a single shoelace aloft like a sword.
“I come bearing sacred objects!” She announced grandly, not out of breath. “And advertisements!”
Cipher sat up sharply in her beanbag, missing her coin as it bounced off her knee. “What.”
“Tribios!” Hyacine exclaimed. “Wait - you actually -?”
“Fulfilled the prophecy? Yes.” Tribios strode forward and, sinking to one knee, ceremoniously placed the shoelace on Hyacine’s lap. “Behold! The object I stole from you. May it serve you better in its second life.”
Hyacine blinked down at it. “I still don’t know why you needed it.”
“It was for art,” Tribios said vaguely. “Maybe a small puppet or two.”
Cipher raised both eyebrows. “So you’re the shoelace-stealing sidewalk witch I’ve heard so little about.”
Tribios turned to Cipher with theatrical reverence. “Ah. The roommate! The one with knives in her gaze and stars in her orbit.”
Cipher blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It's okay,” Tribios said, already distracted. She fished a crumpled stack of flyers from the inner folds of her coat and threw them into the air like tarot cards. “You are cordially, platonically and forcefully invited to Music Night! This Sunday. Beneath the Big Tree. Bring instruments, friends, enemies. Oh - snacks too, please.” One flyer smacked Hyacine in the face and fluttered into her lap. Another landed at Cipher’s feet, upside down.
Hyacine picked it up. The ink was smudged and the borders decorated with scribbled vines, tiny musical notes, and what might have been a possum playing a tambourine.
SUNDAY / DUSK / BIG TREE
MUSIC NIGHT
“Noise is sacred. Noise is home.”
All welcome.
“Why a tree?” Hyacine asked, delighted.
“Acoustics,” Tribios replied, as though this really should have been incredibly obvious. “And prophecy. And shade.”
There was a beat.
Cipher narrowed her eyes. “Who are you.”
Tribios grinned. “A question I ask myself nightly!”
Hyacine giggled, tucking the shoelace into her hoodie pocket. “Tribios, this is Cipher. Cipher, Tribios.”
Tribios turned to her and tilted her head. “You’re taller than I imagined. Also less theoretical.”
Cipher didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I tend to enjoy being on the existential side of things.”
“You were a legend before you were a roommate,” Tribios said solemnly as Hyacine giggled in the background. “I heard it through the soundwaves - the phantom fox of Dorm One. Some say you can steal secrets through eye contact.”
Cipher crossed her arms, studying Tribios with suspicion. “And what are you, then? Local cryptid? Public menace?”
Tribios gasped. “I prefer ‘chaotic neutral muse.’” She swirled her arms like a stage magician, then added, “Or ‘ that one weird guitar player.’ Depending on the string.”
Cipher looked like she wanted to say five things at once but couldn’t decide which. Instead, she picked up a poster. “...Why does this one smell like cinnamon glue?”
Tribios beamed. “I licked some of them! Spiritually.”
Cipher just stared, for once not having a snappy comeback.
“I dreamed you once, cat,” Tribios said suddenly, gesturing in slow, cryptic circles. “In a field of shattered teacups and snapped golden threads. You were threatening a goose.”
“Did the goose deserve it?” Cipher asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Profoundly,” Tribios sighed.
“Justice was served, then,” Cipher said, satisfied. “Bread crumbs are hard to come by these days.”
Tribios pointed at her. “You should come! You have the aura of a closet tambourinist.”
“I really don’t,” Cipher said flatly.
Hyacine giggled.
“Denial!” Tribios accused, clutching her chest like she’d been dealt a romantic blow. “The first obstacle to overcome to be a true tambourine master!”
Cipher held up the flyer like it might bite her. “If I show up and there are twelve sock puppets in a circle looking anything like they’re about to make a sacrifice, I’m calling the authorities immediately.”
Tribios only grinned wider. “The authorities will be there! One of them plays washboard.”
Hyacine gave a helpless laugh, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “So are we supposed to bring blankets? Or - um - offerings?”
“Blankets, yes. Offerings, if they're shiny or edible.” Tribios leaned in close and conspiratorially tapped Hyacine on the nose, making her blink. “Just bring your noise. Bring your weird. Bring a flashlight if you’re scared of moths.”
“I’m not scared of moths,” Hyacine said quickly, though the way she wrinkled her nose suggested she might be at least wary of moths.
“Good.” Tribios leaned back and hoisted her guitar case again, her hair a halo of motion. “Because the tree loves moths. And noise. And secrets.”
“Perfect, I hate all of those things,” Cipher shot back.
Tribios gave her a finger-gun and a wink. “Beautiful. Balance is crucial to every piece!”
And just like that, she turned and swept back toward the door, trailing music flyers like breadcrumbs. She walked into the doorframe, said a cheerful “ow,” then disappeared into the hallway with a twirl.
For a moment, the room was silent again.
A final flyer drifted to the carpet.
Hyacine bent to pick it up, eyes shining. “I really hope it doesn’t rain on Sunday…”
Cipher sank deeper into her beanbag. “I really hope she doesn’t come back.”
Hyacine smiled wide. “I think this place is full of magic.”
Cipher rolled her eyes and leaned back in her beanbag. “You’re gonna get eaten by a goose.”
“A theoretical one?” Hyacine said, grinning.
Cipher groaned.
Hyacine hummed to herself as she tucked the crudely hand-drawn poster into her bag - then paused when her fingers brushed another piece of paper. She pulled it out. The small scrap of abandoned script from earlier, folded like a secret.
She reread it, the strange ache from earlier returning.
The flowers don’t listen, and yet, when we sing, they bloom.
Right - the garden! Castorice had mentioned it in passing, but Hyacine had filed it away like treasure. She would definitely find that garden. She stood up with vigor.
Cipher looked up at her. “Going somewhere?”
“I’m going to find that flower garden if it’s the last thing I do,” Hyacine said, determined.
“Since when do you garden?” Cipher asked.
“I don't," Hyacine said. “Castorice mentioned -”
“Oh yeah, this is about your simping,” Cipher said, snorting.
“ It’s not simping !” Hyacine turned red again.
“Sure, sure,” Cipher said, waving her off. “And I’m not going to that weird music night thing to see how quickly Tribios gets a restraining order.”
The campus was quiet, a little dim with the early evening sun filtering through high dorm windows. Hyacine’s steps echoed as she moved through the old stone arches and past bulletin boards littered with overlapping flyers - one of them already advertising Tribios' Music Night in chaotic, marker-streaked ink.
It took her some time to find where she’d last seen that silly looking statue. It was bigger than she remembered, and she smiled up at it, remembering Castorice’s laugh once again. There was a winding path beyond the statue, just barely paved by footsteps long faded into the ground.
Eventually, the concrete faded to worn stone, then to packed dirt and ivy. She passed an arch half-swallowed by leaves, ducked under a low-hanging branch - and found it.
The garden was a beautiful place filled with beds of carefully tended herbs and flowers. Some benches leaned against silver trees, and the air was rich with the scent of earth and leaves. It was less quiet than she’d expected; the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the faint wind felt like the world was breathing around her. She closed her eyes to inhale the fresh air.
Then she opened her eyes to continue, and saw her.
Castorice.
She was sitting on a bench, sketchbook in her lap, one hand resting against her cheek in thought. Her hair was gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, strands catching the golden light like threads of copper. She looked like part of the garden - like a flower that could be swayed by a gentle breeze. She hadn’t spotted Hyacine yet.
For a long moment, Hyacine didn’t move. She stopped at the edge of the clearing to watch, entranced.
A breeze stirred, rustling the wild mint and bending a row of snapdragons. Hyacine stepped forward then, a little too loud.
Castorice looked up, blinking once as if surfacing. “Oh. You found it.”
“I think it found me,” Hyacine said, a little breathless. “It’s… nicer than I imagined.”
Castorice gave a faint nod. “It changes every few days. Different flowers bloom.”
Hyacine stepped off the path, careful not to crush any creeping thyme underfoot. “I wasn’t expecting to see you on my first visit. Do you always sketch out here?”
Castorice nodded once. “It’s quiet. And the flowers are... honest.”
Hyacine tilted her head, hanging onto every word. “Honest?”
“They don’t pretend. If something’s wrong, they wilt.”
A pause settled between them. Not awkward, but full.
Hyacine moved closer and crouched beside her, careful not to crush anything, her heart quickening as she neared her. “What are you drawing?”
Castorice tilted the page just enough to show her - a study of stamens and petal spread, delicate and methodical, but there was a loose softness to it too. Like the flower had been understood, not just observed.
“It’s... really pretty,” Hyacine breathed, and then immediately worried it wasn’t a smart enough thing to say.
Castorice didn’t seem to mind. “Thank you.”
Another pause.
Hyacine’s eyes wandered among the flowers and her eyes landed on a cluster of deep purple flowers, so dark they looked black at first glance. “Are those Antilas?” Hyacine asked, nodding to them.
“You remembered,” Castorice said, sounding surprised.
“Of course. They bloom under the moon, right?”
Castorice nodded, smiling fondly at them. Hyacine looked away quickly, heart pounding at the sight. “They don’t last long,” she said. “Only a few nights a month. They’re very easy to miss.”
“I almost didn’t see them,” Hyacine admitted. “They kind of sneak up on you.”
“Many things do,” Castorice murmured.
“Are you waiting for them to open?”
Castorice gave a small nod.
“Maybe I’ll wait with you,” Hyacine said, looking at the curled buds.
Castorice looked at her. “That’s a long time.”
“I don’t mind,” Hyacine said, and meant it.
Something in Castorice’s gaze flickered - surprise, maybe. She looked away.
They sat in silence after that, the breeze moving around them in soft sighs. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once and went quiet again. The Antilas stayed still, waiting for moonlight.
She looked again at the dark blooms. “I almost walked right past them.”
“Most people do,” Castorice said, a tinge of melancholy in her voice.
“But you don’t,” Hyacine pointed out softly.
“I try not to.”
There was something almost admiring in the way Castorice said it - not proud, exactly, just… certain.
Hyacine traced a line in the dirt with her finger. “I’m glad I remembered to come here,” she mumbled, ears turning red again.
A pause.
“I didn’t think you’d remember the Antilas,” Castorice said, eyes still on the flowers.
“They stood out,” Hyacine said. “ When you mentioned them. I… liked the way you said it,” she added, fidgeting.
Castorice blinked. “The way I said it?”
“Like it mattered,” Hyacine said. “Like they mattered.”
Castorice didn’t reply, but she turned slightly toward her.
The quiet stretched. This time it was full of something soft and difficult to name.
Then the Antilas began to bloom.
It started with the largest one, petals unfolding slowly. A faint glow stirred at its center, like a secret being told in light. One by one, others followed - cool purples and blues illuminating the clearing with a silvery hush.
Hyacine inhaled. “They’re beautiful.” She looked up to see the moon peeking over the trees.
“They are,” Castorice said.
For a moment, they didn’t say anything, just watched as faint blue light filled the garden.
“They don’t always bloom at the same time,” Castorice said, voice quiet, like she was afraid of disturbing the moment. “You got lucky.”
Hyacine looked at her, heart pounding wildly at the sight of her face haloed in silver.
“Yeah,” she said, letting out a silent breath, glad it was too dark for anyone to see the red on her face. “I guess I did.”
A quiet settled over them again, cool and steady.
“I’ve been thinking,” Castorice said, voice barely a breath of wind. “I want to plant something.”
Hyacine glanced over. “Something like the Antilas?”
“Mm,” Castorice said, the little thoughtful noise melting Hyacine’s heart. “Maybe.”
“That sounds nice,” Hyacine said, suddenly fighting a flush again.
“Not here though,” Castorice murmured. “It’s full.”
Then we’ll find another place,” Hyacine said, emboldened.
“We?” Castorice said, turning toward her.
Hyacine suddenly turned red. “I mean - like, I could help. I wouldn’t mind, I mean. But I don’t have to! You know, if it’s a personal thing, that’s totally okay too, it’s -”
“I’d like that,” Castorice interrupted softly.
Hyacine smiled, red-faced with embarrassment and something unnamed. “We’ll definitely find a place!”
Castorice smiled, not at all helping Hyacine’s situation.
After a pause, Hyacine took a breath, trying to steady the fluttering in her chest. “I’m… not great with remembering things,” she admitted, a little quieter. “I always forget the little stuff, even when I really want to hold onto it.”
Castorice’s gaze softened. “Maybe that’s why you noticed the Antilas,” she said after a pause. “Because they’re easy to miss. Like moments you want to keep, but they only come and go.”
Hyacine nodded. “Sometimes I think... I remember what feels important. Even if I don’t realize it at the time.”
Castorice didn’t answer right away, but something in her expression shifted - thoughtful, maybe.
A moment passed.
Hyacine traced a line in the dirt. “I wonder how many things I’ve missed,” she said. “Like, things that were right in front of me that I just didn’t see.”
“Some people don’t mean to hide,” Castorice murmured. “They just get used to not being seen.”
“Maybe it’s easier in some ways,” Hyacine said, sighing, thinking of a fleet-footed friend.
“In some ways,” Castorice replied, sounding melancholic. “A secret garden can be… prickly, if you don’t take care of it.”
Hyacine smiled softly, a little sadly. “I guess that’s why some people seem so shielded. Or distant. Like they’re protecting something fragile.”
Castorice let out a soft breath.
“I hope people know that someone’s looking,” Hyacine breathed, daring to look at her. “Even in the quietest moments, there’s a ray of light on everyone.”
A pause settled between them, soft and easy, like the night draping a blanket over the garden.
The Antilas shimmered a little longer, their light beginning to fade as the moon shifted behind a cloud. Castorice didn’t say anything more, and neither did Hyacine. There was nothing that needed saying. They simply watched the flowers shimmer softly underneath the moon.
After what felt like a lifetime, Castorice stood, brushing a bit of grass from her legs. “You should head back,” she said gently. “It’s late.”
Hyacine hesitated, wanting to stay longer but knowing she should go. “Will you be okay walking back?”
Castorice nodded once. “I like the quiet.”
They shared one last beat of the soft stillness.
“Goodnight,” Hyacine said finally, reluctantly.
“Goodnight.”
She turned and left the clearing, the light behind her dimming with each step. The path back felt different now - cozier somehow, like it had been made gentler by everything they didn’t quite say.
By the time she slipped into the building and padded quietly toward her dorm’s common room, her cheeks were still warm and her heart felt strange in a way she couldn’t name. The halls were quiet, moonlight quietly streaming through the windows, and the common room was empty except for one lone figure.
Cipher was curled up on the couch next to the fireplace, legs thrown over one arm, her phone balanced on her stomach. She looked up as Hyacine entered. “Well, well! Look who finally returned from her honeymoon.”
Hyacine immediately flushed. “It wasn’t romantic!”
Cipher closed her book, still using that shirt-bookmark. “No? What would you call it then - midnight flower-watching with the mysterious goth girl?”
“Exactly,” Hyacine grumbled, sitting down on the couch. “Nothing more. “
“Sure,” Cipher smirked. “Did she recite botanical facts at you? Were there longing gazes under the stars?”
“There were no longing gazes ,” Hyacine protested, hiding her reddening face in a pillow.
“What a shame.” Cipher shifted slightly. Then she added, voice softer, “You get this look, you know. Whenever you see her.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re…” Cipher paused, thinking. “Like you’re carrying something warming your entire body.”
Hyacine blinked, emerging from her pillow. “That’s oddly poetic.”
Cipher shrugged, but for once, didn’t follow up with a joke. She stared past the flickering flames of the hearth, somewhere deep inside, like maybe it held secrets.
“You’re too nice, Hyacine,” she said offhandedly.
Hyacine tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Just… be careful,” Cipher said, not moving her gaze from the fire.
Hyacine didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t sure what Cipher was really thinking about - but it wasn’t Castorice. Not exactly.
She sat up a little straighter. “You say that like I can’t take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” Cipher’s eyes flicked back to her. “But I don’t like the idea of...” she trailed off, eyebrows furrowing. “Don’t ever let someone get away with hurting you, Hyacine - even if that means calling me. I mean it.”
There was a silence after that. Not heavy, but careful.
Hyacine reached over and nudged Cipher’s foot with hers, smiling. “You’re kind of protective for someone who made fun of me a minute ago.”
Cipher smirked faintly. “You bring it out in people. Zagreus knows how.”
Mydei couldn’t sleep.
He could hear Cipher and Hyacine faintly talking in the common room, but he didn’t mind - if anything, it helped. The dorm room was still, only lit by the moon streaming through his window. He rolled over in his bed, pillow frustratingly warm.
He shouldn’t be thinking about Phainon.
But he was.
Phainon had walked off like he didn’t care - like he’d never cared - but all Mydei could see was the weariness in those shoulders, the sadness in his eyes. Why? Why was Phainon tired? What made him sad? Why did Mydei of all people care so much?
He didn’t. That was the simple answer. The honest, final truth.
Mydei exhaled, pushing off his blanket, suddenly feeling suffocated. He stood, pacing once, twice, around his room, then dropped to sit down at his desk.
“Arrrrrgh,” he quietly muttered to himself, frustrated.
A feather fluttered into his window, making a soft thunk as it floated away. It was barely noticeable, but with the quiet, Mydei’s ears immediately picked it up. His head turned to look at the feather.
He remembered, faintly, the smell of old paper; the rustling of the turning pages; the feeling of the other person’s hand that held the cover.
A book.
Sleep would not come for him for another while.
Chapter Text
The first thing Hyacine registered was a faint, irritated muttering cutting through her dream.
“…man had the ego of a collapsing star…”
She cracked one eye open. Morning sunlight filtered through their dorm’s curtains, spilling warmth across the floorboards and a hunched-over figure.
Cipher was sitting cross-legged on the couch, still in her sleep shirt, a bowl of cereal balanced precariously on one knee. Her hair was a mess, a spoon dangling from her mouth like a cigarette, and she was flipping furiously through a battered history book with one hand.
Hyacine blinked blearily. “Mmf.”
Cipher didn’t look up. “Cecil Rhodes,” she said, venomously, “is the worst man to ever own a map.”
“Good morning,” Hyacine mumbled, words still slurred from sleep.
“He wanted to paint the entire map of Africa British red. Founded a mining company on stolen land. Thought democracy was overrated. Oh, and get this - left money for a scholarship so people would think he was nice!” Cipher stabbed the page with her spoon for emphasis, then paused to chew a mouthful of cereal. “And now I have to summarize this in two pages without setting the margins on fire.”
Hyacine rubbed at her eyes. “Wait… he gave money away? But he… stole it?”
“Ding ding ding!” Cipher exclaimed. “Congratulations, you’ve unlocked the colonizer-to-philanthropist ending.”
“What class is this for again?” Hyacine asked, still processing.
“Colonial Legacies and Modern Systems,” Cipher said grimly. “But I’m renaming it The Worst People In All Of History,’ because so far it seems to be a running theme.”
Hyacine sat up in her bed, watching Cipher highlight an entire paragraph, then angrily cross it out. “Is that helpful?” she asked, trying not to laugh.
“Psychologically? Yes.” Cipher glanced over at her. “Cecil built a university to honor himself and then paid for future students with plundered wealth. Are you serious?”
Hyacine tucked her blanket tighter around her and watched Cipher with a drowsy smile. “So this is how you recharge.”
“Oh, I’m not recharging, I’m being drained.” She flipped another page and stabbed her spoon into the bowl with vindictive purpose. “Do you know how many statues he has? Like - why?!”
“Because…” Hyacine ventured cautiously, “he… was rich?”
“Because colonialism is a disease,” Cipher said, dramatically delivering a spoonful of cereal to her mouth.
Hyacine yawned. “Only you could say that with a mouthful of cornflakes.”
“Talent!” Cipher said, grinning.
Hyacine glanced toward the table - a tray had a slightly lopsided stack of toast and a small bowl of fruit. She smiled.
“Did you get that?” she asked.
Cipher grinned, cereal spoon paused mid-air. “Don’t get used to it. I only got it because I figured if I yelled about Cecil Rhodes too much, you’d need something to calm down.”
Hyacine laughed. “Thank you.”
Cipher shrugged, already back to her cereal.
Hyacine swung her legs over the side of the bed. “You’re really hung up about this, huh?”
Cipher huffed. “ Hung up ? Hyacine, I’ve been spiritually waging war.”
“That bad?” Hyacine asked, tilting her head.
Cipher pointed her spoon at the book like it was a crime scene. “This guy tried to build a railroad across a continent like it was a game of connect-the-dots!”
Hyacine wrinkled her nose in distaste.
“Exactly!” Cipher stabbed another bite of cereal. “And they called him a visionary. If I see that word one more time, I swear -”
“You’ll set the margins on fire?” Hyacine finished helpfully.
Cipher looked at her, then smirked. “Only you could make that sound cute.”
Hyacine ducked her head, ears going pink.
“If I had a time machine, I wouldn’t stop a war or assassinate anyone,” Cipher continued, turning her attention back to the book with a vengeance. “I’d just make this guy stub his toe every day for the rest of his life.”
Hyacine started giggling uncontrollably. “Your brain is wild.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Cipher replied smugly, already flipping to the next chapter. “Unlike this guy’s. The only thing going through his head is colonization, probably. Did you know a princess tried forging letters to get closer to him? A princess ! How does this guy get a princess to chase after him, with his stupid moustache and floppy hair and…” she trailed off, muttering.
“Maybe if he stopped trying to conquer things he could’ve started a flower shop or something,” Hyacine lamented.
Cipher stopped to stare at her.
“...What?” Hyacine said defensively. “Flower shops are good! Better than colonization and railroads and statues and the other -”
Cipher burst out laughing, nearly choking on a mouthful of cereal. She slapped the book shut, leaning back on the couch with a groan of disbelief.
“Only you could say something like that,” she said, half-amused, half-exasperated. “A flower shop ! I want to live in your brain for a day just to see what it’s like in there.”
Hyacine narrowed her eyes, trying not to smile. “I stand by it. The world would be better with more flower shops.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cipher snorted. “Eat your breakfast.”
Hyacine abided, settling down at the table to pick at the stack of toast and fruit Cipher had left for her. She watched as Cipher closed her textbook with a snap , tucking it into her backpack.
“Done for now?” she asked, mouth full.
“Never,” Cipher said darkly. “I do not rest until colonialism is dead.”
Hyacine swallowed a bite of toast. “You should start a flower shop instead. To make up for his bad… deeds.”
“For Zagreus’ sake,” Cipher muttered, slapping her forehead. “Stop that! I can’t be edgy and preachy when you’re talking like a rainbow princess - are you planning to make that toast last all day?”
Hyacine smiled sheepishly. “I’m savoring it. It’s the first time you’ve made a real breakfast -”
“Yeah, okay, rub it in,” Cipher said, rolling her eyes. “See if I’m nice to you ever again.”
Hyacine giggled as she finished off the last bite of toast, licking a bit of jam from her thumb as she stood. “Alright. Clothes! Probably a good idea.”
Cipher eyed the table suspiciously. “That was not a lot of food you ate, miss. One slice of toast and three strawberries?”
“I’m never hungry in the mornings…” Hyacine said, looking sheepish again.
“Okay, but you better eat more at lunch, or I’m stuffing your face,” Cipher said, patting her head.
“Hey!” Hyacine swatted at her hand, to no avail.
Cipher flopped dramatically onto her bed. “You know, maybe revolution can wait. I need five more minutes of lying here pretending I’m not alive…”
Hyacine ducked into the closet area. “If you started that flower shop, you could wear aprons instead of pants,” she called. “They’d be much less annoying to put on.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Cipher muttered. “Aprons have pockets.”
By the time Hyacine reappeared, dressed in a soft sweater, Cipher was upright again, tying her shoelaces with a grunt of defeat. Hyacine slipped a hairpin into place and grabbed her bag.
Cipher gave her a once-over. “You look like you’re about to ask someone to join your fairy court.”
“Thank you,” Hyacine replied sweetly.
They stepped into the hall together, the door clicking shut behind them. The dorm was alive with the morning shuffle - distant voices, the thump of shoes, someone down the hallway humming.
As they rounded the bend to the exit, Mydei stepped out of his room.
“Cipher,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically serious.
Cipher stopped mid-step, Hyacine slowing beside her. “Morning to you too, sunshine.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Cipher sighed dramatically. “Hyacine, go on without me. I’ll catch up.”
Hyacine hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, heading off on her own.
“Alright, what’s the deal?” Cipher said, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. “You look like someone ruined your tea party.”
He didn’t speak right away - just stood, hands at his sides, gaze fixed somewhere vague in the distance.
“Can I ask you something?” he finally said, voice quiet.
“You just did,” she said, grinning.
He gave her a look.
Cipher relented, sighing. “Fine. What is it?”
“There’s a book. It’s called…” the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. “It’s called Chasing the Firebird’s Feather .”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “You have legs, don’t you?”
“It’s not that simple,” he muttered. “Phainon’s always at the library around lunch.”
Cipher opened her mouth to retort - then paused. She understood. Too well, maybe.
But still. Her lips pressed into a line. “I don’t love that plan.”
Mydei sighed. “I know.”
She shrugged, eyes flicking away. “I don’t feel like getting haunted today either. He reminds me of -” She stopped short, then forced a breath out through her nose.
There was a tense silence between them as they both recalled the past.
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” Mydei admitted. “It’s… the kind of thing I’d rather no one else touch.”
Cipher exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down her face. “You realize every time I see his face, it reminds me of her , right?” She scrunched her eyebrows. “I hate it. No thanks.”
Mydei looked like he wanted to press again, but Cipher shook her head. “Ask Hyacine.”
“What?”
“She’s good at that sort of thing. Talking. Making people soften a little.” Her voice was lighter now, almost teasing. “Plus, Phainon doesn’t know her - maybe he’ll leave her alone.”
Mydei frowned. “It’s not really her business.”
Cipher gave him a look. “And yet you asked me, didn’t you?”
He fell silent.
Cipher pushed off the wall, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “She won’t make it weird, Mydei - you know that as well as I do. Just tell her what you need.”
She didn’t wait for his reply.
The professor paced slowly across the front of the room, gesturing toward a projected slide. “If we accept the premise, then the conclusion must follow. But if we reject the consequence…”
Hyacine’s pen paused mid-sentence.
That structure. It felt familiar - not just the sound of it, but something else, like muscle memory. She glanced at the board, where a diagram showed a conditional arrow branching into two possible outcomes, one with a big red X through it.
That shape. It looked just like something from Anaxa’s chalkboard.
Her brain turned the gears.
If P, then Q. Not Q… so not P? Diving board?
She knew this. She knew this. The steps made sense - but the names were being slippery little ghosts again.
She frowned, tapping the page beside her notes. The professor’s voice drifted back into focus: “…commonly confused with affirming the antecedent, of course…”
Oh, that was it!
Her eyes widened slightly. Modus ponens . That was the one for affirming. And modus tollens - for denying!
“Gotcha,” she whispered, grinning, scribbling both terms in her margin with two careful underlines and a tiny, victorious star.
She leaned back a little in her chair, her pulse light. That brief rush of recall always made her feel oddly proud, like she’d coaxed a shy cat out from under the bed.
Her phone buzzed softly in her lap.
Mydei(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 🌙 : Hey
Mydei(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 🌙 : Can I ask a favor
Hyacine blinked down at it.
Hyacine: Yeah!!! What’s up?
Mydei(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 🌙 : A book
Mydei(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 🌙 : It’s called Chasing the Firebird’s Feather
Hyacine: Oooh, mysterious…
Hyacine: Do they have it here at the library?
Mydei(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 🌙 : Idk
A book request? From Mydei ? Hyacine scrunched her brow, trying to imagine it.
Hyacine: OK!!!
Hyacine: I will check this lunch
Mydei(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 🌙 : Thank you
Hyacine: Anytime
Hyacine: (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
The rest of class passed in a blur of symbols and syllogisms. Hyacine managed to keep up - mostly - but her mind kept drifting back to her phone screen, to the oddly poetic title: Chasing the Firebird’s Feather. She kept repeating it in her head, like a charm or a puzzle. What kind of book was that? Why did Mydei want it?
By the time the bell rang, she was already halfway out of her seat, bag slung over one shoulder. She hadn’t spent lunch in the library before, but this felt like a little mission. A quiet one. Important, even if she didn’t know why.
She pulled out her phone.
Hyacine: Skipping lunch table - on a Quest™!
CIPHER! (•˕ •マ.ᐟ: if u get accosted by tribios again i’m not helping this time
The path to the library was flanked with blooming white clover, and the warm breeze tugged gently at her sleeves. It all felt a bit like the start of a story. Maybe not an epic - but definitely something hopeful.
She smiled to herself and picked up the pace.
The library was a cathedral of quiet. Some of the desks and seats were occupied by students, the quiet ambiance of flipping pages and scratching pens filling it with a comforting atmosphere. Windows filtered noon sunlight across the rows and rows of books, and every footstep was muffled by thick carpet.
Hyacine tiptoed in like she was trespassing in a holy place, clutching her phone.
She wandered into the fiction section first - because where else would something like Chasing the Firebird’s Feather live? - settling cross-legged on the floor by a low shelf to flip through the digital catalog on her phone, brow furrowed. Chasing the Firebird’s Feather . Such a strange, poetic title - but so far, no luck finding it on the shelves.
“Chasing the Firebird’s Feather,” she mumbled under her breath, scanning shelf after shelf. Nothing. She turned another corner - still nothing. “Does this book even exist?”
“Nope,” said a voice behind her, cheerful and confident. “It’s a myth. Like cafeteria meatloaf that isn’t undercooked.”
Hyacine jumped slightly and turned to see Phainon grinning at her, a stack of books under one arm and an easy slouch in his posture.
“Oh! You’re…” She blinked. “You’re Phainon! From Anaxa’s class.”
Up close, Phainon was even more artistically disheveled. His white hair was stuck up in tufts, his large frame was relaxed and friendly, and his smile was lopsided just enough to give off the impression of casual friendliness.
Phainon gave a theatrical bow. “Guilty as charged! I’m also the guy who got an entire lecture derailed over whether unicorns count as mammals.” He looked her up and down. “Hyacine, right? You’re the back-row girl who scored a seat with that purple-haired girl - Cassidy? Catherine?”
She flushed. “Her name is Castorice.”
“Wow, first name basis,” he teased, laughing lightly. “Anyway - I heard you muttering, and figured that, as the valiant knight, I’d offer a rescue! What’s the book again?”
She held up her phone, screen glowing: Chasing the Firebird’s Feather .
Phainon went very still. For a moment, the usual crooked grin dropped from his face like someone had flicked a switch. Then he blinked, recovering quickly.
“Whoa. That’s an old one.” He tilted his head. “Children’s lit section?”
Hyacine squinted. “This is a kids’ book?”
“...Depends,” he joked, grinning a rakish grin.
“That sounds promising,” she said cautiously.
Phainon nodded. “It’s awesome. It’s not the deepest thing, but the author definitely knew what they were doing.” He turned, gesturing for her to follow. “Come on, I think I know where it is! If it hasn't been swallowed by the maze, that is.”
She hesitated a step behind him. “You knew it just from the title?”
“Let’s say I had a very intense book club when I was twelve.” His voice was breezy, but his gaze didn’t meet hers. “Besides, it’s got a killer title. Hard to forget.”
Hyacine followed him past a stack of encyclopedias and two students arguing in whispers over citation styles. “You’re pretty helpful for a guy who tried to prove that failing Anaxa’s class means you’re ‘beyond mortal logic.’”
“I have many faces,” he said solemnly, placing a hand to his chest.
She laughed. “So… do you always eavesdrop on people muttering about obscure books?”
“Only ones who mutter to themselves in the middle of a library like they’re in a drama,” Phainon said, grinning again. “You sound like a heroine searching for a lost prophecy.”
“I’m running a quest!” she said defensively. “For a friend.”
“Then let me be your trusty sidekick,” Phainon said, dramatically looking into the distance. “Or the cryptic wizard - whichever fits your vibe.”
Hyacine giggled.
Then, quieter, almost like she was saying it to herself, she added, “Sometimes, it feels like stories are the only places where you can find the kind of magic real life doesn’t have.”
Phainon blinked, surprised, then gave a small, genuine smile. “That’s beautiful,” he said teasingly. “Didn’t expect the heroine to get all poetic.”
They reached a small, tucked-away alcove lined with colorful spines and golden lettering. “Ah, here we go - nostalgia central.”
They crouched together by the lowest shelf, scanning titles. Hyacine scrunched her nose. “Why are so many of these books about birds?”
“Birds are metaphors,” Phainon whispered conspiratorially. “Every single one. You can’t trust them.”
“Oh no,” she said, mock-horrified. “What about pigeons?”
“ Especially pigeons. They’ve seen too much.”
She burst out laughing again.
“Too much,” Phainon repeated gravely. “They’re the true archivists of civilization - and yet, we feed them crumbs.”
“Are you… defending the pigeons?””
“No,” he said, posing. “I simply know my place.”
“You’re weird,” Hyacine said, laughing.
“You’re the one hunting down a children’s book like it’s the Holy Grail,” Phainon pointed out.
“You’re helping!” She protested.
“Yeah, because you looked like you were about to fight the fiction section.”
“I wasn’t -” Hyacine cut herself off. “I was… being determined . You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” he said, tugging a book halfway out, then grimacing and sliding it back. “That’s how Catherine looks when she’s trying to act casual around you.”
“Castorice,” she corrected automatically - then her brain processed his words. “Wait. What?”
Phainon grinned and vanished among the shelves.
“Phainon!” Hyacine chased him deeper into the children’s lit section, where the shelves felt just a little shorter and the covers a little brighter, titles shining with foil lettering and magic creatures. “What did you mean?”
“Sorry, can’t hear you,” he called out.
“What did you mean?” Hyacine repeated, catching up to him near a rotating rack of dragon-themed adventures.
Phainon didn’t turn around. “Just a little observation. Ignore me! I’m full of dramatic theories.”
“You’re not getting out of this,” she said, squinting suspiciously as he flipped through a book with a glittery phoenix on the cover. “You can’t just drop that and pretend you didn’t say it.”
“I meant Cassstorice,” Phainon said breezily. “One with… uh… three S’s. Very common name.”
“ Phainon… ”
“Okay, okay!” Phainon held up his hands in surrender, still grinning. “I may have seen a few things. Like the fact that she looks at you like she’s trying to memorize every eyelash you have. I’m very observant, you know.”
Hyacine’s face went red instantly. “She does not!”
“Mm, you’re right,” he mused. “Sometimes it’s more like she’s calculating the gravitational pull of your orbit.”
“That’s not even a thing people do!” she protested, cheeks red.
“Maybe not most people. But Cas isn’t just people, is she?” he teased, spinning a book rack lazily as she tried to glare at him through her embarrassment. “I mean, she talked to you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice before in any of my classes.”
“Okay!” Hyacine threw up her hands. “We are not doing this. We are not - this is a library.”
“Truth is hard to accept,” Phainon said solemnly, selecting a book with an owl wearing a crown. “...I don’t know about this one…”
“You’re worse than my roommate,” Hyacine muttered, dragging her hand down her face.
“High praise!” He grinned, wiggling the owl book at her.
“So,” she said, trailing behind Phainon as he zigzagged confidently between aisles. “Is this your… usual hangout spot?”
He turned with mock offense. “Excuse me - this is an elite and prestigious department! I’ll have you know this is where the heavy philosophical work happens. See?” He pointed to a book with a grinning frog on the cover. “Existential dread.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “What’s he dreading?”
“Probably climate change.”
Hyacine laughed as they rounded a corner and reached a narrow nook marked ‘Heroic Journeys’. Phainon squinted. “It’s definitely in here somewhere…”
“Heroic Journeys,” Hyacine read, eyeing the shelves. The sign above had a foil star stuck to it and a little hand-drawn sword doodle. “Very… official.”
“Only the best,” Phainon agreed solemnly. “This is where the real literary epics live! You’ve got quests, curses, heroes…”
Hyacine squinted at the shelf. “How is this organized?”
He gestured grandly to a second sign tacked below the first. It read: Alphabetized by animal . “We live in chaos now!”
Hyacine did a double take. “How does that even work? Are we looking under ‘F’ for Firebird?”
“No, no,” Phainon said, crouching beside a shelf and beginning to dig. “That’d be too normal! Firebird is clearly under ‘B,’ for bird.”
“That’s insane,” she mumbled, dropping beside him.
“It’s visionary ! Think of it as an obstacle in your hero’s journey.”
She groaned and pulled a book labeled Bunny Knights from the shelf, flipping through it. “Do all the bunnies have swords?”
“And moral ambiguity.” He nodded.
“Oh no,” she said, stifling a laugh. “So we’re in the ‘B’s? What else is here?”
“Bears, bats, beetles, bees…” Phainon rattled off as he scanned the shelf. “Some of these books are probably classified wrong. The danger of ordering things by subjective metric...”
“I don’t know how you function,” she muttered, laughing, as she pulled out a book with a puffin on the front and shoved it back in.
“Gracefully and comedically,” he said, grinning. “It sounds like an oxymoron, but in reality, it’s a very carefully balanced -”
“Oh, is this it?” Hyacine tugged a slim, worn book from the shelf, the cover faded but the title still intact: Chasing the Firebird’s Feather .
Phainon went still.
It wasn’t dramatic, but Hyacine noticed. His smile faltered for just a flicker, before he smoothed it back over. His eyes lingered on the book in her hands with something unreadable - recognition, maybe. Or memory. Then he exhaled through his nose and tilted his head.
“Huh,” he said lightly - too lightly. “There it is. The legendary bird herself.”
“Are you okay?” Hyacine asked softly.
Phainon blinked. “Me? Oh, yeah. Just… nostalgic, I guess.” He ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the shelf like it hadn’t just knocked something loose inside him. “Some books… they stick with you.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “Did you read this one a lot when you were little?”
“You could say that,” Phainon sighed.
Hyacine clutched the book closer, tracing the edge of the cover with her thumb. “I really couldn’t have found it without you.”
Phainon gave a half-smile. “Well, I am deeply fluent in bird classification systems! Comes with the territory.”
She laughed, but didn’t drop her gaze. “I mean it. You didn’t have to help. And I was being kind of… frantic earlier.”
Phainon tilted his head. “You called it a quest. You had to see it through.”
“Still,” she said. “You were kind. Thank you.”
There was a beat.
Something unreadable flickered in Phainon’s eyes again, but he just gave a crooked little bow. “Any time, Lady Hyacine! May your feathered treasure bring great fortune.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile had softened - gentler now. Almost shy. “It already did.”
Phainon blinked, caught off guard.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The library noise dulled around them - just the quiet shuffle of pages, the faraway scrape of a chair. Hyacine turned the book over in her hands, tracing the edge of the feather on the faded cover like it might fly off at any second.
Then Phainon cleared his throat, suddenly animated again. “Well. You’ve got your treasure! Now all that’s left is to return to the kingdom and tell the tale.”
She smiled. “You’re not coming?”
He raised a dramatic hand to his chest. “Alas, no… My role in the prophecy ends here. The wizard must stay behind and… reorganize the frog shelf.”
Hyacine laughed again. “That’s very noble of you.”
“Truly, the unsung heroes of every story are the ones who alphabetize by animal,” he said solemnly, crouching to pick up a fallen frog book.
Hyacine lingered for a second longer, still watching him with that softened expression. Then she hugged the book to her chest.
“Thanks again, Phainon,” she said, smiling.
He looked up briefly, and smiled, lopsided but genuine.
“Anytime!”
Phainon watched Hyacine leave, staying crouched by the shelf. He stared at the space where she’d stood, then at the shelf. Then back to where she’d disappeared.
Chasing the Firebird’s Feather .
Of all books…
He let out a slow breath and rested his elbow on his knee, hand dragging down his face. It shouldn’t matter. It was just some worn little fantasy story that he remembered vividly.
He could still recall every page. The illustrations, the frantic pacing, the way the two heroes had bickered every step of the journey. One hot-headed, one clever and unpredictable. They clashed constantly, never agreeing on the right path forward - but still, by the end, they stood together. Both holding the feather. Both chosen.
He remembered arguing over who was which.
He remembered Mydei calling the clever one “full of himself,” and Phainon shouting that the hot-headed one “had no impulse control,” and neither of them backing down.
That had been years ago.
He let his head fall against the shelf with a soft thunk . “Okay,” he said quietly, unsure who he was speaking to. “Why now?”
The books around him didn’t offer any answers.
They hadn’t mentioned it in so long. They never spoke of it during their half-hearted texts or weird standoffish meetings. Not a single word about it - and yet, he wanted the book.
Why?
Phainon scrubbed his face with both hands, feeling a broiling mix of emotions he couldn’t put into words. Maybe it was nothing - a coincidence. A book was a book. Maybe Mydei saw it on a shelf somewhere and thought of his childhood. Maybe this had nothing to do with -
He couldn’t finish the thought.
“…Weird,” he muttered to himself.
He stood slowly, stiff legs protesting. He looked at the empty spot where the book had once been, and reached out to touch it. He could still see that worn cover, the firebird on the cover, glowing as always.
Then, finally, Phainon turned and walked away.
By the time Hyacine was in Anaxa’s class, the warmth in her chest hadn’t faded. She smiled at Phainon as she walked in, and he cheekily grinned back, spinning a pencil in greeting.
Already settled in the back row, Castorice looked effortlessly composed - elegant, as always, with her ankle crossed over the other, a sketchbook under her hands. Her expression was unreadable until she looked up and caught Hyacine’s eye. Then, for just a moment, she smiled.
It was small. Not dramatic. But it felt like a gift.
Hyacine smiled back, cheeks burning, trying very hard not to overcorrect her posture or trip on her own feet. She made her way to the seat beside her like it was normal - like this wasn’t still surreal.
“Hi,” she said, sliding into the chair.
“Hello,” Castorice replied. Her voice was even and calm as ever.
The light through the windows was warm, gold-tinged. Hyacine let out a breath and opened her notebook, her heart settling… kind of.
“You’re always early,” Hyacine noted, breaking the silence.
“I like having time to think before class,” Castorice replied. “The windows are nice here, too.”
Hyacine followed her gaze, The classroom was still mostly empty, and the late afternoon sun filtered through the tall panes in long, gentle bands. She nodded. “It’s really nice. Like we’re in a different building.”
“Mmh.” Castorice didn’t say more, returning to a small sketch - Hyacine could just barely make out the outline of a person, but couldn’t tell who.
They sat like that for a moment, side by side, as Hyacine slowly watched a little figure take shape. Then out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Castorice’s phone, lying on the desk, light up briefly with a notification - just enough to show a plain gray wallpaper.
Hyacine made a face. “Wait, is that your wallpaper?”
Castorice looked over. “Yes.”
“Just… gray?”
“It’s neutral,” Castorice said, like it was obvious.
Hyacine tilted her head. “It looks like your phone’s going through something.”
Castorice let out a soft laugh. “I don’t think it needs to be anything more.”
“I guess,” Hyacine said reluctantly, then hesitated. “Would you ever change it?”
Castorice paused to think. “If I found something better.”
“You should have something better,” Hyacine said, fiddling with the corner of her page. “Something that makes you happy.”
Castorice turned slightly, considering her. “Like what?”
Hyacine blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed, then - without really thinking - she said, “We could take a selfie.”
Castorice raised a curious brow. “Us?”
“Yeah, us,” Hyacine said, and instantly regretted saying it that way. “I mean - not like us -us! Just like… here. Now. The light’s nice. Only if you want though - it might be dumb. I mean, it is dumb, but -”
“I don’t think it is,” Castorice said, with the barest smile, and maybe a little tinge of red around her ears. “I like the idea.”
“Okay!” Hyacine fumbled her phone a bit too obviously, cursing the slight tremble in her fingers.
She nudged her chair slightly closer. The overhead lights cast a soft glare off the screen, so she tilted down a little, adjusting the angle until both their faces fit in the frame. She felt her own cheeks already beginning to warm - Castorice looked so composed beside her, chin tilted, the faintest curl to her mouth.
Their shoulders bumped lightly as Castorice leaned in. She smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet, like vanilla. Her hand brushed against Hyacine’s - just a graze, her fingers cool and deliberate against Hyacine’s skin - and Hyacine’s entire face went red.
She forced herself to smile naturally and tapped the shutter.
Click!
They held still for a moment longer than necessary, then slowly leaned apart.
Castorice leaned over to inspect the photo. A little off-center, a smudge on the lens maybe, but - there was something really nice about it. Casual. Close. Hyacine’s smile was a little uneven and way too wide, and she cringed as she saw her own, very noticeable, blush in the photo. The corner of Castorice’s mouth was upturned, eyes bright, expression soft in a way that made Hyacine feel like the moment might last forever.
Castorice studied the photo for a few seconds. “I look strange when I smile,” she murmured quietly. She didn’t sound upset - more like she was making an observation.
“No you don’t,” Hyacine said vehemently. “You look really pretty.”
A pause.
Castorice glanced at her. Slowly. She looked surprised.
Hyacine’s face went red for the second time in the minute. “I mean - not just pretty. You look, um, real. Like… you. I wasn’t trying to be weird. Or flirty! I mean, not that you’re not - I just meant it as a compliment.”
Castorice blinked, and to Hyacine’s horror, she smiled. Actually smiled. A small, crinkly-eyed thing that made Hyacine want to melt into her desk.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
Hyacine stared at the desk surface. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled. “Okay. I, um… I’ll send it to you?”
“Sure,” Castorice agreed.
That was when Hyacine’s brain stopped working for a second.
“Oh! Right. Um. I need your number first. I mean - I don’t have it yet. Obviously.”
Castorice laughed softly. “Here. I’ll type it in.”
She took Hyacine’s phone and typed it in herself, deliberate and quiet.
As she handed it back, their fingers brushed - a light, accidental touch that sent a small shock through Hyacine’s hand. The contact lingered for a heartbeat longer than expected.
Hyacine blinked, her breath catching slightly. She quickly pulled her hand away, cheeks warming all over again.
Trying to steady her heart, she quickly sent the photo. A ping! from Castorice’s phone confirmed it.
Castorice picked up her phone, looked at the image, and - without hesitation - set it as her background. A simple few taps, done without fanfare. Their faces, both smiling, appeared in the background of her phone.
“Looks better already,” she said softly.
Anaxa entered the room with a loud bang of the door, robes swaying like a tempest. He dropped his papers on his desk and glanced briefly at Hyacine and Castorice before turning to the board.
“Today,” he said grandly, “as is the same every day, we will wrestle with ideas that refuse to be comfortable. Prepare your minds - not for easy answers, but for the questions that sharpen the mind.”
The room settled into a focused quiet.
Anaxagoras’s voice filled the room with steady, measured authority, outlining the day’s lesson with sharp clarity. Hyacine’s gaze drifted to Castorice, who sat poised as ever, a faint softness to her expression that only Hyacine could see.
Their eyes met briefly again, and without words, something passed between them - a quiet acknowledgment amid the hum of the classroom.
Hyacine’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile. Castorice’s eyes held a gentle reply.
No need to say more.
The rest of class passed in a blur of graphite scratching, theatrical declarations from Anaxa, and the quiet, steady thrum of Hyacine’s pulse still not quite returning to normal. She tried to focus, really - but every so often, her eyes flicked toward Castorice’s phone, where the faint outline of their photo glowed behind a mess of app icons. And every time, a warm flutter pulled at her ribs.
When the bell rang, she startled slightly. Castorice was already packing up, composed as ever.
Hyacine hesitated, then offered a small, hopeful smile. “See you later?”
Castorice paused, then nodded once. “Yeah.”
It was nothing, really. Just words. But Hyacine left the room feeling on top of the world.
She lingered in the hallway outside of the classroom for a few seconds, trying not to make her red cheeks too obvious. The picture they’d taken still sat open on her phone screen, glowing faintly in the afternoon light. She turned it off and tucked the phone into her bag, but the smile stubbornly remained.
Outside, the corridors had quieted. The usual chaos of class changes had settled into the lull of late afternoon. She made her way slowly back to the dormitories, the heavy book hugged carefully to her chest.
By the time she’d made it to the common room, the faint scent of brewing tea welcoming her, the late afternoon sun was already lazily stretching gold across the floor. Cradling the worn Chasing the Firebird’s Feather carefully against her chest, she scanned the room until her eyes found Mydei sitting cross-legged on the floor by the low table, fingers absently tapping on the wood.
“Mydei!” She approached him triumphantly, holding up the book. “I found it! Chasing the Firebird’s Feather . It was hidden deep in the kid’s section.”
Mydei looked up, and for a moment, his face didn’t move. His hands stilled against the table. Then, carefully, he straightened, his eyes on the book rather than her.
“You actually found it,” he said, voice softer than usual.
Hyacine beamed. “Thank goodness for that Phainon guy! He helped a lot.”
That got a reaction.
Mydei blinked. His body seemed to pause - like a held breath - and then resumed motion, too smoothly.
“Phainon?” He said flatly.
“Yeah.” Hyacine sat down beside him, tucking her legs beneath her. “You know him, right? He’s that tall, jokey guy with the spiky white hair. He was walking away when I came out of Anaxa’s class yesterday - you were still in the hall, I think. Did you guys talk?”
Mydei’s hand paused mid-reach. A split second. Then he picked up the book and opened it to the first page. “Nope. Don’t know him.”
Hyacine frowned slightly. “Oh.” She hesitated, then added, “You seemed kind of... tense, is all. Yesterday.”
Mydei didn’t look up. “Anaxa’s class can do that to people.”
Hyacine watched him for another second, then let it go with a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, I still think you’d get along. He’s funny. The strange, secretive kind of funny.”
“Great,” Mydei said dryly. “Another one.”
At that, Cipher - who’d just entered, cereal bowl in hand despite the hour - spoke up without missing a beat. “Are we talking about people we don’t get along with? Because if so, this toaster’s going on my list.”
Hyacine blinked. “What?”
Mydei exhaled sharply - whether in relief or annoyance, she couldn’t quite tell - and slouched further into his seat.
Cipher flopped onto the couch with exaggerated drama. “It’s a toaster , Hyacine! It burns everything except what you want burned.”
“Maybe it’s doing its job too well,” Hyacine offered.
Cipher gave her a long, unimpressed look. “Congratulations, that was peak optimism.”
“It could’ve been true,” Hyacine protested, though she was trying not to smile.
“That’s what makes it worse,” Cipher muttered, standing. “You said it with your whole chest. If either of you wants tea, I just made a pot. If not, I’m drinking all of it and you’ll be personally responsible for what happens next.”
Hyacine perked up. “What kind of consequences?”
“Unfiltered opinions,” she yawned. “Probably dramatic ones. Ooh, maybe a sea shanty or two…”
“That sounds similar to this morning,” Hyacine said brightly.
“That sounds like a threat,” Mydei muttered, leafing through the book.
Cipher plopped down at the table’s edge, opposite them. “So what’s this?” she asked, nodding at the book.
“It’s a children’s story,” Hyacine said. “I haven’t read it, but I think it’s important. Something about two heroes and a Firebird’s feather?” She glanced at him for confirmation.
Mydei didn’t look up, but gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Sounds familiar,” Cipher said, taking a long sip.
“To what?” Hyacine asked.
Cipher raised an eyebrow and smiled.
Hyacine shook her head, amused. “Anyway. I promised Mydei I’d find it. And -” She turned toward him. “I’m really glad I could.”
Mydei didn’t say anything, just turned a page slowly. His eyes stayed fixed on the paper, but his shoulders had lowered a little.
Cipher shifted the conversation without prompting. “Still on for music night Sunday?”
“Oh! Definitely,” Hyacine said, smiling. “Tribios said to bring snacks.”
“I’ll bring something experimental,” Cipher said, grinning wickedly.
“Please don’t,” Mydei muttered.
Hyacine laughed, but her gaze slid back to him. He was still reading, but there was something in the way he touched the pages - slow and careful, like remembering something that hurt a little. She didn’t know what she’d stepped into, not really.
The golden light spilled further across the carpet.
Cipher leaned back on her hands, staring dramatically at the ceiling. “We should adopt the Firebird as our official mascot.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “Our what?”
“All great teams have a mascot!” Cipher said like it was obvious. “Sports teams, debate clubs, cults. Back me up, Mydei! It’s tragic, dramatic, vaguely on fire - just like us.”
Mydei glanced up from the book. “I don’t want to be on fire.”
“Too late,” Cipher replied. “You’ve already been chosen. The Firebird accepts no substitutes.”
Hyacine giggled, covering her mouth instinctively, then let her hand fall. “I don’t know. I feel like if we had a mascot, it would be… caffeine. Or a stress dream. Or -”
“A single, sad violin playing in an empty hallway?” Mydei offered.
Cipher nodded solemnly. “All excellent contenders.”
Hyacine opened her mouth, then hesitated.
They were joking. She was joking. It was weird, but warm - how natural this felt. She didn’t need to play catch-up or ask herself if she belonged. She was here. Laughing. Adding to the conversation.
“I still vote for the firebird,” she said, nudging the book with one finger. “It’s kind of perfect.”
Cipher pointed at her. “You get it. See? She's one of us!”
“One of what?” Hyacine asked, smiling.
Cipher gave her a wide, overly serious look. “The Chosen Three.”
Hyacine snorted. “That sounds like a terrible YA novel.”
“Exactly!” Cipher grinned.
Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached across the table and opened the book again, letting the pages fan wide.
“Good book?” Cipher said, grinning.
Mydei shrugged. “Nostalgic.”
“That’s one way of saying formative childhood obsession ,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him.
“Keep talking and I’ll make you read it out loud,” he said dryly, not looking up.
“Ooh, do I get to do the voices?”
Mydei gave her a long-suffering look.
Hyacine rested her chin on her folded arms, warmth curling in her chest. Listening to the way they spoke to each other, like they’d been doing it forever, was really soothing.
She turned to Mydei. “You really lit up when you saw that book,” she said softly.
He hesitated. Then, without looking at her, he said, “It reminds me of a time when everything felt... simpler. Like the world made more sense, even if the story didn’t.”
Hyacine smiled. “Then I’m glad I found it.”
He blinked at that, glancing at her - just a quick look, but a genuine one. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
In the corner, the kettle let out one last tired hiss.
For the first time in a long time, Hyacine wasn’t watching from the outside. She was in it. With them. And somehow, they’d made space for her without her asking.
She smiled at the ceiling, quiet and content.
Notes:
Nothing remarkable today, but I hope you got the soft, fluffy vibes you came here looking for. Also, Phainon's finally properly introduced!
A special thanks to one @Wooshman for the Kaomoji inspiration for Hyacine's texts, thank you Woosh! I think it's a sign you should add me on Discord, hehehe...
Chapter Text
The chemistry lab always smelled like burnt plastic and anxiety.
Hyacine stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind her, stifling a yawn from the morning. Most of the burners hadn’t been lit yet, but there was already the soft clink of glass, the low hum of water taps, and the rustle of half-awake students flipping through notes and silently hoping their lab partners would be competent.
She found her station near the back - quiet, unobtrusive, and most importantly, far away from the vent that made the ceiling drip. The counter was cool under her fingers as she began lining up her tools with practiced care. Stir rod, thermometer, dropper. Catalyst vial, labeled in neat handwriting. The directions today were clear: bring the base solution to the right temperature, then introduce the catalyst one drop at a time, ten seconds apart each. If you rushed, the solution clouded. If you hesitated, nothing would happen at all.
It was not hard, it just… required composure.
Her eyes scanned the partner list.
Station 9: Dawncloud, H. - Aedes Elysiae, P .
She blinked. That name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t play it. Maybe she’d seen them around, or heard it in passing? Or maybe -
“Smells like disaster!”
She turned - and found Phainon standing there like he belonged in every room he walked into.
His lab coat was wrinkled and clearly not buttoned right, his hair was somehow more messy than before, and he’d slung his goggles around his neck like a fashion statement. He offered her a lopsided grin.
“You’re -” she started, then squinted at the board. “You’re ‘Aedes Elysiae’?”
“I sure hope so,” he said, looking very pleased with himself for some reason. “Otherwise I just broke into someone else’s lab station and am about to commit chemical crimes.”
“I didn’t know you were in this class,” Hyacine said, still processing.
“I prefer to fly under the radar,” he said, casually pulling on his second glove. “Stealth chemistry!”
“I haven’t heard you here before,” Hyacine said, brow furrowing as she tried to recall.
“Are you calling me loud?” Phainon said, mock offended.
“No! I mean, in Anaxa’s class - I just… never mind.” She turned back around, bringing out the Bunsen burner.
“I sit by the emergency shower.” He smiled like that explained everything. “It’s the perfect spot. No one bothers you, and if something explodes, you’re already halfway to safety.”
“You… don’t actually plan to explode anything, right?” Hyacine said, slightly alarmed.
He grabbed a vial with practiced ease. “Not on purpose.”
She stared at him.
He smiled. “Kidding! Mostly.”
“ You’re my partner?” Hyacine groaned, putting her head in her hands.
“Looks like it,” Phainon said, patting her on the shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind a little chaos!”
Hyacine hesitated. “Um. As long as it’s… helpful chaos?”
Phainon laughed - less loud than usual, like he wasn’t trying to be a spectacle this time. He nudged the stool with his knee, settling in like he’d claimed it weeks ago. “So what’s today’s experiment? Bombs? Spontaneous teleportation?”
“...You didn’t read the instructions?”
“I did,” he admitted, grinning. “I just wanted to see how you’d explain it. Want me to be in charge of timing?”
“You’d have to count to ten,” she said, squinting. “In your head. Steadily.”
“I can count,” he said, nodding reassuringly. “Sometimes even forwards.”
Hyacine debated whether to laugh or cry. “ Phainon… ”
“I’ve got this,” Phainon said solemnly. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She glanced over at the TA, who looked deeply bored at everything in his life.
Phainon wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Come on! What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could drop something.” Hyacine counted off her fingers. “Or stir too fast. Or add all the drops at once and make the solution explode.”
“So dramatic,” he muttered. “It’ll be fine - I’ve got a great internal ten-second timer.”
“…Prove it.”
He grinned wider. “Happy to!”
Hyacine hesitated, then nudged the dropper toward him. “No shortcuts.”
“Got it. You call out when the temp’s steady, and I’ll count us through.”
She nodded, surprised that he sounded - well, mostly serious.
Across the room, the TA clapped once, clipboard in hand. “You may begin,” he said, sounding utterly disinterested.
Phainon gave her a small, mock salute.
Hyacine pulled on her goggles and carefully started the Bunsen burner, checking the flame. She went to check the thermometer. Phainon glanced at the burner, then casually reached over and adjusted the dial.
“Little high,” he said absentmindedly.
Hyacine opened her mouth to argue - then looked at the thermometer, which was exactly 70. “Huh,” she said, blinking.
They leaned in.
The solution rippled gently as the first drop hit the surface, a clean little shimmer of blue that caught the light as it rippled out in rings.
Phainon didn’t speak. No jokes, no grin - just focused. His shoulders settled into a natural position, and his head didn’t move.
Ten seconds passed. Another drop.
Hyacine watched the color swirl - no reaction yet, just the faintest clouding. Her fingers hovered near the thermometer, even though the temperature was holding steady.
“Three… four… five…” Phainon muttered under his breath. His voice was barely a whisper, quiet enough that only she could hear. His tone was even. Steady.
Another drop.
She blinked. That was exactly on time.
The liquid deepened to a richer blue.
“I didn’t think you’d take this seriously,” she murmured.
“Yes, you did,” he said, eyes still fixed on the beaker.
“What?”
“You gave me the dropper,” he said, tone light but… not careless. “You trusted me not to ruin it.”
“I - only because you said you wouldn’t mess it up.”
He smiled slightly. “And I’m not, am I?”
Another drop.
The solution shifted. A flicker of violet at the base bloomed.
Hyacine leaned in excitedly. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “That’s the color transition point.”
Phainon nodded calmly. “We’re on track.”
She studied him more closely now. His posture wasn’t lazy. His eyes were laser focused on the beaker, his count consistent, movements measured. He wasn’t guessing.
He knew what he was doing.
“You’re actually kind of good at this,” she noted.
Phainon chuckled under his breath. “You sound surprised.”
“I mean…” she hesitated. “A little?”
“Rude,” he said, grinning as he looked over at her.
“I just -” She flushed and glanced down. “I thought you didn’t take classes like this seriously.”
He returned his attention to the beaker. “Most people think that.”
“Do you let them?”
He paused, just briefly, then added the next drop. Orange began to show - warm and slow, blooming up from the base like a rising sun.
“Sometimes it’s easier,” he said, not looking away from the miniature sunrise.
That hung in the air between them for a moment.
He tilted the dropper one last time. “Final drop. Ten!”
The beaker turned a perfect amber-orange. Steady, even, exactly what the TA’s chart called “ideal.”
Hyacine let out a quiet breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Phainon looked at her. “I told you I could count,” he said, grinning - but not with his usual showmanship. It was a smaller kind of proud; quieter. Real.
She glanced up at him to reply - and blinked.
“Wait,” she said, squinting. “Are your goggles… around your neck?”
He looked down like he’d forgotten they were there. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t put them on?”
Phainon shrugged offhandedly. “I didn’t need to.”
Hyacine looked back at the beaker, then again at him. He’d moved with such easy confidence the whole time - not showy, not careless. Just… like someone who knew exactly how much risk there was. And exactly how much there wasn’t.
“You’re not reckless,” she said softly.
“You only get so many eyebrows in life,” he joked, already screwing the burner shut.
She let out a breath of a laugh and shook her head - but the thought lingered.
The TA called time, scribbling something on his clipboard.
Phainon stretched beside her, groaning like he’d just run a marathon. “And that ,” he said grandly, “is how you don’t blow anything up before 10 A.M!”
“Is that your bar for success?” Hyacine asked, laughing.
Phainon shrugged, grinning as he began collecting the equipment. “It’s the only bar I can reach before breakfast.”
Hyacine peeled off her gloves and brought the glassware to the sink, turned on the tap, and held the first beaker under the sink, rinsing carefully.
Behind her, Phainon arrived with his dropper and zero patience.
“Excuse me, expert chemist coming through,” he said, already nudging her out of the way.
“What - wait, hey -!”
He leaned in beside her and held his dropper right over the stream, the top practically in her rinse beaker. The nozzle sputtered as he squeezed it once, expelling a small swirl of leftover orange-tinted water that landed with a dramatic plunk into the clean glass.
Hyacine stared at it. Then at him.
“Phainon!”
He looked at her, entirely unbothered. “Yeah?”
“You just - put that in my - why didn’t you wait like a normal person?!”
“I’m saving time,” he said serenely, already on the other side of the station. “And I had leftover solution. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“You could’ve used literally any other part of the sink!”
“But yours was already running. I was being efficient.”
”With my water?”
He gave her a grin and flicked one last drop into the sink for good measure, then moved to grab a towel like nothing had happened. “You’re welcome, by the way. I think it really brought the color out.”
Hyacine groaned and turned back to the sink, trying not to smile.
“So,” he said, tucking the Bunsen burner into the drawer, “on a scale of ‘go away’ to ‘please never leave me during Chemistry,’ where do I rank?”
Hyacine lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a funny thing to say after stealing my water, but… somewhere around ‘surprisingly competent,’ I guess.”
He gasped. “I’m honored!”
“Don’t let it get to your head,” Hyacine muttered, already regretting it.
“Too late,” he said cheerfully, tossing his discarded gloves into the bin with suspiciously good aim. “See you around, partner!”
He vanished out the door.
Hyacine just looked at the beaker he’d stained, and then at the door he disappeared through.
And, maybe she was smiling - just a little.
The courtyard was calm for once.
Soft sunlight drifted through the trees, dappling the grass in gold. A few bees hovered lazily near the hedge. From a distance, it might’ve looked peaceful - almost idyllic. Which made the sound of Cipher snorting into her sandwich even louder.
“I’m just saying,” she said, mid-bite, “no one warned us the frog dissection was going to be interactive.”
“I still think you should’ve taken the scalpel out of your mouth before yelling,” Mydei said dryly.
“It was a moment of crisis! My hands were full!”
Hyacine winced at the memory. “I don’t think the yelling was the problem. The part where the frog twitched after it was cut - that was the problem.”
“It was a muscle reflex,” Mydei explained patiently.
“It was vengeance from beyond,” Cipher shot back. “I don’t care what the textbook says. That frog had unfinished business.”
Hyacine leaned forward, eyes wide. “Do you think that’s why it launched off the tray?”
“I think that’s why it tried to bite me,” Cipher said, gesturing at invisible scars on her arm.
“It didn’t have a jaw,” Mydei pointed out, annoyed.
Cipher raised a brow. “And yet I still feared it.”
Hyacine giggled into her juice box. “You did scream the loudest.”
“I screamed the most efficiently,” Cipher corrected.
“Sure,” Mydei muttered. “Let’s call it that.”
They were just settling down to eat when suddenly, the courtyard door burst open with a theatrical bang.
“HELLOOOO, undeserving world!” Tribios burst through with her guitar case slung over one shoulder and heart-shaped sunglasses that were very much not needed for the current lighting. “I have ARRIVED and I bring WITH ME absolutely nothing of value, except maybe unfiltered opinions and stage presence!”
Hyacine jumped so hard she nearly dropped her juice box.
Cipher snorted into her food. “Zagreus help us. It’s one of those days.”
Tribios saw them and waved wildly. “Hyacine! My aura twin! Fate is real after all.”
Mydei raised a brow. “You… know her?”
“This is Tribios,” Hyacine said, gesturing toward the bundle of chaos. “Tribios, Mydei. Mydei, Tribios - this is the person that stole my shoelace.”
“I returned it,” Tribios said indignantly - upon further inspection, her sunglasses were upside-down. “And who is this delightful block of granite?”
Mydei raised an eyebrow. “Someone whose lunch was peaceful before you got here.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, tapping her sunglasses and grinning. “You’re one of those slow-burn grumblers! It’s okay. I can work with that.”
Cipher was openly laughing now. Hyacine was frozen between sipping and choking.
“I’m Tribios,” the girl continued, offering a hand like she was introducing herself on stage. “Music major - but I play guitar, mostly because there’s no guitar course.”
“Mydeimos,” he said, reluctantly shaking it once. “Architecture. I build things.”
Tribios gave a delighted gasp. “You build things? I break things! That makes us natural enemies.”
“I could believe that.”
“Oh, good!” she beamed. “You have a sense of humor under all that concrete. I like you already.”
Mydei gave her the flattest look humanly possible. “Thanks. I’ll write that on my resume.”
Tribios gasped. “That was sass ! Hyacine, is he always this spicy?”
Hyacine, still recovering from the whiplash, blinked. “Uh. Sometimes?”
“Only when provoked,” Cipher added, casually stealing a chip off Hyacine’s tray. “Oh, this is going great .”
Tribios beamed. “You’re enjoying this! That’s good. You laugh like someone who’s trying to hide their own spiral.”
Cipher, still grinning, said, “I just enjoy watching you poke the bear.”
“Oh, I’m multi-talented,” Tribios said brightly. “I can poke many bears.” She turned her attention to Cipher like a spotlight. “I knew you were more interesting than you let on! The group’s razor-tongued realist. I sensed it. Like static in the air.”
“Great,” Cipher said. “I want to zap someone on a metal door handle now.”
Tribios leaned in, unfazed. “You’re a specific flavor. You’ve got lemon energy.”
Cipher blinked. “Lemon.”
Tribios nodded, very seriously. “Bright. Sharp. Looks like a spice but actually holds the whole dish together.”
There was a pause.
“…Huh,” Cipher said, looking unsure if she should be insulted or flattered.
Tribios grinned. “Also mildly corrosive. In a good way.”
“That tracks,” Cipher said, snorting. “I’m known for my acidic properties.”
Hyacine was now somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
“You’re enjoying this?” Mydei asked, looking concerned.
“No,” Cipher said, “but I’m emotionally invested now. She’s like if a performance major and a fever dream had a child.”
“Thank you!” Tribios said, preening. “I am trying out a new persona this week. I’m glad you’ve noticed!”
Hyacine giggled despite herself. Carefully, she added, “If you’re looking for something quiet to do, the flower garden’s really nice right now. Just behind the greenhouse.”
Tribios gasped. “A secret garden? With mystery and fragrance?!”
She turned in a dramatic swirl, then paused.
“…No. Too peaceful. That’s a future adventure,” she declared, finger in the air. “A garden is a two-player story. I’ll know when the time’s right.”
Cipher muttered, “Stars, she narrates her own side quests.”
Tribios flopped back onto the grass, then fixed Mydei with a look of great artistic concern.
“You’re all rhythm,” she said suddenly, like it was a diagnosis. “Heavy steps. No bounce. You walk like a bored percussionist.”
Mydei stared. “You have something against walking at a steady pace?”
“No, no. It’s respectable,” she said, waving a hand. “Very ‘pillar of the community’ energy. If the community was a cathedral.”
Cipher snorted. “She just called you a building.”
“Good,” Mydei said. “Maybe she’ll stop talking to me.”
“Impossible!” Tribios said cheerfully. “I respect your architectural integrity too much.”
Cipher rolled her eyes. “You’re just saying words again.”
“Same as you,” Tribios insisted.
Cipher tilted her head, mock-considering. “Yeah, but I say words with slightly more meaning, which means I get to enjoy my sense of superiority.”
“Are you sure?” Tribios prompted. “Or am I just speaking in a different language?"
Mydei looked between them. “...Are you two flirting or fighting?”
“Yes,” Cipher said immediately.
Tribios laughed. “We’re workshopping a duet.”
Mydei shook his head and returned to his sandwich. “You people are a hazard.”
Hyacine - barely breathing through laughter now - gave up trying to drink her juice.
The chaos simmered to a low hum as the lunch crowd began to thin. Cipher was sprawled out like she’d survived a battlefield. Mydei was finishing his sandwich in grim silence, clearly weighing the pros and cons of pretending he didn’t know any of them. Even Tribios, finally, had gone still - head tilted back, sunglasses once again perched on her nose upside down.
Hyacine wiped her eyes, breath still short from laughter. “I - sorry - I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard all month…”
“Laughter is the best percussion,” Tribios said, completely serious.
Cipher grunted. “Pretty sure that’s not how that phrase goes.”
“No,” Tribios said, sitting up again. “But it should be!”
The bell rang in the distance.
Students began gathering their things. Mydei stood and stretched with a sigh that sounded like it came from somewhere under a mountain. Cipher gave the half-eaten pasta one last offended glance and swept her tray up in one hand.
“Later, chaos gremlin,” she called to Tribios.
“Don’t die, either of you!” Tribios called after her. “Or do, but make it a good story!”
That left just her and Hyacine.
Tribios dusted a few blades of grass off her coat with the kind of exaggerated care one might use when prepping for a moon landing. Then she leaned in slightly, eyes curious but unreadable behind the upside-down sunglasses.
“Hey,” she said.
Hyacine tilted her head. “Yeah?”
“You busy tomorrow during class?”
“Um…” Hyacine blinked. “Yes? I’ll be… learning?”
“Perfect. I want you to meet someone,” Tribios said mystically. “Someone with the energy of a swan in a library. Very beautiful. Very poised. Very... likely to bite.”
Hyacine hesitated. “Is this a good idea?”
“Probably not,” Tribios said cheerfully. “But that’s the fun kind.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “What kind of person are we talking about?”
Tribios straightened up, hands dramatically folded behind her back. “She’s like a mirror. But one of those fancy ones, where the frame costs more than your rent and the reflection always feels a little disappointed in you.”
Hyacine opened her mouth. Closed it. “That clears nothing up.”
Tribios just grinned. “Perfect! You’ll like each other - she just doesn’t know it yet.”
She gave Hyacine a little two-fingered wave, slung her case over her back, and strolled off, whistling, like she hadn’t just declared a minor prophecy.
“...Wait, swans bite?” Hyacine called after her.
Classes were done for the day, but the sun still hadn’t decided if it was evening yet. Hyacine wandered out of the building, clutching her folder, still replaying Tribios’s “swan in a library” comment and wondering if it was a metaphor, a threat, or both.
She nearly walked straight into someone.
“Oof -!”
“Watch it, Tiny,” said a familiar voice, laughing.
Hyacine blinked up at Phainon, who was carrying a suspiciously large armful of things. Wooden skewers, a tangled mess of string, several color-coded folders, and what looked like a bag of gummy worms stuck to the side with duct tape.
“Did you lose a bet?” she asked cautiously. “Also, why do I keep running into you?”
Phainon grinned. “Maybe it’s fate? The architectural gods are telling you to drop your major and join Civil Engineering!”
“...Maybe later.” Hyacine squinted. “What… are you building? Or destroying?”
“Hopefully the first one,” he said. “Though odds are even. I was helping a first-year with their project,” he explained with a shrug. “They asked me to show them how to support a suspension bridge but vanished before the first meeting. So now I’m stuck carrying all these awesome supplies I bought for demonstration.”
Hyacine blinked. “And you’re not mad?”
Phainon grinned. “Eh, it’s not urgent. Figured I’d kill time somewhere else. You busy?”
Hyacine flipped through her mental planner. “I don’t think so, why?”
“Cool! There’s a café on campus with good muffins and terrible chairs. Want to come? I’ve got a thing I wanna show you.”
She hesitated. “Is the thing edible?”
“No, but the cinnamon muffins are. And I’ll buy you one if you help me not drop skewers everywhere.”
That was an excellent point.
Phainon pushed open the café door with one hand, juggling his armful of assorted supplies. The bell above the door jingled, and a faint waft of cinnamon and coffee drifted out to greet them.
Hyacine stepped inside behind him, blinking against the soft yellow glow of the hanging lights. The place was smaller than she expected - walls lined with mismatched bookshelves, tables crowded close enough to make strangers’ elbows brush. The chairs looked like they’d seen better days, wobbling slightly as people shifted in them.
Phainon grinned and dumped his load onto their table with a theatrical sigh. “Welcome to my engineering lair. Smells like caffeine and cinnamon.”
Hyacine giggled, sliding into the creaky chair across from him. “It’s… cozy. And that cinnamon smell is really good.”
“Yeah, the muffins are the real winners here. The chairs just come as a package deal.” He gave a mock grimace as the table wobbled under the pile of supplies.
The waitress appeared with a small, polite smile. Phainon looked up, finger already raised.
“Two of your finest cinnamon muffins, please,” he said, with mock gravity, “and one coffee - extra strength. Preferably strong enough to fix a leaning tower.” He turned to Hyacine. “You want coffee? Or a less wobbly table?”
She laughed. “Um… a muffin sounds great. But I don’t really do coffee.”
Phainon gave a mock gasp. “A structural engineer and a sugar-based power source! This is a betrayal of principle.”
“Thank you,” Hyacine added to the waitress, smiling, as she left the table. “So, what’s all this?” She nodded at the mess of skewers and string.
Phainon’s eyes lit up. “Glad you asked! Today, we’re going to see why triangles are the backbone of civil engineering. Or, more specifically, why things fall apart without them.”
He grabbed a handful of skewers and a bit of clay, quickly assembling a triangle. “First up - the all-star.”
He held the shape at two corners and applied pressure. It didn’t budge.
“See this? Solid. No matter where you push, the angles hold. Each side supports the others.”
Then he built a quick square the same size. “Now this guy looks fine... until you actually test it.”
He tapped gently on one corner. The whole square sagged sideways, its joints shifting into a sad diamond.
Hyacine leaned in, brow furrowing. “Oh. It… kind of crumples.”
Phainon nodded. “Exactly. No internal support. Nothing stops the corners from shifting.”
Hyacine tilted her head, looking closely at the frame. “But… if you connect the corners of a square diagonally, you get two triangles. That would hold, right?”
Phainon paused, brows raised, clearly impressed. “Exactly right! That’s how most trusses work. Take a floppy shape, give it a spine.”
She smiled, a little sheepishly. “I used to make really elaborate dangly art things. They fell apart unless I started bracing them.”
He grinned, handing her a skewer and some string. “Well, lucky for you, unstable structures are our entire job! Try making a truss - like a tiny bridge support. Don’t worry, it’s way easier than it sounds.”
Hyacine took the pieces with tentative fingers, tangling the string immediately as she tried to tie the first knot. “Uh, okay, this might be messier than I thought. Is this knot supposed to go under or over?”
“Over,” Phainon said, leaning across the table. “Unless you want your bridge to collapse dramatically when little Timmy tries to cross it to go to school.”
She made a small noise of distress. “Oh no. Is mine going to collapse?”
“Almost definitely!” he said cheerfully. “But it’ll be the most theatrical structural failure this café has ever seen.”
Hyacine stuck her tongue out at him. “You didn’t warn me about this much pressure.”
Phainon tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Right, sorry. I should’ve provided hard hats. And a trophy for when your truss inevitably collapses.”
“I want a ribbon that says ‘I tried,’” Hyacine said, scowling.
“‘Most Dramatic Bridge Collapse,’” he offered. “Or maybe ‘Best Use of Panic Under Load?’”
She laughed despite herself, accidentally flicking one of the skewers sideways. “Oops - wait, did I ruin it?”
“Nah,” he said, gently nudging it back into place. “You’ve got better instincts than you think.”
Hyacine blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “...Really?”
He smiled, not teasing for once. “Yeah. You’re better at this than most people who think they’re the best.”
She looked down, trying to hide her smile as she adjusted the next piece.
Phainon drummed his fingers on the table as Hyacine tied the last knot on her tiny truss. “Not bad,” he said, grinning. “That might actually support a marshmallow if you’re lucky!”
Hyacine squinted. “You know, for an engineer, you’re not very good at supporting.”
“People are a lot more complicated than bridges,” Phainon said cheerfully.
She reached for the gummy worms to test the weight, but when she looked back, her carefully tied triangle had gained a new decoration - a googly eye sticker. Phainon was casually sipping his coffee, completely unbothered.
Hyacine blinked. “Did… you just put a face on my bridge?”
He didn’t look at her. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s staring at me.”
He scratched his chin. “Must be haunted. Happens sometimes.”
She laughed despite herself. “At least it’s still structurally sound.”
“Exactly!” Phainon reached into the chaotic pile of supplies and pulled out two small paper cups, a ball of string, and a few more skewers. “Alright, next lesson: compression versus tension! Prepare to be amazed.”
“Using candy?” Hyacine asked skeptically.
“Oh yeah. Civil engineering is very serious,” he said solemnly.
Phainon set two paper cups upright on the table. “These are the towers,” he said, picking up a skewer. “Watch this.” He carefully pushed the skewer up through the bottom of one cup so it poked out the open top. “Gives us a sturdy vertical post inside the cup.” He repeated the same with the other cup, then stood them side by side. “Now, the string.” He tied one end to the top of a skewer, then the other to the other, letting it sag in the middle. “That’s the main cable, hanging between the towers.” He grabbed another piece of string and tied it below the first, making a little bridge deck. “And this string here is the deck, suspended from the cable.” He stepped back, adjusting a few more strings and skewers for balance. “Extra support so it doesn’t fall over.”
He added a gummy worm in the middle for flair.
“Okay, so the skewers here?” he tapped one. “They’re in compression - the weight is pushing straight down on them. The string on top?” He flicked it gently. “That’s under tension . It’s pulling everything tight so it doesn’t fall apart.”
Hyacine leaned in, fascinated. “So the bridge is fighting itself?”
“Exactly! That’s what all structures do. Good architecture is just… well-managed conflict.”
“That’s so dramatic,” she whispered, delighted.
He nodded solemnly. “Civil engineers are just dramatic problem solvers with graph paper.”
Then, like a magician revealing a trick, he hung a binder clip off the middle of the string. The structure wobbled - but held.
“Tada! Balance.”
Hyacine clapped once, grinning. “That was actually really cool.” She leaned closer to inspect the bridge. Her brows furrowed for a moment as she traced the string between her fingers, then pointed to where one of the skewers was starting to lean slightly.
“Wait,” she said thoughtfully. “If the string’s taking the tension, but the cups aren’t perfectly aligned, wouldn’t the whole thing eventually twist out of balance?”
Phainon blinked. “Huh. Yeah, it would. Probably slowly, but yeah - creep and rotation over time. Nice catch.”
“Building stuff is hard,” she sighed, leaning her chin against her palm. “So much to balance.”
Phainon smiled like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment. “Speaking of delicate balances... How's things going with Castorice? Still keeping you on your toes?”
Hyacine nearly knocked the cups over. “W-what?”
He grinned. “Just saying. You were pretty deep in conversation the other day. I saw you even took a selfie.”
“I - she - I mean, we were just… I was just helping her with -”
Phainon leaned back with the smuggest grin possible. “Right. Totally casual. Happens all the time. Very normal to look like you’re about to pass out because someone bumped your shoulder.”
Hyacine hid her face. “I wasn’t passing out .”
“Sure.”
“I wasn’t! Why were you watching?!”
“You were turning the color of an architectural hazard sign, I’m just saying.”
She poked him with a skewer.
He jumped back, laughing. “Ow! Those are sharp!”
Hyacine glared at him, cheeks still red. “You’re mean.”
“And you’re obvious,” Phainon said, still smiling.
Hyacine glanced down at the cups. “...She is really pretty,” she mumbled.
“Yeah,” Phainon said softly. “She is.”
The courtyard was a pocket of calm. Castorice’s footsteps whispered against the pavement as she walked, her eyes drifting over the familiar trees and the small patches of wildflowers that clung stubbornly to the edges. The air smelled faintly of earth and something sweet.
She liked this time of the day. It was a moment to breathe, to reset. The buzz of campus life felt distant here, muffled by the thick trunks and rustling leaves. Her thoughts had space to float, light and scattered, like the drifting petals that twirled past her feet.
Her fingers absently brushed the strap of her bag, steadying the rhythm of her steps. Normally, her mind would be focused on what was next - lectures, readings, deadlines - but today, there was a small unrest she couldn’t name, a faint tug at the edges of her calm.
She slowed, pulling her jacket tighter as a breeze teased the hem. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang a soft, uneven note - almost tentative. Castorice’s gaze flicked upward, tracing the sunlight filtering through branches, golden and dappled.
As she passed a window, a familiar laugh drifted out, warm and effortless.
Castorice’s steps slowed without her meaning to, her gaze flickering toward the café window. Inside, Phainon’s laugh - loud and genuine - cut through the hum of chatter. With a jolt, she recognized Hyacine, sitting across from him, hiding her face blooming with color.
There was something about the scene that unsettled Castorice, a sudden, sharp tug in her chest she hadn’t expected.
She didn’t react to the scene - didn’t even blink. After a moment, she turned and walked on.
She didn’t know that feelings could feel like warnings.
Notes:
Phainon: Everything is going according to plan!
Hyacine: You have a plan?!
Phainon:
Phainon: OK so
Chapter Text
Phainon twirled the last loose bit of string between his fingers, holding up their slightly crooked but technically-functional bridge with a grin. “Not bad! Definitely won’t pass a safety inspection, but it’s got charm.”
Hyacine leaned back in her chair, smiling. “We built a bridge. Sort of. That feels… metaphorical.”
“Metaphorical bridges are my specialty,” he said, solemnly. “Real ones come with too much paperwork.”
She laughed, reaching for the last crumb of her muffin - then paused mid-reach, blinking.
“Oh no.”
Phainon raised an eyebrow. “What’d I do?”
“Not you, it’s -” She sat up straighter, expression shifting from amused to horrified. “I forgot to return Anaxa’s lasagna tin.”
“Is that a euphemism?” Phainon asked, grinning.
There was a beat of silence.
“…Back up,” Phainon said, blinking. “Anaxa invited you to dinner?”
Hyacine nodded slowly, like the absurdity was still sinking in. “Yeah. He said something about discussing his class over food… I think. It kind of just happened after class.”
Phainon leaned forward, genuinely baffled. “Anaxa invited you to dinner? Like, at his place?”
“I guess so?” Hyacine shrugged, cheeks coloring.
Phainon shook his head, eyes wide. “Okay, hold on. Anaxa? ‘I’ll kill you if you call me Anaxa’ Anaxa? And you’re just… carrying around his box.”
Hyacine buried her face in her hands. “It’s an empty lasagna tin. I forgot to return it, and now it’s like this weird trophy I’m dragging around.”
Phainon blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “Anaxa bakes lasagna? Like, actually in an oven? Not just, you know, ‘theoretical’ lasagna?”
Hyacine gave a small, awkward laugh. “Apparently so. I’m as surprised as you are.”
Phainon leaned back, grinning. “That’s like finding out your strictest professor secretly hosts karaoke nights. Suddenly everything makes less sense.”
Hyacine rolled her eyes but smiled. “Yeah, and now I’m the proud owner of his empty lasagna tin...”
Phainon chuckled. “Well, if he starts handing out cookies next, we know it’s serious.” He checked his watch. “There might still be time to return the tin before it becomes a permanent part of your legacy.”
Hyacine groaned as she stood, grabbing her bag. “Thanks for today. I’ll catch you later.”
Phainon gave a lazy mock salute. “Don’t keep the lasagna waiting.”
Hyacine laughed as she headed for the door. “No promises!”
Hyacine took a breath in, then knocked on the intimidating door that led to Anaxa’s office.
There was a pause.
“Enter,” a sharp voice said.
Hyacine pushed the door open a crack. “It’s me - Hyacine. Um… I’m here to return something.”
“Ah, Miss Dawncloud,” Anaxa said. “Well? Come in.”
Hyacine stepped into Anaxa’s office like she was crossing into another world. The air was cool and sterile. Everything was precise: shelves of books lined the walls in perfect height order, papers were stacked with uncanny neatness, and even the chalkboard was wiped spotless, a single equation framed at its center like art.
The only signs of actual humanity were the objects that didn’t quite belong: a tea cup that had gone cold on the corner of the desk, and a potted fern perched on the windowsill - green, thriving, and utterly out of place.
Anaxa looked up from his notes. His gaze flicked to the tin, then back to her, mildly amused. “The artifact returns,” he said dryly.
“I didn’t mean to keep it this long,” Hyacine said sheepishly, suddenly very aware of how clean the room was. “It kind of got… buried. In my bag.”
“It’s fine.” He set down his pen. “I didn’t expect you to return it at all.”
Hyacine blinked. “You didn’t?”
“No. Students rarely return things,” he said with a shrug, rising from his chair to take the tin. “Especially things that aren’t graded.”
She smiled. “Well. I guess I like to defy expectations.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Yes,” he said mildly. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
As he turned to place the tin beside the tea cup, a gust of wind stirred outside. The fern’s leaves shivered, faintly curling toward the window. Hyacine’s gaze followed them - just long enough to notice something strange.
The pot it sat in was chipped quartz.
She almost asked about it. But before she could, her hand brushed a stack of precariously balanced folders on the edge of the desk, and instinctively, she reached out to straighten them.
“You can leave those,” Anaxa said without looking.
“They’re going to slide,” she said, automatically adjusting them slightly and nudging a misaligned tab into place. “You organize papers by font size?”
“It’s elegant.”
She couldn’t help sorting the rest of the pile. By the time she’d finished, her fingers were already halfway into the next set of documents.
Anaxa watched her for a moment, eyes narrowing - not disapprovingly. Just… curiously.
“You’re not afraid to question people,” he said.
Hyacine looked up. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s rare.” His expression shifted into something distant, faraway. “Even rarer among people who mean well.”
She hesitated at that, then smiled slightly and returned to organizing.
They worked in silence for a moment. As Hyacine reached for another stack, she glanced down and noticed a paper labeled: Cifera Dolos .
“Cipher’s in your advanced theory seminar?” she asked, surprised.
“Ah, Miss Dolos,” Anaxa said. “She’s an intelligent young lady. Though her attendance is... interpretive.”
Hyacine laughed softly. “That sounds like her.”
“She’s clever,” he said, sounding faintly amused. “And insubordinate.”
“...That also sounds like her,” Hyacine admitted.
“Last year, her final paper was titled ‘Reality is a Suggestion.’” His tone was flat.
Hyacine winced. “Definitely Cipher.”
“She got a ninety-six.”
Hyacine blinked. “Wait - what?”
Anaxa huffed a laugh. “It was exceptionally well-argued.”
She smiled, feeling an odd sense of pride. “You’re not what I expected either, you know.”
He looked up again, but said nothing.
“Also…” She hesitated, then added carefully, “I’ve been on speaking terms with Castorice. I think we’re getting along?”
“Yes. I've noticed.”
“Oh! You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t think I had to.”
Hyacine flushed a little. “I just mean - it’s nice. She’s nice.”
A pause.
“She’s quiet,” Anaxa said, almost like a challenge.
“I don’t mind,” Hyacine said a little too quickly.
“Oh,” Anaxa added dryly, “speaking of new people, if you run into the teaching assistant, don’t get in her way. She’s very good at her job. Possibly too good.”
“You have a TA?” Hyacine said, surprised. “She must be very efficient to earn your approval.”
“Yes. You’ll recognize her by an icy air of judgment.”
Hyacine grinned. “Sounds intense.”
“Indeed she is,” he agreed. “Do not attempt to reorganize her systems. She will know.”
Hyacine laughed, tucking away the piece of information for later.
“Oh! That reminds me -” Hyacine straightened up. “Yesterday, when you talked about that self-referencing argument - the one that sort of… undoes itself?”
“I was thinking about it after,” she said, voice picking up speed. “And I don’t think I mean this exactly right, but… it only collapses if you take it head-on, right? Like, if you accept the way it’s worded. But what if you look at it backwards? Like, if the ending’s not true, then the starting point can’t be, either. Doesn’t that kind of hold up? Just… flipped?”
He gave a low hum and leaned back, fingers steepled. “You’re assuming the original proposition had any logical consistency to begin with.”
Hyacine’s face scrunched a little. “I mean… not really,” she said. “I just don’t think it broke because it looped. Not exactly. It felt more like... it tripped on the way it said it, not the thing it was trying to say.”
Anaxa tilted his head. “I expected most students to be confused by that example.”
“I was,” Hyacine admitted. “But then I got annoyed.”
A flicker of amusement passed over his expression. He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth acknowledged the attempt.
“Good. That’s the correct response to bad logic.”
Hyacine stood to peek at a messy pile of papers on the nearby cabinet, half out of curiosity, half because it was driving her slightly insane. She hesitated - but when Anaxa didn’t stop her, she started sorting. Some were lecture notes, others unreadable diagrams. Several bore scrawled equations she didn’t recognize, next to words like retention waves and crystal resonance . She tilted one page closer to the light. The margins were full of little sketches - branches, leaves, roots.
“Do you... want these grouped by topic or date?” she asked.
Anaxa blinked at her. “You’re reorganizing my research.”
“I’m sorry! I just - these were about to slide off the edge.”
A pause.
“Group by application,” he finally said, startling her. “The theory drafts are color-coded.”
She gave him a look, internally celebrating. “They are not.”
“They are, in my head,” he said blandly, but with the ghost of a smile.
She found herself smiling back as she shuffled the pages into loose categories.
Some crystals caught her eye - clear and faintly pink, sitting inside little labeled dishes. She couldn’t quite make out the words on the labels.
She glanced at him. “What are these?”
Anaxa followed her gaze and made a dismissive noise. “Nothing you’d be graded on,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose. “Cryptic.”
“Correct.”
A comfortable silence stretched between them. She finished the stack, smoothing it out carefully and aligning the edges.
Anaxa studied the neat pile for a moment, then returned to his device. “You’re unsettlingly competent,” he said, almost to himself. “It’s not often someone walks into my office and improves it.”
Hyacine looked down, embarrassed. “I organize things when I’m nervous.”
“You must be terrified, then.”
A tiny laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
After a beat, Anaxa picked up a brass key from the edge of the desk and held it out to her.
“For your troubles.”
She blinked. “...And this is?”
“There’s a basement room beneath the west wing of the library. Forgotten by most. It houses old texts, flawed maps, and enough dust to discourage the curious.”
Hyacine blinked. “And you’re giving me a key to it?”
“I’m giving you access,” he corrected. “It’s not been set foot in for… at least a decade. I figure it may as well be put to use.”
She reached for the key, then hesitated as his tone shifted ever so slightly.
“It’s a quiet place,” he said. “Rooted. Sometimes memory clings to places like that.”
She looked up.
Anaxa didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he absently reached toward the fern, brushing a thumb over one curling leaf. “The roots remember what the leaves forget,” he said fondly.
There was a beat of silence.
“...That doesn’t sound like you,” Hyacine said carefully.
Then, just as quickly, his voice snapped back to normal. “Good. Also - do not misplace that key. It predates several building codes.”
Hyacine shifted the key in her palm, running her thumb along the cold brass.
Her eyes flicked to the table beside Anaxa’s desk - neatly arranged, of course, but not innocuous. A diagram lay half-finished under a paperweight shaped like a fossilized seedpod. Beside it, a shard of quartz glimmered faintly under the lamplight, almost as if reacting to the shift in the air.
“…Professor?” she asked hesitantly. “What are all these crystals for?”
Anaxa didn’t glance up from his grading. “It’s part of a project.”
“Okay,” Hyacine said, grinning. “I kind of assumed that much. What kind of project is it?”
He sighed. “I have a feeling you won’t stop poking. It’s a signal amplifier. Or a translator. It depends who you ask.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“I’m… negotiating,” Anaxa said carefully.
“With who?” Hyacine pressed.
Anaxa smiled grimly.
“With time.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that. Not exactly. So she just said, “That doesn’t sound very publishable.”
“No,” Anaxa agreed, “it’s not.”
There was a pause - one Hyacine didn’t quite feel brave enough to fill.
Then, as if nothing odd had passed between them, he nodded toward the stack of old essays at her elbow. “And you were about to leave before recruiting yourself to categorize those.”
“Right, right,” Hyacine said quickly, adjusting her bag. “One last question?”
Anaxa raised a brow.
“Do you think…” She hesitated, embarrassed. “Would Castorice like that basement room?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, without looking up, he said, “No. She’d hate the dust."
“Right,” Hyacine said, dejected.
“But…” Anaxa paused. “Dust can be cleared away.”
Hyacine smiled softly. “That makes sense.”
She turned toward the door - but paused when a flutter of paper caught her eye. One page had slipped from a nearby shelf and landed near her foot, half-sticking out from under the edge of the bookcase.
She bent down and picked it up.
The page was yellowed and brittle, notes she couldn’t decipher scribbled in faded black ink. Some lines had been crossed out, others rewritten again and again, as if someone had tried and failed to phrase something right.
At the very bottom, in tighter handwriting, were the words:
They never forget.
Hyacine looked back.
Anaxa hadn’t moved, still focused on his papers.
Hyacine put the paper back on the floor where she’d found it.
Then she left.
The common room was quiet in a late-night way - all humans and whispers and soft clinks of mugs on coasters. Someone had thrown a blanket over the old creaky armchair. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the breeze, which carried the smell of flowers and grass.
Hyacine was curled up near the fireplace with a mug of cocoa in both hands. Mydei had taken over half the couch, reading a dense and unforgiving textbook in the dim glow of the fire. Cipher was upside down in the other armchair again, legs flopped over the back, head dangling off the seat.
“It’s weird,” Hyacine said, more to herself than anyone else. “It feels so… normal.”
“That’s what the ghosts want,” Cipher said, voice strained by gravity.
“The what ?”
“Ghosts!” Cipher said, like she was a weather reporter. “The ones that haunt the courtyard tree.”
Mydei, not looking up from his textbook, sighed. “Is this another ‘the classroom is haunted’ thing?”
“No,” Cipher said with mock seriousness, flipping right side up. “This one’s real. I swear. There’s a tree behind the east hall. Big one. All the trees around it bloom every year, but it’s never bloomed. Not once.”
“That’s… a bit sad, actually,” Hyacine said softly.
Cipher grinned. “Oh, it gets better! People say it’s cursed. Carved into the trunk, real faint, there are spiral markings - like rings, but wrong. You can only see them at night.”
“Okay, that’s made up,” Hyacine muttered.
“I’m telling you, it’s not,” Cipher insisted. “The bark is weird too. Like it’s trying to grow inside-out.”
Mydei flipped a page, unimpressed. “Trees don’t grow inside-out.”
Cipher grinned. “They shouldn’t. But that hasn’t stopped three generations of drama kids from trying to summon ghosts out of it.”
Hyacine laughed. “It really doesn’t bloom?”
“Nope,” Cipher said, completely serious. “Not a single petal. Just spirals carved into the bark. They say the tree remembers things no one else does.”
She paused. Then added casually, “Also, if you leave an offering of vending machine cheese crackers, you’re guaranteed to pass your finals.”
Mydei didn’t even look up. “You made that up.”
“Prove that I did,” Cipher said, grinning.
“I’m not sacrificing food to a tree.”
Cipher pointed at him. “That’s why you’ve never seen a ghost. Confirmation bias!”
Hyacine giggled. “Do you actually believe the campus is haunted?”
“Of course not,” Cipher said immediately. Then, after a beat: “But the stage lights in the auditorium blew out today for no reason. Whole grid, all at once.”
That made both of them look up.
Mydei raised a brow. “Electrical short?”
“Sure,” Cipher said mystically. “Except the board was untouched, breakers were fine, and it happened right after someone said the name of the first play ever performed there.”
“That shouldn’t be happening,” Mydei muttered. “Unless the wiring’s running through one of the original support beams… I don’t think those were ever properly updated. This whole place is a patchwork.”
Hyacine blinked at him. “Wait - how do you know that?”
He glanced up, a little caught off guard. “Oh. I’m in architecture.”
“You are?” she said, like it was the most delightful twist imaginable. “That’s so cool! You actually know how all the bones of a building work!”
Mydei gave a small shrug, but his ears turned slightly pink. “I mean. Sort of.”
Cipher tilted her head, one brow raised. “Huh. So we’ve got architecture and… that reminds me, what are you, Hyacine?”
“Nursing,” Hyacine said. “Well, I’m still a first-year. I haven’t done anything exciting yet. Unless you count getting sneezed on during a vitals lab.”
Cipher smacked Mydei. “I was right! Pay up!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mydei grumbled, fishing out his wallet.
“You guys bet on my major?” Hyacine asked, trying not to laugh.
Mydei side-eyed Cipher, reluctantly taking out a dollar bill. “I thought you’d be in engineering. Something solid.”
Cipher grinned, snatching the money out of Mydei’s hands. “And I called medical from the start! Said you were way too sunshine for all that.”
Hyacine rolled her eyes, smiling.
The three of them sank back into silence, broken only by the rhythmic scratch of graphite on paper and the occasional creak of old pipes.
Hyacine rested her head against the back of the couch. She watched the lamplight blur at the edges of her vision, warm and quiet.
“...This is nice,” she said softly. “Just being here.”
Cipher cracked one eye open from her upside-down nap. “Ugh. Are we feelings people now?”
“Just tired people,” Mydei murmured, not looking up.
A brief pause.
Cipher stretched, arms splaying above her like a cat, and dropped to the carpeted floor like a ragdoll. “M’not moving. If a ghost wants me, it can drag me.”
Hyacine giggled into her sleeve, tucking the blanket up to her chin.
The lamp buzzed faintly. Outside, the wind stirred the branches of the courtyard tree.
Castorice sat quietly in the flower garden, eyes closed, breathing in the cool night air. The strange flutter in her chest from earlier still lingered - something unfamiliar and restless, sparked by the glimpse she'd caught of Hyacine and Phainon together.
She wasn’t sure what it was, only that it unsettled her in a way she hadn’t expected.
“Whoa,” said a voice. “Didn’t expect this place to be this magical.”
Castorice opened her eyes.
A girl with a battered guitar case slung over her back was standing just beyond the rosebushes, blinking like she’d walked into a dream by mistake. Her wild red hair caught the moonlight in chaotic waves, and her coat looked like it had been through storms.
She grinned when she spotted Castorice. “Well. Fancy that!”
Castorice didn’t move, but she stiffened slightly.
“I didn’t think anyone else would be here,” the red-haired girl added. “This was more of a… on-a-whim expedition. The name's Tribios.”
Silence hung. Castorice glanced away, toward the foxgloves.
“I can go, if this is your usual thinking spot,” Tribios said, a little more gently now. “It’s got that ‘sacred quiet place’ vibe. I don’t want to step on any emotional baggage.”
Castorice shook her head once, barely perceptible. “It’s not mine,” she said, her voice catching in the back of her throat the way she hated it always did.
Tribios tilted her head. “Huh. Really? You wear it so perfectly.”
Another silence. This one softer.
Tribios sat down - not on the bench, but on the ground, cross-legged in the grass like she was in no hurry at all. “I only came because someone mentioned it. Said it was good for... quiet things.”
Castorice’s eyes flicked toward her, then away.
Tribios smiled, catching it. “Hyacine. She said it sort of in passing, like it was a tip for surviving the world.”
That earned the smallest shift in Castorice’s expression. Barely visible - but present.
“Hyacine, huh,” Tribios murmured thoughtfully. “She’s got a knack for finding quiet corners. I like that about her.”
Castorice’s fingers twitched around a nearby flower petal - small, hesitant.
Tribios tilted her head curiously. “You're a quiet corner, aren't you?”
Castorice remained silent.
“That’s okay,” Tribios said softly. “Sometimes silence is a secret kind of shouting.”
Another pause, filled only by the scent of flowers and distant night sounds.
“She’s got that kind of voice, you know,” Tribios mused aloud. “The kind that makes you want to listen to places she likes.”
Castorice looked down at her hands, folding them tighter.
Tribios didn’t push. “She seems to collect people without realizing,” she added, in a musing tone. “Look, here we are, two random people, talking about her. I wonder how she’d react.”
A pause.
“She’s kind,” Castorice said quietly. Her voice was barely above the breeze.
Tribios' smile softened. “That’s the one.”
They sat in companionable quiet after that, the moonlight settling between them like dust. Somewhere nearby, a moth drifted through the roses. Neither of them moved.
After a while, the other girl stood, brushing off her coat.
“I’ll leave you to the flowers,” she said, adjusting the strap on her guitar. “But if this story ever needs a duet, you know where to find me.”
Castorice didn’t answer. Tribios walked away, and Castorice watched her - still sitting there, quieter now, but less tense.
The moon continued to shine.
Hyacine stood in the flower garden, the sky unnaturally bright.
The trees were gone.
The flowers turned away.
Petals faced the hedges, twisted like they'd grown in reverse. Even the Antilas curled inward, curling into their dark petals. There was no wind - only stillness, heavy and watchful. She moved between the rows, the hem of her nightgown brushing the soil.
She paused beside a hyacinth, its pink buds closed tight.
As she reached toward it, one petal loosened - then blackened at the edges, curling inward with a brittle hiss. One by one, the other flowers followed. A quiet wave of wilting moved outward from her feet.
A weight pulled at her pocket.
She reached in and drew out a key.
It was heavier than she remembered. Ornate, ancient, still cold from Anaxa’s office. The vines carved into the metal pulsed faintly, like veins. She looked at it too long.
It crumbled in her hands, in unison with the flowers around her.
The pieces fell - and so did she.
She tumbled through shadow and landed on polished marble. A vast mirrored library stretched endlessly around her. Every wall was a bookshelf. Every surface reflected her from angles she couldn’t put into words. No books - only mirrors shaped like books, arranged in endless rows.
She took a step, and her reflection didn’t follow.
Instead, the glass rippled, and something stepped out of it.
A swan.
Its feathers were white as frost, eyes black as ink. It looked at her with a burning intensity in its eyes that made her stomach lurch.
She tried to speak, but her voice tangled in her throat.
The swan tilted its head. “You’re not supposed to be here yet,” it said, in a voice that sounded like a hundred voices layered on top of each other. “You're too soft. Too kind. You haven’t chosen .”
Hyacine backed away - and the floor shattered like glass under her foot.
The swan flew.
It launched upward, bursting through the mirrored ceiling. Shards rained down as the building collapsed upward - bookshelves snapping, walls unraveling, beams folding back like origami.
Hyacine stood alone in an endless field of grass. Wind whipped her hair across her face, but she couldn’t feel it.
The sky above was torn.
Not metaphorically - literally torn, as if someone had ripped the clouds open with a knife. Through the gap, she saw threads of color, shifting like memory. A sound vibrated through the air, like laughter behind a wall.
“Hello?” she called.
No one answered.
“Is someone there?” she asked again, louder, the grass stretching infinitely in all directions. Her voice echoed and warped.
The sky’s tear widened.
She stepped backward as it began to spread - curling downward like a spilled ribbon, reaching the ground. And when it touched the ground, it split beneath her.
She landed in the garden again.
But it was wrong now. The colors were inverted - flowers glowing faintly like bioluminescent coral, white shadows creeping up the hedges like vines in reverse. The sky was the color of old parchment.
The flowers no longer looked away.
Now they watched her.
She tried to move, but her feet were rooted. Tiny vines coiled around her ankles. She looked down.
A mirror lay on the grass.
Her reflection stared up at her - but it blinked out of sync. And then, in the reflection, the vines curled tighter, up her chest, around her throat.
The mirror cracked.
Her reflection smiled, face full of kindness.
Hyacine didn’t have time to wonder, do I look like that too? before it died.
The world shattered around her like glass,
Shattered,
s h a t t e r e d
s h a t t e r e d
Hyacine jolted awake.
The blanket slipped off her shoulders as she sat up straight, breath shallow. Her heart was racing, loud in her ears like someone had turned up the volume on her pulse. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was.
Not the garden. Not the mirror room.
Just her dormitory.
Dim, familiar, and quiet.
She glanced around. Cipher’s table was as messy as ever, assignments scattered all over it. A cold mug was resting beside them.
Her eyes adjusted.
Cipher wasn’t in her bed.
Hyacine rubbed her face and swung her feet to the floor. Her socks made no sound as she padded toward the hallway, still wrapped in the heavy quiet of the night.
The dorm felt like it was holding its breath.
She passed the hallway bathroom, the staircase to the lower levels, the creaky floorboard by the vending alcove. But it wasn’t until she reached the end of the corridor that she noticed it - the faint crisp scent of night air, out of place in the warm dormitory building.
And a hatch, usually locked and bolted, left open just an inch.
Hyacine hesitated, then climbed the small ladder, and peeked out.
Cipher sat alone on a rooftop ledge, curled in that unmistakable feline shape she always made when thinking too hard. Her chin was tucked on one knee, her other foot swinging loosely over the edge. The moon lit up her profile, softening the sharp lines of her face, but there was a quiet weight there - a subtle slump of her shoulders, a distant sadness in her gaze.
Hyacine prepared to pull herself up, then stopped.
Something about the stillness felt... private. Sacred. Cipher wasn’t doing anything dramatic. She was just sitting there, head tilted back, staring up at the stars like she’d asked them a question and was waiting for an answer.
Hyacine’s fingers loosened from the hatch edge.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to.
Instead, she slowly eased the hatch shut again. Let Cipher keep her silence. Let the sky keep whispering whatever it was whispering.
Back in the corridor, Hyacine pressed a hand to her chest.
The dream was still there - somewhere in the back of her mind, like an aftertaste. She didn’t understand it.
A door creaked.
Hyacine startled slightly as a figure stepped out from the dorm wing. Mydei, in a rumpled hoodie and pajama pants, blinked sleepily at her. His hair was a little smashed on one side like he’d lost a fight with a pillow.
“Bad dream?” he asked, voice deep and rumbly with sleep.
Hyacine blinked at him, startled. “Oh - I didn’t mean to wake you -”
“You didn’t,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I heard the hatch creak. Just making sure it wasn’t ghosts.”
She gave a soft laugh, even as her eyes pricked a little. “False alarm. Just… Cipher being Cipher.”
“Cipher…” Mydei exhaled quietly. looking up at the hatch. “She’s got her ways to deal with things.”
Hyacine glanced at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.
“Just… keep an eye out for her,” he said.
Hyacine nodded.
Mydei studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp despite the hour. “You look like you saw something.”
Hyacine hesitated. “It was just a nightmare.”
A beat passed.
He tilted his head toward the common room. “Want to sit?”
She nodded again.
They wandered back to the lounge in comfortable silence. The lamps were dimmed, warm and gold like memories. Mydei flopped onto the couch without ceremony. Hyacine curled up in her usual corner of the same couch, drawing her knees to her chest.
He didn’t press her to talk. Just sat with her while the clock ticked quietly above the mantel.
Eventually, she spoke hesitantly. “Do you ever get dreams that feel like they’re not dreams? Like they’re trying to… say something, but in riddles?”
Mydei gave a thoughtful hum. “Sometimes. Usually when I’ve been thinking too much. Or not enough.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s not helpful.”
He shrugged. “It’s honest.”
He reached over and nudged a leftover blanket from the side table toward her. She took it with quiet thanks and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“You don’t have to explain it,” he said after a while. “Whatever it was. You can just sit here until it stops buzzing in your ribs.”
Hyacine looked over at him, a little surprised by the phrasing. “Buzzing in my ribs?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s how mine feel.”
There was a moment of stillness. Not heavy, not strange. Just quiet in a way that made her feel less alone.
She exhaled slowly and leaned her head against the couch cushion, watching the soft orange glow dance across the carpet.
Mydei shifted slightly, the quiet of the room settling around them like a soft blanket. After a moment, he said, almost like he was talking to himself, “When I was a kid, I used to have these dreams where the ground just gave way beneath me. Like I was falling forever, but never waking up.” He glanced at Hyacine, eyes a little distant. “It wasn’t scary at first... more like... waiting. Like the fall was something I had to endure to get somewhere new.”
Hyacine listened, her gaze steady. “That sounds… lonely.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But it taught me something - sometimes you just have to accept the fall, even if you don’t know what’s waiting on the other side.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe that’s what my dreams are trying to tell me.”
Mydei gave a small, approving nod. “Maybe. And whatever happens, you don’t have to face it alone.”
A pause. Then, without quite thinking, Hyacine shifted closer and leaned in briefly, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.
Mydei’s eyes flicked to her, surprised. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he settled a hand softly around her small shoulders - hesitantly, awkwardly, but gently.
“…Thank you,” she whispered.
Mydei didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t pull away either.
Eventually, Hyacine’s eyes began to close again. She let the steady, strong presence of her friend lull her to sleep.
Outside the window, the courtyard tree stood still.
Notes:
You'll notice there are some last names involved. For this story, I chose to have each character's last name be their corresponding area - I know it sounds very weird at first, but honestly I've seen these names every day since I've started working with them, and they've become as familiar as the back of my hand. The more you see them and get acquainted, the less weird they become!
Hyacine (Hyacinthia) Dawncloud
Castorice Aidonia
Cipher (Cifera) Dolos
Mydei (Mydeimos) Castrum Kremnos
Phainon Aedes Elysiae
Tribios Janusopolis (...Not much I could do with this one.)
A̶n̶a̶x̶a̶ Anaxagoras Murmur
Aglaea OkhemaThe next chapter will most likely be the longest one yet! ...and take the longest time yet, so as an apology, I'll give you the name of the chapter. Feel free to theorize about the events...
"A Golden Thread to the Heart"
Chapter Text
Hyacine rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly, blinking against the faint morning light filtering through the blinds of the common room. Mydei was gone, the blanket he’d tucked around her still warm. A fuzzy calm sat in her chest, heavier than peace but lighter than sadness.
She remembered the rooftop. The stars. Cipher.
She let the memory go with a soft exhale and padded toward the kitchen, tugging her sleeves down over her hands.
Inside, Cipher was halfway into the fridge. Only her legs stuck out, bouncing in time with the faint hum of a song she was humming off-key. Her voice was muffled by dairy products.
“Cipher?” Hyacine asked cautiously.
A loud clunk, then Cipher emerged, triumphant, holding… two small white eggs?
She grinned when she saw Hyacine. “Morning, sunshine! You’re up early.”
Hyacine blinked. “It’s 8:20.”
Cipher looked briefly betrayed. “Rude! Also, perfect. You’re just in time for Operation: Egg of Lies.”
Hyacine stared at the eggs. “Is that… what this is?”
Cipher nodded solemnly. “You see these? These aren’t eggs. These are water balloons.” She held one up. “You fill water balloons with orange juice, hide them in the egg carton, and wait for your unsuspecting victims to make breakfast. Then: chaos. Betrayal. Nutritious vitamins everywhere.”
“You’re putting those in the egg carton?” Hyacine asked, trying not to laugh.
“Exactly two decoys,” Cipher agreed, wobbling one of the water balloons. “That way, when someone cracks an ‘egg,’ they get citrus trauma.”
Hyacine wandered closer, eyeing the balloon warily. “But… won’t people notice it’s squishy? Eggs aren’t squishy.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “That’s why I chilled them! Cold juice makes the balloon firmer, and groggy people won’t question the texture if they’re still half-asleep.”
“I don’t know… I feel like I’d notice,” Hyacine said, picking one up and squishing it a little between her fingers. “This is clearly a balloon. It jiggles.”
Cipher snatched it back. “You’re just hyper-aware because you know. This is placebo-proof if the victim’s brain is in autopilot mode.”
Hyacine watched her doubtfully. “Placebo-proof,” she echoed.
Cipher nodded sagely. “Like Schrodinger’s omelette. Until the carton is opened, all breakfasts are equally cursed.”
Hyacine tried to keep a straight face. She really did. But a quiet giggle escaped her, and Cipher grinned like she’d just won something.
“See?” Cipher said triumphantly. “You’re coming around! You’re not immune to my genius.”
“I never said that,” Hyacine protested, covering her mouth as another laugh slipped out. “Okay, but you realize you’ll be the prime suspect the second it happens, right?”
Cipher shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve already accepted that. It’s about the experience, not the escape.”
Hyacine made a face somewhere between amused and deeply concerned. “This feels like something that ends with you being banned from the kitchen.”
Cipher grinned. “Banned again, you mean? Also, totally worth it.”
She finished sealing the last balloon, set it carefully in the egg carton, and slid it back into the fridge like she was arming a trap.
“I give it a day before someone screams,” she said proudly.
She gently closed the fridge, her hands lingering on the door for a moment as if to lock away more than just the juice balloons.
Hyacine watched her, the usual morning tiredness giving way to something softer - concern, maybe, or just quiet company.
Without thinking, Hyacine reached out and lightly touched Cipher’s arm. The contact was steady, like an unspoken promise.
Cipher looked down at the hand, then up at Hyacine, eyes narrowing - not in suspicion, but something almost like surprise.
“You’re weird,” she said. But her expression softened a little.
“I know.”
They stayed like that for a moment. The kettle started to hum.
“I’m stealing the mug with the cat on it,” Cipher said eventually, cracking her signature grin.
“I know that too.”
The quiet of the library wrapped around Hyacine like a soft towel - faint paper rustles, low whispers, the occasional beep from the checkout station. It was the first place she’d wandered after lunch, half out of habit, half out of restlessness.
She wasn’t really here to read.
She drifted past rows of occupied tables, weaving between shelves filled with rows and rows of books. Her mind still tugged at the edges of the morning - the warmth of the kitchen, the brief look on Cipher’s face, something unsaid.
Cipher hadn’t mentioned the rooftop. Hyacine hadn’t asked.
But the silence between them had said enough. And now her hands itched to do something. Small, maybe, but good. Something that mattered.
She turned a corner and nearly tripped over an oddly placed pillow.
“Eep -!”
…A fortress had risen in the reading lounge.
Chairs were pushed together at weird angles. Cushions and beanbags made up thick padded walls, held in place with stacked textbooks and what looked like a hiking pole jammed between shelves like a flagpost. Inside the fort sat Phainon, carefully packing a pillow into the wall, wearing a knit scarf like a battle sash and sipping from a juice box with the absolute confidence of someone who’d claimed sovereign territory.
“...Hi,” Hyacine said, taking in the sight.
He looked back at her, grinning. “Ah, the messenger arrives! Do you bring tribute, or challenge?”
“I - what?”
Phainon gestured grandly. “To enter the Fortress of Textus Bookus, one must either answer three riddles or share a snack.”
Hyacine rummaged around in her bag, and held up a bag of pretzels. “Snack?”
He made a show of inspecting it, then nodded gravely. “You may enter.”
She sat down just inside the fortress wall, laughing softly. “What even is this?”
“Architectural research, duh,” Phainon said like it was obvious. He finished packing in his pillow and grabbed another one from a pile.
“I feel like the engineering department would disown you.”
“Only if they can reach me in my heavily fortified, artillery-defended castle,” Phainon said, grinning.
She laughed again as she watched him adjust the wall using a copy of Civil Infrastructure, Vol. 2. His scarf was dragging in a pile of flashcards.
“Wanna come explore something weird?” she offered.
Phainon perked up. “Are we talking weird like ‘this professional book has a crude, inappropriate drawing in it’ or weird like ‘follow me into a probably haunted stairwell’?”
Hyacine tilted her head, considering. “The second one.”
Phainon stood and struck a dramatic pose, one foot on a beanbag. “Then I, brave knight of the Library, shall follow you into the depths. Lead the way!”
Hyacine hesitated. “…Okay, but I actually don’t… know exactly where it is.”
He blinked. “You mean - this wasn’t a confident quest call?”
She held up the brass key, looking sheepish. “I guess I was hoping the key would, like… guide me spiritually.”
“You brought a key and no map ?”
“I thought it would be more obvious!”
Phainon gave her a long, slow nod. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I - what?!”
“C’mon, mystery hunter.” He drained his juice box and tossed it across the room into the garbage with perfect aim. “We’ll find your haunted study room. Eventually. Probably.”
“Definitely,” she corrected.
And with that, they wandered deeper into the west wing, one with a key, the other with exactly zero helpful instincts.
The stairwell creaked as they descended, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. A couple locked doors passed by - utility closets, file archives, one ominously labeled MATERIALS REQUEST STORAGE .
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Hyacine hissed, instinctively moving closer to Phainon. “This seems like the place in horror movies where the main character sees the obvious clues to run away but doesn’t.”
He gave her an approving nod. “I agree! I think you’re the main character as well.”
“That’s not what I -”
Hyacine paused.
A narrow, scuffed door sat sunken in the wall. No label. No keypad. Just an old-fashioned brass lock.
She stopped in her tracks. “Wait!”
Phainon turned back. “What’d you find?”
She stepped closer and pulled the key from her pocket. She held it up next to the door, squinting.
The shape matched.
“I think…”
“Ooh,” Phainon said, eyes shining. “This is the part where we get cursed for life!”
Hyacine rolled her eyes, but her fingers shook a little with apprehension as she slotted the key in.
It turned.
Click!
WHOOMPH.
A rush of stale air swept out, thick with dust and the dry scent of old paper. Hyacine quickly turned her head away, coughing.
Phainon stepped back, waving a hand in front of his face. “Ack! Okay. Yeah - no one’s opened this in a while.”
Hyacine blinked, eyes watering slightly. “It smells like… lost time.”
They waited a few seconds for the dust to settle.
Then they stepped inside.
The door creaked shut behind them with a faint metallic click, and silence settled in like a new layer of dust.
The air was dry and stale, with the heavy, oddly pleasant smell of old paper. Shafts of sunlight filtered through faded blinds along the high windows, cutting pale lines across the floor. Motes of dust drifted in the light, slow and swirling.
Hyacine blinked, taking it all in.
The space was larger than she expected - much smaller than a classroom, but enough to fit ten people comfortably. A rug sat in the center, frayed at the corners, gray with dust. One wall was lined with a tall, sagging bookshelf, its shelves already half-filled with forgotten texts, abandoned plays, and curling pamphlets. Old mismatched furniture cluttered the room, chairs and couches and beanbags, all gray with dust.
A floor lamp slouched in one corner, its bulb long gone. A clock, long dead, hovered eternally at 2:43.
Hyacine stepped forward, brushing her sleeve across the edge of the desk. A clean line appeared through the dust.
“It’s like a room that forgot to be important,” she murmured.
Phainon wandered toward the chalkboard and poked the eraser tray. “Or a clubhouse that got tired.”
She smiled faintly. “I want to clean it. Tomorrow.”
Phainon turned, one brow raised. “You want to clean all this?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It feels like it could be something again. If someone just cared.”
Phainon gave the nearest chair a tentative nudge with his foot. It wobbled in extreme self-doubt.
“Well, if you ever need help fixing up the furniture,” he said doubtfully, “I accept payment in snacks and dramatic compliments.”
She laughed. “What if I just say thank you?”
Phainon considered. “Hmmm… that’ll do too.”
They stood there for a moment longer. Dust drifted quietly through the light. The room wasn’t warm, or cozy, or beautiful - not yet. But it could be.
Hyacine turned toward the door.
Phainon followed, tugging the knob gently behind them until it clicked shut.
She held the key in her palm.
“Tomorrow,” she said softly, like a promise.
The classroom buzzed with soft chatter and the sound of papers being passed around as Hyacine slipped through the door, still brushing ghost-dust from her sleeves. The seats were already half-filled.
She didn’t expect to recognize anyone.
Then she spotted Tribios, already lounging at a table near the window like she owned the room, empty seats all around her. Clearly the other students were (justifiably) intimidated by her presence.
“There you are!” Tribios grinned and gestured her over. “Come sit, come sit. I've got someone for you to meet.”
Hyacine blinked. “Wait - Tribios ? You’re in this class?”
“Absolutely,” Tribios said solemnly. “Part of a very elaborate heist.”
“Why do people I know keep appearing in classes I’m in?” Hyacine asked no one in particular.
Tribios shrugged. “Fate has a twisted sense of humor! Speaking of fate -” She sighed dramatically. “Seems my dear friend is running fashionably late. She’ll show.”
Hyacine slid into the seat next to Tribios, who was scribbling what looked like a tiny doodle army invading her notebook.
“Hey, remember when we met?” Tribios said suddenly.
Hyacine smiled, remembering it. “I don’t think I did anything other than ask questions.”
“Questions,” Tribios said reverently, “are the gateway drug of the socially curious. You were basically microdosing my entire personality.”
Hyacine blinked. “Are you calling yourself a drug?”
Tribios thought for a moment. “Not exactly, but I’m heavily implying it.”
Hyacine laughed, then scribbled a half-hearted line across her notebook margin. “I think I was just trying to survive the interaction.”
Tribios’s eyes twinkled. “Good! Surviving is the first step toward becoming.”
Hyacine was about to reply when the classroom door clicked open.
A golden-haired girl stepped inside.
Her posture was firm and clear, almost regal in the way she walked - quiet, commanding. Her golden hair was short and elegant, cascading around her shoulders. Even as she walked, she looked like she belonged in a magazine or a museum.
Her eyes swept the room once, and paused when she spotted Tribios - and who was sitting beside her.
For a second, as her gaze landed on Hyacine, something in her expression stilled. Hyacine couldn’t quite tell what it was. Surprise? Disapproval?
Her gaze lingered for a moment like she was writing a mental note.
Then, wordlessly, she crossed the room toward them. Hyacine nervously looked down at her notebook, not daring to look at her as she took her seat on the other side of Tribios.
“The lights in the auditorium were being strange,” she said to Tribios. Her accented voice was calm and clipped, further emanating the sense of regality Hyacine was feeling.
Tribios leaned sideways. “Told you,” she loudly whispered to Hyacine. “Mythic timing.”
The golden-haired girl glanced between them again, this time more briefly. A half-second longer on Hyacine.
Tribios drummed her fingers once on the edge of her desk, then turned with an overly grand sweep of her hand.
“Hyacine,” she said quietly, as if revealing a secret, “this is Aglaea. Aglaea, Hyacine. The stars align.”
Hyacine blinked, completely caught off guard by the formality.
Aglaea gave the tiniest incline of her head - precise, neutral, with not even a faintest wisp of a smile. “Hello.”
Hyacine straightened slightly. “Hi,” she said, a little too fast, giving a small wave. She regretted it instantly and dropped her hand down onto her desk, cringing. Why did I wave? Who waves in college?
Tribios leaned back in her seat with satisfaction, clearly proud of herself. “You’re welcome, universe.”
She glanced over at Aglaea’s notebook resting on the desk and, with a mischievous grin, reached out without hesitation. Hyacine blinked as Tribios started flipping through Aglaea’s notebook like it was a public novel.
“Time to see what the mysterious Agy’s been scribbling,” she said, flipping through the pages. “Ah, the usual sharp notes. What, no diary entries about middle school crushes? Boooring.”
Aglaea said nothing. She just observed, like Tribios was a mildly entertaining distraction rather than a self-invited guest in her personal territory.
Hyacine watched, a small smile appearing unbidden as she felt the familiarity between the two.
“Theatre, theatre, theatre, more theatre. Honestly, Agy,” Tribios said with mock severity, returning the notebook, “you don’t have to be so cold. This isn’t a competition, is it?”
Aglaea’s eyes flicked up, cool and unbothered. “I am not cold,” she said softly.
Tribios lifted a doubtful eyebrow.
Hyacine silently tilted her head, feeling like she’d just stumbled into the middle of a secret conversation she didn’t fully understand yet.
“So uptight,” Tribios muttered. “Hyacine, I promise she isn’t usually this cold. She’s just a little… emotion-phobic.”
Without a word, Aglaea reached over and stole one of Tribios’ many pens.
“Getting better,” Tribios added.
Hyacine laughed. She reached into her bag, pulling out her notebook, and flipped to the first blank page - then froze as she caught sight of the margins. A handful of little stars and uneven smiley faces peeked out in the corner, ones she’d doodled during a long study session and never bothered to erase.
Quickly, she flipped to the next blank page, trying to act casual - but she noticed Aglaea’s gaze, calm and unreadable, lingering on the page just a moment too long.
Hyacine looked down, heart ticking a little faster.
Before Hyacine could spiral too far into wondering what that look meant, the classroom lights dimmed slightly - flickering once in protest - followed by the shuffling arrival of their professor.
A few notebooks snapped shut. A few laptops clicked open. Some students sat up straighter.
“Morning, class,” the professor said, setting down a large mug and looking vaguely like she hadn’t slept in two days. “Let’s get right to it. Today’s warm-up: Describe a time your understanding of something changed.” She wrote it on the board in quick, jagged strokes.
A quiet rustle of paper followed. Pens tapped. Someone near the window let out a resigned sigh.
“And remember,” the professor added, glancing up, “as always, we’ll be peer reviewing these. If you don’t finish in class, you’re expected to meet outside of it. No exceptions.”
Tribios groaned dramatically beside Hyacine. “And here I was, hoping to keep all my emotional development to myself.”
Hyacine stifled a laugh at Tribios’s comment, then glanced down at her page.
Describe a time your understanding of something changed.
She chewed her lip, pen hovering midair. So many thoughts, but none that seemed good enough to write down.
She tapped the pen once. Then again. On the third absent-minded tap, it slipped from her fingers and skittered off the edge of the desk.
She let out a tiny, startled squeak and dove after it, but too late - when out of nowhere, a hand reached out and caught it before it could roll farther.
It was Aglaea. Her movements were practiced, elegant, like catching runaway pens was a daily occurrence. She didn’t say anything, just placed it neatly back on Hyacine’s desk - lined up with the page, perfectly even.
“Thank you,” Hyacine said, too quickly, awkwardly picking the pen up. Her cheeks felt warm as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear with the same hand, looking back down at the page.
From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Aglaea glance up.
Then - very slightly - her gaze narrowed. Her eyes settled on Hyacine’s cheek. Her finger twitched on the desk, as if her hand had considered reaching out again before changing its mind.
Hyacine barely noticed. She was already looking down, pen now clutched tightly in her hand, determined to write something before her nerves got the better of her.
She stared at the blank page. The assignment hovered at the top like a dare.
Describe a time your understanding of something changed.
Hyacine exhaled slowly through her nose. The hum of pens scratching, keys tapping, and chairs creaking faded into the back of her mind as she focused. Just a little pocket of quiet, enough to think.
So she thought.
After a moment, she hesitantly started writing.
I used to think that being cheerful was the same thing as being brave.
Her pen hovered for a second, and she blinked at the paper, almost surprised at what it said. Then she kept going.
Like if you kept smiling, people wouldn’t worry. Or notice if you were... a little lost. And if you kept asking questions about them, no one would realize you didn’t really know the answers either.
She paused, then scratched the last sentence out to rewrite it. And if I was the one asking questions, then no one would stop to notice that I didn’t actually have any answers myself.
She reread it, feeling pleased. Continuing:
I guess I thought if I stayed upbeat, I’d be useful? Like a little good mood in their day.
Another small pause.
But someone once told me that being honest is also brave. And I’m trying to understand that. Even if it’s messy. Even if you don’t always know how to do it right.
At first, the words came out clumsily, with many pauses and rewrites. Then as time went on, something in her mind seemed to click - her handwriting smoothed, and the words no longer fought her.
Her brows knit together as she leaned in. The desk beneath her elbows disappeared. The room blurred at the edges.
For a few minutes, it was just her and her story unfolding in uneven ink.
She didn’t notice the way Aglaea’s eyes drifted to her paper. Didn’t notice the slight tilt of her head. The faintest look of... intrigue? Curiosity?
Whatever it was, Hyacine just kept writing.
After a while, she’d lost track of the minutes slipping by, her thoughts quietly coloring the words on the page. The classroom buzzed faintly around her, a steady hum of pens scratching and students breathing.
Then, just as she was beginning to finish her second paragraph, Tribios leaned over with a grin, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If this essay were a mystery novel, do you think the plot twist would be that we’re all secretly terrible at writing?”
A small snort escaped Hyacine’s throat despite herself. She pressed a hand lightly to her mouth, cheeks warming, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.
On the other side of Tribios, Aglaea let out a tiny puff of air.
Hyacine blinked, doing a double take.
Was that Aglaea ?
Her eyes instinctively flicked over to the other side of Tribios, and as she looked over, hardly believing her own ears, Aglaea met her eyes for a split second.
Hyacine quickly looked down, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
Minutes passed in a quiet blur - pens scratching, pages rustling, and the occasional soft sigh filling the air. Hyacine slipped back into focus, her thoughts drifting softly between her writing and the faint noises of the classroom settling into a gentle rhythm.
Slowly, the quiet began to subside. Around them, low murmurs started rising as students exchanged papers and began their peer reviews. The room hummed with whispered conversations and the subtle shuffle of shifting seats.
Hyacine barely noticed - until Tribios leaned in again, sounding far too pleased with herself.
“You’ve got ink on your face.”
Hyacine froze. “What?”
Tribios grinned. “Right there. No, other side. Yeah, there!” She wiggled her fingers vaguely at Hyacine’s cheek. “I was waiting to see if Aglaea would tell you, but she’s playing cool today.”
Hyacine’s face went hot in an instant. She grabbed her sleeve and tried to rub it off as discreetly as possible, which of course only made it worse.
From the other side of Tribios, Aglaea said nothing - but Hyacine could’ve sworn the corner of her mouth ticked up a microscopic amount.
Tribios tapped her pencil against the desk like a tiny drumroll. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen of the literary court, prepare to witness the unveiling of our finest scrolls!” She announced, clearly savoring the moment.
Then, before either of them could move, she leaned sideways and dropped her head onto Aglaea like a tragic heroine, her cheek squishing against her shoulder. “Agy, you’re holding my soul here, so try not to crush it,” she said dramatically, words muffled. She slid her notebook across the desk, forcing Aglaea to catch it before it fell off the side.
“You’re awfully careless about your soul,” Aglaea said dryly, opening the notebook.
Tribios grinned. “You’re here to catch it, aren’t you? Hyacine, I want yours!”
Aglaea gave Tribios a look, pushing her off her shoulder, but she was smiling. “I’m only catching it this time.”
Hyacine laughed softly, passing her paper to Tribios’ outstretched hand - then hesitated.
That meant she’d be critiquing Aglaea’s paper.
Aglaea reached across before she could decide. With a quiet, efficient motion, she slid her paper toward Hyacine - no fuss, no eye contact, just a smooth offering across the desk.
Hyacine looked at it like it was a fragile animal.
“Thank you,” she said, quieter than she meant to, taking hold of it with care, half-afraid it would snap under her fingers.
Aglaea nodded faintly as quiet settled on the table once again.
Hyacine’s eyes lingered on Aglaea’s paper, scanning the words with careful attention. The handwriting was neat, each sentence polished like a smooth stone.
For a long time, I believed that understanding was purely an intellectual pursuit. Emotions cloud judgment and interfere with clarity. I maintained that a rational mind was the only tool capable of discerning truth.
Hyacine, remembering Anaxa, tried not to smile. She wondered if Aglaea had picked up some influence from the sharp professor in his classes.
When I attended a recent theatre performance - depicting themes of loss and redemption - I carefully noted the techniques employed by the actors and the audience’s subtle reactions. The craftsmanship was impeccable. Every gesture, every inflection, seemed meticulously designed to evoke a response.
However, despite the evocative display, I remained unaffected emotionally. I was an observer, not a participant. I appreciated the technical proficiency but felt no stirring within myself.
The moment I realized the truth was when I concluded: emotional involvement, while frequently lauded, is ultimately an inefficient and unreliable means of acquiring knowledge.
Hyacine read the words carefully, her eyes tracing each sentence like she was walking through someone else’s quiet thoughts (which, she supposed she was). The writing was precise, each idea laid out clearly and confidently, and it felt so deeply private and personal that she almost felt guilty for reading it.
In reflection, I see that my perspective was a defense mechanism - an attempt to maintain control by distancing myself from emotional vulnerability. While effective in preserving composure, it prevented me from engaging fully with experiences that challenge and transform.
True understanding, I now believe, requires embracing uncertainty and discomfort. It is a process that transcends logic, demanding openness to the messy, often unpredictable nature of human feeling.
Hyacine hesitated, her finger resting on the final line. The words sounded important, but… distant. Like Aglaea was stating a fact, not sharing a feeling.
She looked up nervously. “Here, I guess it feels kind of… formal?” she said, pointing at the last line. “Like you’re telling instead of showing how you feel? Maybe if you showed what that openness felt like - even if it was messy or confusing - it might come through stronger.”
Aglaea’s eyes flicked up, calm and unreadable. For a second, Hyacine worried she’d overstepped. But Aglaea’s gaze simply returned to the paper, her brow knitting just slightly, like she was weighing Hyacine’s words.
“I mean, I know it’s not very pleasant to write messy stuff, but it’s not bad to people reading it,” Hyacine said nervously, just to fill the silence. “Honestly, it makes it feel a little more… real?”
The silence stretched between them - long enough for Hyacine’s heart to race.
Finally, Aglaea spoke, her voice low and quiet. “You’re right.”
Hyacine blinked, surprised.
A small, warm relief bloomed inside her chest, and she glanced down at the paper again, suddenly feeling like she wasn’t just reading words, but glimpsing something fragile and real.
Tribios cleared her throat, the sound startling her out of her reverie. “Well, if we’re all done being serious, what’s the plan for finishing this peer review?”
“Maybe…” Hyacine began nervously, “maybe we could work on it together after class? I think it’d be easier that way. I mean, she did say we have to get it done by tomorrow, right?”
Tribios’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Perfect! I volunteer our dorm as headquarters. We’ve got snacks and terrible coffee - ideal conditions.”
Aglaea hesitated. “I suppose I can make time,” she said, voice as measured as ever.
Hyacine glanced down at the pages in front of her. Aglaea’s handwriting still sat there, calm and deliberate, like it wasn’t meant to be read by anyone else.
Across the desk, Aglaea was already focused on Tribios’s draft, brows slightly drawn.
Hyacine didn’t say anything.
She just turned back to her own paper, pencil in hand, and started jotting a note in the corner. Nothing big - just a word she liked, a phrase she wanted to fix.
The air between them had changed, maybe. She thought - she hoped.
Maybe a little messy, but a little more real.
“Understanding is not illumination,” Professor Anaxa said from the front of the room, one hand raised like he was conjuring a magic spell. “It is friction. And you are all kindling.”
Hyacine blinked at her notebook. She was pretty sure he meant that metaphorically, but she didn’t really want to burst into flame in the literal sense either.
She risked a glance to her left.
Castorice was in the middle of writing, her posture perfect, icy beautiful face unreadable. As always. Her pencil moved steadily, her writing neat and organized.
Hyacine looked back down at her paper. There was half a heading, a few scattered words. A little cartoon fire in the margin that she’d drawn without thinking. The contrast would’ve been comedic if she wasn’t busy spiraling.
She hesitated.
Hyacine looked down again. Then, carefully, she tore a small section from the bottom corner of her notebook. Her handwriting came out a little wobbly, and the little face she doodled was crooked, its eyes not lined up properly.
Does he talk like that at home too? (·•᷄ࡇ•᷅ )
She hesitated again. Then, pretending to adjust her notebook, she slid the note across, barely pushing it to the edge of Castorice’s table.
Castorice didn’t look at her. But a moment later, she reached out and pulled the note toward her in a motion so smooth that anyone else would’ve paid it no mind.
Hyacine tried to look casual, like she wasn’t immediately regretting everything.
There was a pause.
Then Castorice’s pencil paused, and a response appeared - folded neatly and returned with quiet precision.
Yes. Maybe with a little less fire.
Hyacine smiled, her heart ticking a little faster.
She paused, tapping her pencil once against the desk. Then she wrote back:
I don’t think I understand what he’s talking about ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)
That one felt riskier. She hesitated before pushing it across. What if it made her sound dumb?
Castorice took it with the same smooth motion.
When the reply came back, it was shorter.
But you write everything down.
Hyacine stared at the note. She didn’t know what answer she was expecting, but it wasn’t that. On a blank corner of the paper, she wrote:
I guess I don’t want to forget the parts I don’t get?
Castorice didn’t respond right away.
Hyacine tried not to fidget. She fiddled with the corner of her notebook, resisting the urge to peek.
When the note came back, it was folded neatly again. Tighter than before. Almost… careful.
That’s kind of brave.
Hyacine blinked.
Her face flushed a little, and she looked down fast, unsure what to do with that. Brave?
She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, or just an observation. But either way, her heart wouldn’t stop tapping at her ribs like it wanted out.
She picked up her pencil.
Takes one to know one! ˶ˆᗜˆ˵
She wasn’t even sure what she meant by it. It just… felt right. She folded it before she could change her mind, and passed it over.
Castorice opened it slower this time.
Her pencil hovered for a moment.
I don’t think I am.
It was simple.
And Hyacine stared at the words like she could see the echo of something bigger behind them. A hesitation. A truth Castorice usually kept guarded.
Maybe she was reading too far into it, but slowly, she wrote:
I think maybe you are! Just quiet about it ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶
Castorice read the note. This time, her eyes lingered on it longer than usual. She didn’t answer right away.
Hyacine didn’t expect a reply.
She’d meant it. That much she knew. But now, suddenly, she wasn’t sure if it had been too much.
Then the paper came back, folded smaller than before.
You don’t have to say that.
Hyacine’s heart dipped. Just a little.
But when she reread it, there was something in the way it was written. It wasn’t sharp, or defensive, like she was afraid of it being. Just… honest. Quiet, like the words had been sitting in Castorice’s chest for a long time.
She tapped her pencil on her chin. Then again. She considered leaving it there.
But instead, she wrote back:
I believe it 𖹭
The second she finished folding it and slipped it over to Castorice’s desk, her heart stopped. Wait. Did that sound too forward? Too much? Why did she draw a heart ?! She reached out quickly - maybe she could still grab it back, rewrite it, make it lighter -
Castorice’s hand moved at the exact same time.
Their fingers touched. Light, sudden, and unmistakably warm.
Hyacine froze. So did Castorice.
It was nothing. Just the lightest touch. But to Hyacine, it felt like a spark had jumped from the paper straight to her mind.
Her breath caught. A tiny, involuntary noise stuttered in her throat.
Castorice didn’t pull away. Just paused.
Hyacine’s cheeks lit up in a rush of color - fast and fierce and impossible to hide. She ducked her head down, staring at her notebook like it could save her from spontaneous combustion.
She could feel the heat in her ears. Oh stars.
Castorice, still quiet, picked up the note.
Read it.
Then folded it smaller than the others, slipping it into the inner pocket of her notebook.
No response. Just that.
Hyacine, still blushing furiously, didn’t know if that was better or worse.
The rest of the lecture blurred by in slow motion. Hyacine tried to focus, but her thoughts kept circling back to the folded note tucked into Castorice’s notebook, and the brief touch of her fingers.
When class ended, the quiet hum of students gathering their things felt louder than usual. She gathered hers a little too carefully, her hands still a little shaky.
Tribios found her in the hallway outside.
“Ready?” she asked, already halfway into a dramatic twirl before Hyacine even had time to answer. “We’ve got snacks! Also beanbags. Also Aglaea - who’s pretending she doesn’t want you here, but that’s just her usual ice queen routine. Ooh, that was a good rhyme!”
Hyacine blinked, thrown by the speed of the pivot (and her words), and followed.
As they turned a corner toward the dorms, Hyacine glanced sideways. “Can I, uh, ask you something?”
Tribios slowed to a thoughtful stroll, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. “Only if it’s not about how to sneak a harp into a lecture hall. I’m still under spiritual probation.”
Hyacine huffed a tiny laugh, then looked down at the floor tiles. “It’s about Aglaea.”
Tribios tilted her head, as if listening to a whispered melody. “Ah - the marble maiden.”
Hyacine hesitated. “Is she always like that? I mean, she’s… polite. But I feel like I’m a little insect on her microscope slide.”
Tribios smiled knowingly. “Agy grew up inside a snow globe.”
“A snow globe?” Hyacine echoed, puzzled.
“A snow globe. Perfect on the outside, a little cold inside. But shake her up - oh, she sparkles.”
Hyacine blinked, trying to picture it.
Tribios’ smile softened into something unmistakably tender. “She’s not made of stone. Just polished - always polished, because that’s what the world expects. You’re not like that. And that might be exactly what she needs.”
Hyacine’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. I wasn’t trying to -”
Tribios held up a hand to her face, lightly tapping her on the nose. “Ah-ah, I didn’t say you were trying! That’s exactly where the magic comes from, isn’t it?”
Hyacine smiled, small and uncertain, but the flutter in her chest felt a little steadier.
Tribios spun on her heel, already striding ahead. “Follow me, Earthling - unless we want to be late!”
They walked the next few steps in companionable quiet, the sounds of the campus softening around them. Up ahead, warm light leaked from under a door near the end of the hall.
Tribios pushed the door open with a flourish, stepping inside like she owned the place. She immediately dropped her backpack with a thump near the door, then kicked off her shoes with a lazy stretch.
“Late,” Aglaea declared, glancing up from something she was working on at a table.
Tribios swung the door open and stepped inside like she owned the place, dropping her bag with a casual thud. She kicked off her shoes with one smooth motion and glanced around, eyebrow quirking.
“Still a disaster zone,” she said, nodding at the cluttered floor.
“You’re saying that like you’re surprised,” Aglaea said. “You also say that as if you don’t live here, and aren’t fully responsible for all of the mess.”
“You’d think a theatre kid could handle a little more chaos,” Tribios said, throwing up her arms in exasperation.
Aglaea didn’t look up from her chair. “And you’d think a music major wouldn’t treat a dorm like a storage closet.”
Tribios laughed. “If I cleaned this place, where would the magic hide?”
Aglaea finally looked up. “Probably under all those papers you keep piling up,” she said, but she was smiling.
Tribios threw a glance at the scattered notebooks. “Organized chaos,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “You just don’t understand the system.”
Aglaea stood and gave a small nod. “Well, you’re here now. Try not to break anything.”
Tribios dropped into a beanbag with a satisfied sigh. “I break less than you think.”
Aglaea rolled her eyes. “Barely.”
Hyacine nervously stepped inside, looking around.
The room was bright and oddly shaped, filled with that lived-in energy of somewhere loved. One half was an explosion of color: sheet music taped to the wall, a violin case balanced on a pile of books, a scarf hanging off a bunk bed railing. The other half was clean, methodical, carefully arranged - textbooks stacked with geometric precision, notes written in tiny, sharp lettering (Hyacine had an inkling as to which side belonged to who).
In the center, two desks faced each other like dueling pianos.
Hyacine hesitated, quietly taking it all in - the clutter, the color, the hum of something lived-in and real. It wasn’t like any dorm room she’d seen before, and it made her feel a little less like an outsider.
Hyacine shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the soft thump of her heartbeat in the quiet. Tribios caught her eye and gave a little encouraging nod.
Aglaea, still focused on her papers, looked up briefly. “Grab a seat,” she said, voice steady and unreadable.
The two desks sat facing each other in the center of the room, each paired with a well-worn chair - one draped with a threadbare scarf, the other neatly tucked in. Tribios slid into the cluttered desk’s chair with a familiar ease, plucking a pencil from the scattered mess. Aglaea took the opposite seat, her posture perfectly straight, books stacked in quiet order.
Hyacine glanced between them, then reached for a spare chair pushed against the wall. She pulled it over and set it beside the desks, wincing at the scrape of the legs on the floor.
“Is this okay?” she asked.
Tribios smiled without looking up. “Perfect.”
Aglaea gave a brief nod - no fuss, just quiet acceptance.
Tribios let out a contented sigh. “This is where the magic brews,” she said, eyes gleaming with the oddity Hyacine was quickly becoming familiar with.
Aglaea glanced over with a faint smile that softened her usual composure. “More like controlled chaos,” she answered.
The three of them settled into a comfortable rhythm. Tribios hummed softly, occasionally tapping a pencil against her notebook like a metronome, while Aglaea’s hand moved steadily, her notes precise and deliberate.
Hyacine glanced up from her own work and noticed Aglaea watching her - not with the usual cool detachment, but something quieter, more attentive.
“Your handwriting’s neat,” Hyacine said to break the silence.
Aglaea’s eyes flicked up, surprised for a moment. “You write with heart,” she replied.
Hyacine felt warmth bloom in her chest.
They continued - Tribios’ humming became a little more upbeat.
When Hyacine hesitated over a tricky sentence, brow furrowed and pencil hovering mid-air, Aglaea glanced up. Without a word, she reached across the narrow space between them and tapped the edge of Hyacine’s notebook, her finger brushing lightly above a line of uncertain phrasing.
“Maybe here,” she said. “Try flipping the order.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp or correcting, just gently guiding, like she was pointing out a bend in a trail she’d walked before.
Hyacine blinked, surprised. Then she adjusted the sentence, reread it, and felt something click into place.
“...Oh,” she murmured. “That does sound better.”
Aglaea gave a faint nod and returned to her own page.
For a while, the only sounds in the room were the soft scribble of pencil on paper and the occasional creak of a chair as one of them shifted. Tribios kept humming under her breath, not a song so much as a wandering collection of notes, barely loud enough to notice unless you were listening for it.
Hyacine had stopped biting her lip a few pages ago. She still wasn’t sure everything she was writing made sense, but somehow the quiet around her made it easier to keep going. Like it didn’t have to be perfect - just honest.
When she finally leaned back and set her pencil down, Aglaea glanced up from her own work.
“Done?” she asked.
Hyacine nodded slowly. “Sort of. I think… my brain’s out of ideas, even if the essay isn’t.”
Across the room, Tribios tilted her head toward them, upside-down from her beanbag perch. “Ooh, time for the sacred ritual?”
Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Sacred.”
“Peer review,” Tribios said with mock solemnity, flipping her notebook shut with one hand. “Now we put our hearts on the table and politely critique them.”
Hyacine laughed nervously, brushing eraser dust from the page. “Right. Polite.”
Aglaea didn’t even blink. “We rotate,” she said simply, already sliding her paper across to Tribios. “Hyacine, yours to me.”
Hyacine blinked at how smoothly they just… moved. But she passed her paper to Aglaea, careful not to smudge anything.
Tribios reached across the center, wiggling her fingers. “Gimme!”
Aglaea passed her piece, smiling a little.
“Perfect,” Tribios said, arranging the pages like a conductor setting up sheet music. “We review, we annotate, we judge gently.”
Aglaea lifted her pencil again. “Gently? Speak for yourself.”
Tribios grinned. “When do I not?”
And then they began to read, the three of them quietly circling each other's thoughts.
Hyacine’s eyes skimmed Tribios’s paper. It was... colorful, in every sense - dramatic turns of phrase, unexpected metaphors, and at least three sentences that felt more like lyrics than reflections.
I used to think silence meant peace. Then I realized I was just bad at listening.
Hyacine blinked at that line, not sure if it was brilliant beyond comprehension, or just confusing. She kept going, pencil tapping idly against her lip.
Understanding doesn’t always walk in. Sometimes it breaks the door, kisses you on the forehead, and leaves through the window, leaving shattered glass on the floor.
Hyacine snorted softly. She could hear Tribios saying that out loud.
Before she could get further, a quiet voice broke through the hum of scribbling.
“This line,” Aglaea said, pencil tapped lightly against Hyacine’s paper, “you could make it stronger if you restructured it. Right now it’s… hesitant.”
Hyacine started slightly, shifting her gaze back to Aglaea. “Oh - um, where?”
“Here,” Aglaea said, tapping her pencil lightly on her paper. “It trails off. Like you’re not sure if you believe it.”
“Sorry - which line?” Hyacine asked sheepishly.
Aglaea slid the paper slightly toward her. “‘ I guess I thought if I stayed upbeat, I’d be useful? ’ You’ve already led us there. You don’t need to hedge it.”
“Oh,” Hyacine murmured. She reread the sentence. “So should I get rid of that ‘I guess’? I thought if I stayed upbeat, I’d be useful .”
Aglaea looked at her for a moment - not judging, just weighing. Then, after a pause: “Better.”
Hyacine smiled faintly, heart ticking faster for reasons she couldn’t quite name. “Thanks.”
Aglaea gave a small nod, then returned to her own review without another word.
Hyacine glanced once more at Tribios’s essay, which was now comparing emotional maturity to construction sites. She let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
Just as Hyacine and Aglaea settled back into their reading, Tribios snapped her notebook shut with a decisive thwack, making both of them jump. Then she reopened it without explanation.
“Time for the unexpected eye,” she announced, leaning across the table. “Agy, your clarity is crystalline - but you're gliding over the emotions like they’re optional extras.”
Aglaea looked up, unimpressed. “Go on.”
Tribios tapped a page of Aglaea’s essay with purpose. “When you wrote ‘I stayed distant to preserve order’ - that’s neat and logical. But where’s the hint of the mess you felt? Where’s the…” she gestured wildly with her hands, channeling an internal emotion. “Where’s the tug at the heart?”
Hyacine watched as Aglaea paused, pen in hand. Tribios continued.
“Feed me something! Just a small moment. A flicker of doubt. That would make the light shine brighter.”
Aglaea considered, then nodded slowly. “I can do that. Maybe here - I paused, hands trembling as I realized distance was a shield, not a fence .”
Tribios’s grin was immediate and bright. “Yes! Now we’re listening.”
Suddenly, a faint commotion drifted up the hallway - a soft murmur of voices, the distant clang of hurried footsteps. Aglaea glanced toward the door, her eyes sharp.
“I better check on the stage setup,” she said quietly, rising. “There’s some odd smoke smell near the theatre. Probably nothing, but I want to be sure.”
Tribios didn't look up. "Tell the lighting ghosts I said hi!"
Aglaea gave a small, tired exhale that might've been a laugh. Then she left.
A moment later, Hyacine looked up and spotted the edge of a folded script still on Aglaea's desk - half-buried under a page of notes.
Curiosity stirred before she could stop it. She reached over, gently sliding it free.
The front page had no title, only Aglaea's looping handwriting and a scattering of underlines. She opened it, blinking at the amount of angry scratching and crossing there was on the page. It didn’t seem very… Aglaea-like.
At first, she only meant to skim.
Feather
I glide, weightless -
A whisper across cold glass,
Fragile, yet untouched by flame.
I dance in silence,
Held back by winds I cannot name.
The Feather reminded her of someone she barely understood but felt deeply for. The words from the aptly named Feather floated like light feathers on a cold breeze - beautiful but distant.
Flame
I roar, untamed -
A wildfire racing through dry wood,
Seeking a spark that won’t come.
I burn in fury,
Leaving ashes where trust once stood.
Hyacine’s eyes flickered over the lines, her breath catching quietly as she felt the weight of the story beneath the metaphor. The push and pull of closeness and distance, the fear of getting too near, and the loneliness born from silence. It was a dance of two people, each afraid, each hurting in their own way.
Feather
You scorch too fiercely -
Too quick to judge the quiet.
I am not absence,
But shelter, a still harbor for the storm.
Flame
I, too fierce? You drift away
A ghost of what could’ve been,
Never landing, never staying,
Leaving me to fight alone.
The words wrapped around Hyacine like a secret she wasn’t meant to hear. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she turned the page.
Feather
I feared the burn -
The risk of flame’s fierce embrace.
Is it not better to keep distance,
Than be consumed by what I crave?
Flame
Yet absence wounds deeper!
The cold silence between us speaks.
Your quiet is a blade,
Sharper than my fiercest heat.
Hyacine blinked hard, her chest tightening for some reason unbeknownst to herself.
Feather
I wished to say -
To bridge the gap with words unsaid.
But words were trapped inside,
Frozen, locked behind my guarded heart.
Flame
And I waited
For a sign, a flicker, a breath
But only shadows answered me,
Leaving me to burn alone in the dark.
Hyacine swallowed hard, the quiet room around her fading as the story echoed in her mind. She felt like she was witnessing something raw and fragile, an emotional chasm spanned by delicate words and painful silences.
Feather
If only I could gather courage,
To leap into your fire -
Would you catch me,
Or let me fall to ash?
Flame
I would hold you -
But only if you let me near.
Not every flame consumes
Some warm, and some heal.
Feather
Can we learn to dance -
Between fire and flight?
Flame
To burn without destroying,
To touch without fear?
By the time Hyacine set the pages down, her cheeks were wet with tears she hadn’t realized were falling. The quiet weight of the words stayed with her - unfinished, aching, but undeniably beautiful.
The door clicked open again, and she started.
Aglaea had returned. And her eyes landed instantly on the script in Hyacine's hands.
Her face froze.
She didn’t say anything right away - just stood there, shoulders stiffening slightly.
Hyacine opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked down, wiping away the tears. "Sorry… I didn’t mean to pry. It fell. I just… I didn’t know it would feel like that."
A long pause.
Aglaea stepped forward slowly, gaze unreadable.
"It’s not finished," she said quietly.
Hyacine nodded, eyes still glassy. "I know.”
Silence lingered between them - soft, weighty, and surprisingly unbroken.
Hyacine blinked a few times, gathering herself, and carefully folded the script back up. The heaviness of the words still lingered in the quiet room.
“Thank you for letting me read it,” she said softly. “I wasn’t expecting… well, all of this.”
Aglaea’s expression remained calm, but the tightness in her jaw softened. She looked away briefly, then back at Hyacine. “It’s not something I usually share. Not until it… feels right.”
Hyacine nodded, understanding. “If you ever want to share more, I’d like to read it.”
Aglaea’s eyes flickered with something almost like vulnerability. “Maybe. When the time comes.”
There was a pause, a fragile space filled with unspoken words.
Finally, Tribios cleared her throat, breaking the quiet. Hyacine blinked, realizing she’d been here the whole time.
“You know,” Tribios said, a faint smile playing at her lips, “it might be time to shuffle the papers again. I want to see what Aglaea’s work looks like through Hyacine’s eyes. And Hyacine, my eyes are fascinating , I promise.”
“Very well,” Aglaea said. “Let’s exchange.”
Hyacine set the script aside and reached for Aglaea’s essay, the familiar neat handwriting almost comforting after the emotional script. The quiet murmur of pens and soft rustling of pages returned.
The neat handwriting looked sharp under her gaze. She skimmed the opening lines, feeling the familiar pull of words shaping into meaning. The quiet scratch of pen on paper filled the room again.
“This part,” she said, her finger settling on a paragraph halfway down the page, “it feels like a turning point. Like you really captured the moment when everything started to shift.”
Aglaea glanced at the words, then at Hyacine, a faint, almost reluctant smile touching her lips. “I was afraid it was too much.”
“It’s not,” Hyacine said quickly. “It feels real.”
The air settled into something companionable. Still a little awkward, still a little tense with unfamiliarity, but it felt a little warmer - three students, caught in the quiet rhythm of pages and pens.
Aglaea cleared her throat, interrupting the silence.
She traced Tribios’ paper with a finger, lips pressing into a line of concentration. “Your imagery is vivid,” Aglaea began, “but there’s a tendency to lean on metaphor at the expense of clarity. The emotion can get lost beneath the layers.”
Tribios tilted her head, considering. “Layers are like the rings of a tree, though. You peel them back to find growth. Maybe I’m inviting the reader to dig, not just skim?”
Aglaea nodded once, sharp but not dismissive. “True. But you want the digging to feel natural, not frustrating. This needs a few concrete moments - small details that ground the metaphor.”
Tribios tapped her pencil thoughtfully. “Concrete moments, huh? Like the scent of rain on dry earth, or a forgotten melody caught in the breeze?”
Aglaea lifted an eyebrow.
“Fineee,” Tribios said happily. “No forgotten melody metaphors.”
Aglaea’s eyes softened just slightly. “It anchors the reader’s feeling to something real.”
Tribios smiled, a spark lighting her face.
“You know,” she said suddenly, squinting at Hyacine’s paper, “your sentences feel like they’re walking on tiptoe. They’re pretty! But it feels like they’re afraid to take up space.”
Hyacine blinked. “Oh. Um. Is that… bad?”
Tribios shrugged, flipping her pencil end over end. “Not bad . But maybe let a few of them stomp a little. Make noise! Say something like they mean it, even if it’s messy.”
Hyacine opened her mouth, then slowly closed it again. “Huh.”
Aglaea glanced up, watching the exchange with quiet interest.
“I just think,” Tribios continued, leaning back in her chair with an air of what Hyacine could only describe as a graceful indignancy, “you’re allowed to write a sentence that doesn’t apologize for being in the paragraph.”
Hyacine gave a breath of laughter. “Okay. I’ll… try to stomp a little.”
Tribios smiled at her. “That’s the spirit!”
After a while, the quiet hum of writing and occasional murmured comments settled into a comfortable rhythm. Hyacine found herself rereading a section of Aglaea’s essay, not because she had more feedback, but because she liked how it sounded.
Aglaea looked less rigid now, her hair slipping slightly out of place as she leaned forward, scribbling a note in the margin of Tribios’ paper. Tribios, in turn, was humming under her breath again, tapping her pencil against her knee in a syncopated rhythm only she seemed to understand.
There was a kind of balance in the room, Hyacine realized suddenly. A strange little harmony. She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up inside it, but she was grateful.
She glanced up at the window as the light shifted, noticing the softening glow of late afternoon. The sun filtered in at a slant, brushing gold across the edge of Aglaea’s desk.
Hyacine rubbed her eyes and stretched her fingers, the quiet ache in her shoulders reminding her how long she’d been there. The cozy hush of the room, so intimidating before, now felt like something she didn’t want to leave.
“I should probably get going,” she said reluctantly, folding her essay with careful movements.
Tribios glanced up from where she was scribbling half a sentence into the margin of a sheet already covered in arrows and doodles. “Don't forget your elbows,” she said solemnly, as if it were the most urgent parting wisdom imaginable.
Hyacine looked down to check. “...My elbows?”
Tribios twirled her pencil. “People always forget the things closest to them.”
Hyacine laughed, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “I’ll keep them on me.”
Aglaea looked up. “You’re welcome to come again. If you'd like.”
That startled Hyacine more than she expected. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smiling nervously. “I’d… like that.”
Tribios gave a satisfied hum, leaning back in her chair with exaggerated poise. “Then it is decided! We shall reconvene. Same chaos, new dialogue.”
Hyacine took a last glance around the room - the scattered sheet music, the crumpled paper balls near the bin, the way Aglaea’s desk light cast a halo on the wall.
“Thank you,” she said again, a little softer this time. “Really.”
Aglaea nodded once. “Goodnight, Hyacine.”
With that, Hyacine stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.
The door clicked shut behind Hyacine.
For a moment, the room was still - just the soft hum of evening light and the rustle of paper as Tribios leaned back in her chair, arms folded behind her head.
“She’s a curious one,” she said at last, voice light but laced with affection, like she already knew she was stating the obvious.
Aglaea didn’t respond immediately. She stood where she was, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, eyes distant.
Tribios glanced over. “You okay?”
Aglaea blinked, looking at her. “She read it.”
Tribios gave a small shrug. “You left it out.”
“That was an accident,” Aglaea said, a little too quickly.
Tribios traced an invisible pattern in the air. “Are you sure?”
A pause.
“She cried,” Aglaea said quietly, eyes flicking to the desk like it held something dangerous.
“She has a soft soul,” Tribios said simply.
“I… wasn’t ready for anyone to see it.”
Tribios didn’t fill the silence right away. Instead, she leaned back again, hugging her knees loosely to her chest, studying Aglaea like she already knew the answer but was waiting to see if she'd say it herself.
“She didn’t try to interpret it,” she said at last. “She just felt it. You know that.”
Aglaea didn’t answer.
Tribios tilted her head. “Will you let her keep feeling it? Or are you going to go back to your cold fortress again?”
Aglaea gave her a look. “That’s rich coming from someone who once wrote a love song in a made-up language so no one could understand it.”
“Ah!” Tribios gasped, flinging one arm dramatically over her chest. “And yet! You understood it perfectly.”
“I was sixteen,” Aglaea muttered, but there was no real heat in it. “Teenagers think they understand everything.”
Tribios grinned like she’d won something. “Point still stands!”
Aglaea didn’t deny it. Her mouth pressed into a thoughtful line.
“You like her,” Tribios observed.
“I’m... not sure what I feel,” Aglaea said, too quietly to sound dismissive.
Tribios smiled faintly, picking up her pencil again. “You don’t have to be sure yet. Some people grow on you like songs. Slow at first. Then suddenly, they’re the only thing you're humming.”
Aglaea exhaled softly - half sigh, half surrender. “You make it sound simple.”
“Oh, not simple,” Tribios said, turning a page. “Never simple. You know that already. But true all the same.”
Aglaea didn’t argue.
Instead, she crossed the room, lifted the script from the desk, and turned it over in her hands. Her fingers hovered over a corner, like she wasn’t sure whether to tuck it away or leave it out again.
Behind her, Tribios stretched her arms high and yawned.
“You know,” she said through her yawn, “if you leave it out again, I’ll probably read it too.”
Aglaea didn’t turn around.
“I know,” she said.
She didn’t put it away.
The dorm hallways had gone still, quiet in the way only late night could make them. Cipher was already snoring in bed, tucked under her blanket and sprawled in an ungodly position. Most lights were out, save for a soft golden one glowing beside Hyacine’s bed.
She was curled up with her knees tucked under a blanket, journal open across her lap and a barely-used pen poised in her fingers. Her handwriting trailed halfway down the page, looping and trailing as her thoughts tumbled over each other.
Tomorrow.
She glanced over at the slip of paper with the assignment note still folded beside her pillow - “ Library mystery room !”
Hyacine smiled. Something about old spaces made her feel calm, like they were waiting to be listened to. Places with dust and forgotten boxes and faded labels. The basement probably hadn’t been touched in ages, which made it all the more exciting.
She could already imagine it: the hum of quiet, the scent of old paper, the way light filtered through half-closed slats on the tiny windows. Maybe she’d find something strange. Maybe she'd find nothing at all. But either way, it felt like… possibility.
She scribbled one last note in the margin of her page - “don’t forget flashlight & gloves!!” - and underlined it twice. Then she closed the journal with a soft snap and clicked off her lamp.
The night wrapped around her like a blanket, quiet and full of mystery. And just before drifting off, she whispered to herself,
“The roots remember what the leaves forget.”
And she slept with a smile.
Notes:
Tribios: You like her, don't you?
Aglaea: You, Me, Gas Station. What are we getting for dinner? Sushi of course! Uh Oh, there was a roofie inside of our gas station sushi. We black out and wake up in a sewer. We’re surrounded by fish. Horny fish. You know what that means? Fish orgy! The stench draws in a bear. What do we do? We’re gonna fight it. Bear fight, bare handed, bare naked? Oh, yes please! We befriend the bear after we beat it in a brawl, and we ride it into a Chuck E. Cheese™️. Dance. Dance. Revolution. Revolution, overthrow the government? Uh, I think so. Next thing you know, I’m reincarnated as Jesus Christ. I turn into a jet, fly into the sun, and black out again. Wake up, white out, which I didn’t know you could do, then I smoked a joint, GREENED out, then I turned into the sun. Uh oh, looks like the meth is kickin’ in, duzubuzupzudahaha, AAAAH!
Aglaea: [Automatic reply] Hi, I'm currently unavailable, and I won't be contacting you later
Aglaea: To be fair, you have to have a very high IQ to understand Rick and Morty. The humor is extremely subtle, and without a solid grasp of theoretical physics most of the jokes will go over a typical viewer's head. There's also Rick's nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his characterisation - his personal philosophy draws heavily fromNarodnaya Volya literature, for instance. The fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these jokes, to realize that they're not just funny- they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike Rick and Morty truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn't appreciate, for instance, the humour in Rick's existencial catchphrase "Wubba Lubba Dub Dub," which itself is a cryptic reference to Turgenev's Russian epic Fathers and Sons I'm smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as Dan Harmon's genius unfolds itself on their television screens. What fools... how I pity them. 😂 And yes by the way, I DO have a Rick and Morty tattoo. And no, you cannot see it. It's for the ladies' eyes only- And even they have to demonstrate that they're within 5 IQ points of my own (preferably lower) beforehand.
Tribios: Yeah, she likes her!
Chapter Text
The door to the library basement creaked open.
Early morning light filtered through the narrow stairwell window, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The door thudded closed behind her, muffling the world above.
Hyacine peeked in, then stepped forward with the determined enthusiasm of someone who had mentally prepared for this exact moment for days. The air smelled of heavy dust, but she didn’t flinch.
She stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust.
Dust floated in the air like soft snow, drifting through the shafts of morning light. Everything smelled old - ink and mildew and something dry and papery, like the breath of forgotten stories. It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just… dormant. Like the whole room had been holding its breath.
She adjusted her small floral backpack and moved forward, sneakers whispering across the floor.
She had arrived early - not that anyone else would notice, but still, she liked it that way. It gave her a head start on the chaos.
Her backpack thudded softly as she set it down by the door. Then, grinning, she crouched and unzipped it, her supplies peeking out at her.
Standing back up, Hyacine surveyed the room again.
She took in the sagging bookshelf, then the two mismatched couches, the chalkboard with its ghost writing, the frayed carpet in the center of it all. A folded lawn chair sat crooked in the corner like a relic from a student event no one remembered. Papers curled and yellowed on the long desk. The broken clock still clung to 2:43.
It was a lot. But she had expected that. She had planned for it.
She took a deep breath, put on her slightly-too-large dust mask, snapped her small gloves on, and planted her hands on her hips.
"Okay," she whispered to herself, eyes peeking out from above the mask. "Let’s help this place remember how to breathe."
And then she tied back her hair, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.
She started with the dust.
It coated everything - thick and undisturbed, the kind that settled in thick drifts on every surface it could find. Hyacine knelt beside the towering bookshelf, a gentle smile touching her lips despite the dust motes swirling around her. The old wooden shelves sagged under the weight of forgotten texts, curling pamphlets, and rows upon rows of old spines.
She reached out carefully, running her fingers over the worn titles, feeling the roughness of the paper and the history they held. A tiny doodle scrawled on the edge of one book caught her eye - a little grinning star that made her smile quietly to herself.
She pulled out her lavender cloth (the one for dust!) and sprayed a light mist of cleaner into the air. It sparkled briefly in the sunlight before settling.
She began to wipe, slow and careful, her strokes leaving clean streaks through the gray. The cloth came away visibly darker with each pass, leaving her weirdly satisfied.
She moved book by book, pulling each one just enough to swipe clean the spot behind it. One revealed a crumpled sticky note: don’t forget the theater meeting! in looping handwriting. She smiled at it and set it aside like it might matter to someone.
Then she reached for a thin red book - and froze.
Perched behind it, nestled between two paperbacks like it owned the place, sat a massive spider. Brown, long-legged, and very much awake.
Hyacine let out a sharp squeak, muffled by the mask, and scrambled backward, bumping her elbow on the bookshelf. “Nope!” she gasped, eyes wide.
The spider didn’t move. It looked a little confused.
She slowly backed away, found an empty jar on the desk, and held it in both hands like a knight approaching a (finger-sized) dragon.
“Okay, listen,” she told the spider sternly. “You can make this easy and leave peacefully… or I’m making you a very unwilling guest of the outside world.”
The spider made no comment.
Hyacine lunged, clapped the jar over it, and slid a paper underneath with impressive speed and only one high-pitched yelp.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she slipped a paper beneath the jar. “You didn’t ask for this.”
Carefully, she carried it upstairs and out into the sun, tipping the jar gently beside a patch of grass. The spider crawled out without fanfare and vanished behind a leaf.
“Thanks for the company,” she said softly, waving. Then she felt silly.
Back in the basement, she gave the bookshelf a wary glance and then got back to work.
The more she wiped, the more the titles returned - gold foil glinting faintly in the light, embossed letters slowly reclaiming their presence. A dusty blue tome revealed a gilded emblem of a tree; a cracked volume beside it turned out to be a collection of plays, brittle at the edges but still whole.
There was something soothing about the repetition. Spray. Wipe. Slide the book aside. Breathe. Her thoughts quieted into the rhythm. The scent of lavender and paper mixed gently in the air, lifting the mustiness bit by bit.
By the time she reached the bottom shelf, her knees ached and the cloth was completely gray, but the shelf looked alive again. It wasn’t perfect - but it was clear. Real. Used. It felt like someone might actually reach for one of these books again.
The rug was next.
It sat in the center of the room like a tired old dog, frayed at the edges and blanketed in enough dust to qualify as sediment. Hyacine crouched at one corner and tugged gently.
A thick puff of dust exploded into the air like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
She coughed, stumbled back a little, and then tugged her dust mask more securely over her nose. “No mercy, huh,” she muttered, voice muffled.
Gripping the rug again, she heaved. It peeled off the floor with a sound like old tape, releasing another massive puff of dust into the air. Light from the narrow window caught it, turning it into a floating golden fog.
Hyacine sneezed once. Then again. “That’s fine,” she said out loud, mostly to herself. “Just my lungs. Who needs those.”
Bending again, she slowly rolled one side back, revealing a grimy patch of floor beneath - darker than the rest, peppered with crumbs, glitter, and unidentified substances.
She wrestled the rug into a rolled bundle and leaned it against the wall like a captured beast.
Pausing for a breath, she peeked down at the now-exposed floor beneath. The wood was stained, little dust-craters forming where the rug used to press flat. A few crumpled gum wrappers and a very old library receipt huddled in the corners. She gave the floor a sympathetic look.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You’ll be cute again.”
With a determined huff, she hoisted the rug into her arms - awkward, lumpy, but manageable - and shouldered the basement door open. A plan formed as she climbed the narrow stairs, struggling only a little.
Where to take it? The courtyard would be too public. Behind the music hall? Too much wind. The patch of grass behind the art building? Possible. She pivoted twice on the sidewalk before picking a direction.
“Adventure time!” she said to herself.
Fifteen minutes and one mildly dramatic shaking session later, she returned triumphant - dustier, windblown, and feeling like she’d fought a large and very musty beast.
The floor waited patiently.
Hyacine dropped to her knees and began sweeping with intense focus. Dust gathered into little piles. Crumbs skittered. Her brush kept squeaking against the stone in the same rhythm, and eventually, she started humming along with it just to stay sane.
“Dust is temporary,” she whispered like a mantra.
She kept sweeping, determined. Her knees ached a little. A stray paperclip stabbed her palm, causing her to jump back and yelp.
And still - she smiled.
As she stood, brushing dust off her knees and admiring the newly cleaned floor, the next thing that caught her eye was the chalkboard.
Hyacine stood in front of it, its surface thick with a layer of dust and smudged chalk. She lifted a corner of her cloth and began to gently sweep the dust away, careful not to disturb the faint chalk lines beneath.
Slowly, ghostly equations and tentative doodles emerged from the haze, delicate and worn with time. In the upper corner, a small sun smiled quietly, its rays faded but still warm in their simplicity.
She paused for a moment.
Her fingers followed the shapes carefully - a half-erased formula here, a doodle there. She wondered who had drawn them, and what they’d been thinking about.
For a moment, the room felt quieter. Like the chalkboard was remembering something, too. She touched the sun’s edge lightly, a tiny smile flickering on her lips. Beneath the dust and years, this place still held life.
Hyacine paused, glancing around the basement as the dust settled again, the air feeling thick.
She pulled out her phone and messaged Phainon.
Hyacine: Help!!! The library basement smells like a history lesson!!! So much dust… any tips on clearing the air?
His quick reply popped up:
Phainon₊˚⊹ᰔ: Low power fan! Circulates without stirring up too much dust o7
Hyacine: Thank you!!!
Grateful, she sent a message to Cipher.
Hyacine: Cipher!!!
Hyacine: Can I borrow that small fan you have?
Hyacine: I’ll be done with it by afternoon :)
CIPHER! (•˕ •マ.ᐟ: ok where r u
Hyacine laughed at Cipher’s silly-looking abbreviations.
Hyacine: Library basement!!!
CIPHER! (•˕ •マ.ᐟ: omw dont move
Hyacine barely had time to think about the next step before she heard footsteps echoing down the stairs.
“Hellooo, is this Library Basement?” Cipher’s voice called out curiously.
She looked up just as Cipher appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching the small, slightly battered fan like it was a prized artifact. Her eyes scanned the cluttered space with raised eyebrows.
“Rescue mission accomplished,” Cipher said, holding it out with a grin.
Hyacine grinned back, standing up to meet her halfway. “You’re amazing!” she said - then paused, realizing she still had her dust mask on. She tugged it off, her smile more visible now.
“That’s a bit big on you,” Cipher noted, smirking.
Hyacine gave her a look but didn’t bother answering. Instead, she crouched to plug the fan in and fiddled with the fan’s buttons. It hummed to life, quietly circulating the stale air.
“Perfect,” she murmured, watching the dust motes dance lazily in the new breeze.
Cipher eyed the dusty couch, gave it a cautious poke, and sat down on the arm instead. “I didn’t realize our school had a place this… old. And cool-looking. How have I never been down here before?”
Hyacine shrugged, already eager to get back to work. “It’s kind of a hidden spot, but it’s a complete disaster right now.”
Cipher smirked, getting up to leave. “Well, don’t work too hard without me.”
Hyacine laughed softly. “No promises.”
As the door shut behind her friend, Hyacine glanced up and noticed the faint flicker of a bare bulb in the corner of the ceiling. One of the lights was missing entirely, a dull, dark socket staring down at her.
She sighed.
Hyacine: Sorry to bother again… do you have a lightbulb?
Phainon₊˚⊹ᰔ: Np! I got plenty, what size you need?
Hyacine: How do you tell the size?
Phainon₊˚⊹ᰔ: Ah forget it. I’m on my way!
A few minutes later, Phainon’s footsteps echoed down the stairwell, and Hyacine looked up from where she was crouched beside the couch, brushing lint off the cushion with a scrap of cloth.
“Phainon!” she called brightly, popping up and waving. “You're officially my favorite person today.”
He appeared in the doorway with a box of lightbulbs tucked under one arm, grinning like he’d just won a prize. “Knew it! Lightbulb hero reporting for duty.”
Hyacine beamed at him and gestured to the room. “Welcome to the noble ruins of the Library Basement.”
Phainon stepped inside and gave an exaggerated nod. “Looks like a fixer-upper. Think we can bring it back from the brink?”
“I hope so,” Hyacine said, brushing hair out of her face. “I’ve been sweeping and dusting and trying to convince the bookshelf not to give up on life.”
He set the box down and turned to her with mock seriousness. “Alright, Professor Dawncloud - walk me through the scene. What’s broken?”
Hyacine smiled, pointed upward. “That fixture. Totally empty. I’ve been pretending it’s fine, but it’s driving me a little crazy.”
Phainon squinted up at it thoughtfully. “Hmm. Sounds serious. Let’s confirm the diagnosis.”
He stepped closer, dragging a stool into place with a soft screech. He climbed up and unscrewed the dusty cap, peering into the socket.
“No bulb at all,” he reported. “Tragic.”
Hyacine gave a quiet hum of satisfaction. “So I wasn’t imagining it!”
“Afraid not.” He rummaged through the box and held up a small bulb, grinning. “But lucky for you, I brought the cure.”
Once the new bulb was in, the fixture lit up overhead, casting soft light across the room.
Hyacine let out a quiet, delighted sound, taking in the newly lit room. “Much better!”
Phainon gave her a satisfied grin, then glanced around. “Okay, what else is acting suspicious?”
Hyacine scanned the room, then pointed to the towering bookshelf, newly dusted. “That one. It creaks when I walk by. I think it’s judging me.”
They made their way over. Phainon crouched to inspect it, nudging the edge. The wood gave a soft wobble.
“Loose brackets,” he confirmed. “Not dangerous yet, but not stable either.”
Hyacine pressed her palm against the frame, watching it shift. “We can fix this one, right?”
“Definitely,” he said. “Anything else?”
She gestured at the long wooden table. “This seemed solid, but now I’m suspicious.”
Phainon knelt beside it and rocked it gently. “Wobbly leg. It’s not loose - the floor’s just slanted here.”
He smiled. “Let’s fix these before something breaks. You’re lucky I brought all my stuff, not just the spare lightbulbs! Ready?”
Hyacine nodded, already rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s save a shelf.”
He knelt beside the tall, leaning bookshelf, tugging open his bag. A small toolkit, completely unorganized as far as Hyacine could tell, spilled open onto the floor. “Okay, I need you to press here,” he said, pointing to the left side of the shelf. “Hold it steady while I tighten these screws. Should only take a minute.”
Hyacine crouched, bracing the edge with both hands. The wood was rough beneath her palms, still dusty in the corners, but solid.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered to the shelf. “We’re not giving up on you.”
Phainon glanced at her, amused, and began tightening the screws with slow, deliberate turns. Each little click of the screwdriver was oddly satisfying - like winding tension into something sturdy. As the screws bit deeper into place, the whole unit gave a small shift backward, settling as if it, too, was exhaling.
Hyacine watched the movement with quiet satisfaction. “I think it just sighed in relief.”
Phainon smiled. “Good sign. That means it trusts us.”
They moved to the writing table next. Phainon gave it a shake and it wobbled.
Hyacine tilted her head. “So… we fix the floor?”
Phainon grinned and pulled a crumpled newspaper from his bag. “Nope. We cheat.” He tore off a large chunk and folded it with practiced precision. “Paper shims!”
He slid the folded newspaper piece under the shortest leg and pressed down gently. The wobble vanished. Hyacine reached up and tested it with a light knock, and it didn’t budge at all.
“That’s it?” Hyacine said, surprised.
“Shims,” Phainon said reverently. “The backbone of my future career.”
Hyacine laughed. “So dramatic.”
The last patient was the old wooden chair. “This one’s seen better days,” Phainon joked, running a finger along the fracture.
Hyacine stepped closer, biting her lip. “I was worried about sitting on it.”
Phainon gave a reassuring smile. “We’ll fix it up. Wood glue and a clamp - nothing fancy, but it’ll hold.”
He pulled out a small bottle of glue from his bag and applied a thin line along the crack. Hyacine steadied the chair as he pressed the pieces together.
“Hold it still for a bit,” Phainon instructed, tightening the clamp around the leg.
Hyacine took a breath and shifted to find a comfortable position, her hands lightly resting on the chair’s frame.
“Careful - if you wiggle, the glue’ll give up on us,” he said, eyeing her with a mock-stern look.
She smiled despite herself. “No promises.”
Once a clamp was in place and the glue had set a bit, Phainon gave the chair a tentative wiggle.
“This’ll hold for now,” he said, satisfied. “But I’ll bring back my drill later and reinforce it. I’m not letting you get taken out by a rogue chair.”
They stood back and looked at the room.
The shelf no longer sagged. The table stood firm. The chair stood like it trusted itself again.
Hyacine brushed dust off her knees, hair tied messily back and slightly frizzed from static. “It’s like… every time we fix something, it gets a little more alive in here,” she said, smiling.
“Places remember things,” Phainon agreed. “All it takes is someone who wants to help them remember.”
Hyacine nodded, feeling the words settle in her heart.
Phainon slung his bag over one shoulder, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips.
“Well, that should hold everything steady for now,” Phainon said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “But hey, if anything goes rogue again, you know who to call!”
Hyacine smiled, brushing dust from her sleeves. “Thanks for coming down. You’re a lifesaver.”
He gave a playful salute. “Anytime - I’m off to rescue other disasters!”
With a wave, he headed up the stairs, his cheery footsteps fading.
Hyacine watched the door close behind him.
“Time to bring you back,” she murmured up to the clock.
Hyacine glanced up at it, its hands frozen stubbornly at 2:43 high above the doorframe. She stood on her tiptoes, stretching every bit of height she had, but still barely grazed the edge.
With a small frustrated huff, she glanced around, eyes landing on the chair Phainon had just helped her glue together.
“Well,” she muttered, “desperate times.”
She dragged the chair closer, gave it a careful shake - it held surprisingly firmly - and climbed up cautiously, balancing on the uneven seat.
Reaching up, she grasped the clock’s edges and carefully unhooked it from the wall, wincing at the awkward angle. It was heavier than she expected, and she nearly pitched over.
Kneeling on the chair, she wiped her palms off, pulled out a tiny screwdriver from her backpack, and carefully popped off the clock’s back panel.
Swapping the old battery for a fresh one, she held her breath for a moment.
Then, with a quiet click , the second hand sprang forward, ticking steadily as if the basement had taken its first breath in years.
Hyacine smiled softly. “Good as new,” she whispered to herself. Carefully, she lifted the clock and hung it back on the wall, adjusting it until it sat straight. Satisfied, she climbed down from the chair, grinning.
Just as she began work on wiping off the dust from the large wooden desk, the door creaked open quietly.
Anaxa’s head appeared around the frame, eyebrows raised.
“Making progress,” he said quietly, stepping inside.
Hyacine looked up, surprised but pleased to see him. “Oh, Anax - I mean, Professor!”
“I allowed you to call me by that name, if you recall,” Anaxa said, but he looked faintly amused.
“Right.” Hyacine laughed sheepishly. “I’m cleaning this room up - there’s a lot of dust.”
“I can tell,” he said, tracing a finger along the wall. “I saw Mr. Elysiae leaving this room with an entirely too cheerful disposition, and figured you must be nearby as well.”
“Phainon is…” Hyacine searched for the words.
“A character?” Anaxa supplied.
“A character,” Hyacine agreed, smiling.
He nodded toward the window, where the light was shifting toward midday. “Well, remember to rest. Even dust needs a break from being stirred.”
She smiled, wiping one last patch and setting the cloth aside.
“I will,” she promised.
Anaxa gave a small, approving nod, then paused as if weighing whether to say more.
“Your care for this place,” he said matter-of-factly. “It shows. Sometimes the smallest efforts echo the loudest.”
Hyacine blinked, a warm feeling blooming inside her.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
With that, Anaxa retreated, the door closing softly behind him.
Hyacine exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the morning’s work. She glanced around the basement, now humming with faint light and fresh air.
…Maybe it was time for a break.
Hyacine leaned back, letting the quiet settle around her as she rested. The soft hum of the fan and the warm afternoon light spilling through the window gave her a chance to pause and breathe.
She toyed with the idea of resting a moment longer, but a glance at the dusty furniture pulled her attention back.
Rising slowly, she stretched her arms and shook off the rest from her brief break. “Alright,” she murmured to herself, “back to it.”
Standing, she stretched her arms slowly, muscles pleasantly sore from the cleaning and repairs. The quiet stillness wrapped around her like a soft blanket, but there was work waiting to be done.
Encouraged by the clock’s steady ticking, Hyacine ran her fingers over the dusty upholstery of the couches. The fabric was rough beneath the layers of dust. She reached between the cushions and pulled out a brittle, folded program from an old campus event. A small smile flickered as she smoothed its worn edges.
Humming softly, she snapped her dust mask back on and began dusting the couches in slow, careful strokes, the faint sun doodle on the chalkboard watching over her progress.
Next, she knelt next to the frayed, newly dusted rug, smoothing wrinkles and brushing crumbs aside. With each stroke, the fabric softened beneath her hands, slowly waking from years of neglect.
She took a moment to stretch her arms, feeling the pleasant ache of work done so far, and turned back to the desk. Her fingers brushed over scattered papers and notebooks, some yellowed with age, others surprisingly well preserved. Carefully, she picked up a loose sheet and smoothed it out, then set it aside to dust another corner of the desk.
Slowly, the rich grain of the wood began to reemerge beneath her gentle cleaning, the years of neglect giving way to something quietly hopeful.
The quiet was comforting, punctuated only by the soft swish of her cloth and distant sounds of the building above.
Her arms tingled from the effort, but she pressed on.
Minutes stretched into hours as Hyacine moved methodically across the room. Dust motes danced in the warm afternoon light, stirred by the steady rhythm of her cleaning and the little fan powering on. Her arms ached, but she kept going - spraying, wiping, brushing - until the thick layers of dust and time had finally lifted.
Where once the couches were dull and lifeless, the fabric now looked softened and inviting. The carpet’s faded colors brightened beneath her careful touch, its wrinkles smoothed away like wrinkles in a well-loved blanket.
Hyacine stepped back, smiling as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. The basement, once heavy with dust and silence, now breathed quietly around her - warm, clean, and waiting. It wasn’t perfect, but it was alive. And, for now, that was enough.
She lingered a moment longer, turning in place, taking it all in. The couches looked softer now. The chalkboard glowed faintly in the sun. But her gaze drifted to the corner near the bookshelf - an empty patch of floor that felt a little too bare.
She tilted her head.
Something was missing.
Not much. Just… a chair, maybe. Something comfy. Something with presence.
A flash of memory surfaced: the old reading chair in the common room - slightly ugly, deeply squishy, unused, and always mysteriously unclaimed. She grinned.
Well. It wasn’t doing anything, right?
Hyacine made her way up from the basement, squinting a little as she stepped into the bright light of day. The walk to the common room wasn’t far, but each step reminded her that her legs were a little sore.
The chair was still there, exactly as she'd remembered - slouched in the corner like a sleepy cat, all lumpy cushions and scuffed arms. Hyacine gave it an evaluating look, rolled up her sleeves like she meant business, and braced her feet against the floor.
“Okay, big guy,” she muttered, and gave it a tug.
Nothing.
She shifted her grip, arms wrapped awkwardly around the back, and tried dragging it backwards in short, clumsy scoots. It made an awful scraping sound the entire way. Her arms and legs burned. The chair remained stubbornly present, like it had fused with the floor over decades of neglect.
Hyacine paused, panting, hands on her knees.
“Why are you like this?” she asked it.
“Talking to furniture?” a voice behind her said dryly.
She jumped. Mydei stood just a few feet away, holding a paper coffee cup and watching her with a slightly raised brow. He looked like he’d been there long enough to witness at least the last two attempts.
Hyacine straightened, flustered. “I - yes. No. I mean... I’m trying to move it.”
He tilted his head.
Without further commentary, he set his drink aside, stepped forward, and - like it was nothing - heaved the chair onto one shoulder. It wobbled slightly but stayed balanced.
Hyacine stared. “ How ?”
He shrugged. “It’s not that heavy.”
He didn’t reply - just waited for her to start walking. She did so, trying not to feel too ridiculous as she walked next to him, hands empty.
“I loosened it,” she muttered.
They stepped outside, following the familiar path toward the library. A warm breeze passed through, and somewhere in the distance, a bird sang.
A student passed them, giving Mydei a strange look (which was probably fair).
They passed the auditorium, and a faint burnt smell met them. Mydei slowed, frowning.
Hyacine looked around. “Is something on fire?”
He pointed to the taped sign:
DO NOT USE NORTH WING OUTLETS - PENDING REPAIR
He stared at it for a long moment.
“That’s bad.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “Like bad-bad or just regular bad?”
“Both,” he said, already walking again.
When they reached the library steps, he adjusted his grip and navigated the narrow stairwell with surprising ease, the chair balanced awkwardly but securely on his shoulder. Hyacine scrambled ahead to open the basement door.
Inside, the room welcomed them with quiet light and the faint scent of lavender still lingering in the air. Mydei set the chair down with a soft thump , glancing around as he straightened up.
“This place looks... good,” he said. “I didn’t know there was a room down here.”
Hyacine beamed. “I’ve been cleaning it all day. It’s kind of my little project now.”
He nodded, walking a slow circle around the space. “Nice,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, “That rug’s ugly.”
Hyacine laughed. “It’s vintage !”
“Uh-huh.”
He turned to leave, grabbing his coffee on the way. At the top of the stairs, he glanced back down.
“If anything else needs hauling,” he said, “let me know.”
Hyacine grinned. “You’re officially on call.”
He didn’t smile, but there was the faintest lift to one corner of his mouth before he vanished through the door.
She stood alone again in the stillness, the room now just a little more complete.
The chair sat waiting, lumpy and familiar in its new corner. Hyacine stepped over and patted the armrest.
“Welcome home,” she said softly.
With the chair finally in place, Hyacine stepped back and took in the room again - clean, sunlit, and gently echoing in its emptiness.
It needed something soft. Something from her.
She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a small bundle of supplies she’d saved for this part: a folded tea towel to lay on the table like a runner, a tiny ceramic dish for holding spare paperclips and pennies, a faded sticker she affixed to the corner of the chalkboard. She added a mason jar half-full of dried flowers, placed carefully on the windowsill where the light hit just right.
It was simple. Uneven. A little mismatched.
But already, the room felt more like a space someone cared about - not just a clean basement, but a nook in the making.
She stood in the middle, hands proudly on her hips, and smiled.
Hyacine: Tribios!!!
Hyacine: Do you still have that pile of old posters from the events board?
Hyacine: And maybe string lights? Pillows? Some more cool or decorative stuff you’re not using :O
The typing dots appeared almost immediately.
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): [Photo: a glittery pillow in harsh light]
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): The Beanbag Throne,
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): rough around the edges,
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): perfect for Your Noble Knees.
Hyacine: Looks awesome!!!
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): Do you Require
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): The String Lights of Infinite Possibility?
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): (They hum softly when no one’s Looking)
Hyacine laughed.
Hyacine: I’ll take it!!!
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): LIGHT
TRIBIOS (๑﹏๑//): also do you want the mini disco ball or is that Too Much
Hyacine: Why do you have a mini disco ball?
Less than ten minutes later, the basement door flung open like a stage entrance.
Tribios burst in, arms overflowing with pillows, posters, and something shaped suspiciously like a lava lamp. Her hair was slightly windblown and she looked deeply pleased with herself.
“Hyacine!” she announced. “I bring life, I bring light, I bring approximately… thirteen? Fourteen years of collected chaos and hopefully a little magic.”
She paused, taking in the room’s soft light, the worn edges, the quiet hum of dust disturbed and settled. “Oooh, this place feels like a secret waiting to be told, doesn’t it? It’s been holding its breath for someone to remember it properly.”
Hyacine blinked. “You brought a beanbag.”
“Two,” Tribios said solemnly, dropping both with a soft fwump . “A bit of myself folded within.”
Behind her, quieter footsteps followed - and Aglaea stepped inside, carrying something small and wrapped in a cloth.
She said nothing at first. Just glanced around the room once, slow and assessing.
Then she walked forward, set the wrapped object gently on the table, and unwrapped it.
What emerged was a small, simple hand mirror. It was silver-trimmed, a little scuffed around the edge. Unassuming, but beautiful.
“For the wall,” Aglaea said. “Or a drawer. Up to you.”
Hyacine blinked. “Is this - wait, are you giving me -?”
“Don’t make it weird,” Aglaea said, but she was smiling dryly.
Hyacine opened her mouth to answer, but Aglaea was already turning to help Tribios untangle the string lights.
Hyacine looked down at the mirror, touched.
“Okay,” she whispered, grinning. “This place is gonna be cute and have taste.”
Hours passed in a gentle blur - string lights twinkled faintly as dusk settled outside, posters and drawings found their places on the walls, and soft pillows gathered in welcoming clusters on the floor. The scent of fresh dust mingled with the faint hum of music softly playing from the small Bluetooth speaker Tribios had brought.
Hyacine moved from corner to corner, fluffing pillows, straightening posters, and adjusting the glow of the lights just so. Each small touch made the space feel less like a forgotten basement and more like a cozy refuge created with care.
At last, she stepped back and surveyed the room. Warm light spilled from every corner, casting gentle shadows that seemed to invite whispered conversations and quiet moments. The hand mirror from Aglaea caught the soft glow, its scuffed edges somehow adding to the room’s charm. The air smelled faintly of lavender cleaner, mingling with the warm scent of worn fabric and old wood.
The room breathed, alive with promise and care.
A wide smile spread across Hyacine’s face. The space felt alive now - welcoming, lived-in, hers.
“This place is awesome,” she whispered, pride settling warmly in her chest.
One more person to text.
Hyacine: Castorice!!!
Hyacine: Wanna see the room I made
Hyacine: Well, a lot of people helped
CASTORICEEEEEE FSJFKLSF (๑ > ᴗ < ๑): where?
Hyacine’s phone buzzed almost immediately. She smiled, her fingers already tapping out a reply.
Hyacine: It’s a little room in the basement of the library!!!
CASTORICEEEEEE FSJFKLSF (๑ > ᴗ < ๑): ok i am coming
A few minutes later, a soft knock sounded at the door.
Castorice stepped inside, eyes wide as she took in the softly glowing room, the scattered pillows, and the gentle hum of music.
“Oh wow,” she said quietly. “It’s really nice.”
Hyacine smiled, nerves fluttering beneath the surface. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if it’d feel like… much.”
Castorice shook her head, settling carefully onto one of the pillows. “No, it feels like a place you’d want to spend time in. Like… a nook.”
Hyacine’s eyes lit up. “Say that again.”
“A nook?” Castorice said, looking confused.
“A nook…” Hyacine said thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to call it that. Nook.”
“That’s a good name.” Castorice looked around again, her eyes settling on the soft glow of the string lights. “It’s funny how something so small can feel… like its own little world.”
“Yeah,” Hyacine murmured, tucking her knees up against her chest. “A secret place. Just for us - well, not us-us, I mean, like, anyone who… um.” She shut up, cheeks blooming pink.
Castorice didn’t say anything right away, just smiled a little, eyes flicking back to the string lights.
“I’d come here,” she said finally.
Hyacine turned to her, startled by the honesty. “You would?”
Castorice nodded, hands folded in her lap. “I mean, if… you didn’t mind.”
“No,” Hyacine said quickly. “I mean, of course not, I don’t mind. You’re always welcome.”
They sat there for a moment, the music and soft light wrapping around them like a gentle embrace.
Hyacine’s fingers traced the edge of a pillow, her thoughts quietly turning over the day’s work - the dust, the cleaning, the tiny moments of connection.
Castorice smoothed the fabric of a pillow beside her. “You really made something nice here.”
Hyacine smiled, fingers tugging gently at the edge of a cushion. “I just wanted it to feel like a place where you could… breathe. Or hide. Or just sit and not have to be anything.”
Castorice nodded, then hesitated. “I’m glad you invited me.”
“I’m really glad you came,” Hyacine said softly.
They shared a quiet smile before the soft hum of the music filled the space again.
Outside, the evening deepened, but inside Nook, time seemed to slow, held gently between them.
Eventually, Hyacine stood with a stretch. “Okay. I should… probably sleep forever.”
Castorice stood too, letting out a soft laugh that made Hyacine’s heart skip a beat. “You earned it.”
Hyacine gave her a small, tired smile. “Sleep well?”
“You too,” Castorice said. Then, after a pause: “I hope I get to see Nook again soon.”
Hyacine’s heart fluttered. “Yeah. Me too.”
As Castorice slipped out the door, Hyacine felt a warmth settle in her chest - a quiet hope that this was just the beginning.
She lingered a moment longer, letting the gentle light wash over her before finally turning off the lights.
Nook went dark, but its promise sang softly in the quiet.
That night, after a very lengthy shower, Hyacine slipped under her blankets with a tired but contented sigh. The day’s dust and effort weighed pleasantly on her muscles, a reminder of all she’d accomplished.
Her mind was quiet, the soft glow of Nook still lingering behind her eyelids.
Sleep came easier than usual - deep and gentle, wrapping around her like a warm hug.
Somewhere else on campus, Castorice sat cross-legged on her bed, sketchbook in her lap and pencil in hand.
Without really thinking, she drew a little pegasus nestled among clouds, its wings tucked in and eyes closed.
She smiled at it, pencil hovering for a moment, then gently shaded in the stars around it.
She didn’t really understand it herself.
Notes:
Castorice: What are we, some kind of Chrysos Heirs Amphoreus Honkai Star Rail 3.3 Proi Proi (Dawn, Dawn)?
Hyacine: say that again
Chapter 10: Run Away, Don't Look Back
Chapter Text
Hyacine woke slowly, the soft singing of birds outside her window stirring her from sleep.
Morning light filtered through the curtains in gentle stripes, warm against the walls and the edge of her blanket. She stretched, wincing slightly at the familiar soreness in her arms and shoulders - the good kind, earned through a day of scrubbing, lifting, arranging, breathing life back into something forgotten.
On the other side of the room, Cipher let out a loud groan and rolled over. A mess of gray hair peeked from beneath the covers.
“Bleh,” came her muffled voice. “Tell me the dust isn’t calling your name already.”
Hyacine laughed, throwing off her blanket. “No dust. Not yet, at least!”
Cipher flopped dramatically onto her back. “This is how I know you’re possessed,” she said. “Nobody gets up this chipper after a full day of scrubbing dead couches.”
Hyacine threw her a look over her shoulder. “I slept really well! And I’m not chipper . I’m just… content. Quietly victorious.”
“Oh no,” Cipher said flatly, “she’s gotten worse.”
“I’m proud of it, okay?” Hyacine tugged on her favorite sweater. “The whole space feels different now. Cozy. Peaceful.”
Cipher yawned, then reached for her phone. “Well, I wanna see it. You’ve been down there all weekend - I deserve a tour.”
“You’ll get one today, I swear,” Hyacine promised. “It’s almost done. Just a few finishing touches.”
They got ready slowly - braiding hair, brushing teeth, pulling on socks, falling into the casual rhythm of a lazy Sunday, and by the time they stepped into the dorm’s common room, the morning sun was bright and gentle, casting golden pools across the floor.
“Morning,” Mydei said gruffly, nursing a coffee, voice still scratchy with sleep.
“Hey!” Hyacine waved brightly. “You’re up early.”
“Some birds woke me,” he grumbled, closing the sketchbook with a soft thump.
Hyacine leaned over, trying to peek at the edge of the closed sketchbook. “Were you drawing?”
“Sketching,” Mydei replied. “Barely.”
Cipher flopped into a nearby chair, stretching. “Well, I was gonna drag Hyacine around campus. Thought it might be good for her to, you know, see sunlight and remember that other buildings exist.”
Hyacine rolled her eyes with a smile. “It’s called productivity .”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway,” Cipher said, tilting her head at Mydei, “are you coming?”
“Just a walk,” Hyacine added helpfully. “Maybe the long path near the sculpture garden?”
Mydei took a slow sip of his coffee. He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, Hyacine figured he’d say no.
Then he set the mug down and stood with a quiet sigh. “Sure.”
Hyacine blinked. “Really?”
He shrugged, slipping his sketchbook into his bag. “Could use the air.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You’re voluntarily joining us. Are you feeling okay?”
“Don’t push it,” he muttered.
Just then, Cipher’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it and made a noise of amusement. “It’s a campus-wide email. The auditorium's being dramatic again.”
Hyacine peeked over her shoulder. The message was brief:
Please avoid using outlets in the auditorium’s north wing. Surge activity detected. Repair scheduled .
Mydei frowned slightly, but said nothing.
“Well, guess the stage is cursed,” Cipher said cheerfully. “Anyway - shall we?”
They stepped outside, the dorm door swinging shut behind them. The sky stretched wide above, blue and cloudless. The campus was quiet, sunlight glinting off windows and puddles from the night’s brief rain.
Hyacine inhaled deeply. “It’s nice today.”
As they walked, the morning air felt fresh and open, touched with the quiet hum of campus waking up. Early sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled light across the grass. Their footsteps clicked softly along the stone path.
“You know,” Cipher said, kicking a stray pebble along, “I bet you could climb that tree, Mydei.” She pointed lazily at a crooked oak ahead.
Mydei didn’t even glance up. “No.”
“It’s not that tall,” she wheedled.
“It’s also a tree,” he muttered.
Cipher put a hand over her heart. “The cowardice is shocking .”
Mydei gave her a sidelong look. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“True, that!” Cipher swung around to face them as she walked backwards. “Too early to go back to the dorms. We should do something dumb and fun before the week eats us.”
Hyacine perked up. “Like go into the city?”
Cipher lit up immediately. “Yes. Yes, that’s it! I vote for the arcade. Does the arcade have good food? I bet the arcade has good food.”
“I could eat,” Mydei admitted.
“I always could eat,” Cipher said proudly. “Let’s go before I remember I have homework.”
Hyacine laughed. “You two are so easily convinced.”
They rounded a familiar bend near the sculpture garden, the world narrowing for a moment as the path curved between two low hedges. Hyacine glanced up just in time to spot a familiar figure on a bench nearby - slim, with poised grace and a small bag slung over her shoulder.
“Is that - oh!” she said, voice brightening. “Castorice!”
Castorice looked up, visibly surprised to see them, her posture going just slightly stiff before easing again. Her eyes flicked from Hyacine to the others beside her, cautious but curious.
Hyacine lifted a hand in a wave. “Good timing! We were just about to go into the city. Are you free?”
Castorice blinked. “I… I guess so.”
Cipher gave a little wave of her own. “‘Sup. I’m Cipher. Hyacine’s handler.”
Hyacine choked. “ Handler ?”
Cipher shrugged nonchalantly. “You know. Wrangles her when she forgets doors are a thing.”
Mydei gave a simple nod. “Mydeimos.”
There was a beat, and Cipher added, offhand, “You can call him Mydei. Most people do.”
Castorice hesitated before nodding back. “Castorice. Nice to meet you.”
Cipher’s arms crossed loosely, her brow raised just a little as she studied Castorice. “Hyacine’s mentioned you.”
That earned her a sharp glance from Hyacine.
She looked innocently at the sky. “Your name. In passing.”
“Frequently,” Mydei muttered.
Hyacine went pink.
Castorice looked between them, caught somewhere between amusement and uncertainty.
There was a tentative pause.
“Anyway,” Hyacine said, trying to recover, “We’re actually going to the arcade! It’s not far - there’s this really weird one with retro machines and neon carpets and a claw game that never works.”
She stopped. Blinked. “I mean, it’s - uh. Fun. If you like that kind of thing.”
Castorice tilted her head slightly, like she wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden burst of information. “I haven’t been in years.”
“Oh! Then you’ll love it!” Hyacine said quickly. “Or maybe hate it. But, like… in a fun way.”
Cipher hummed. “Yeah, nothing says fun like sensory overload and aggressive eight-year-olds with vendettas.”
Hyacine flailed slightly. “It’s not that bad!”
Castorice adjusted the strap of her bag. “I’ll come.”
Hyacine blinked. “Wait - really?”
Castorice gave a small nod. “It might be nice.”
There was a brief silence.
Cipher leaned toward Mydei, hand half over her mouth. “Did that sound like a yes to you?”
Mydei shrugged. “As close as we’re gonna get.”
Hyacine tried very hard not to explode from joy.
The group moved without needing to speak, an unspoken shuffle that made room for Castorice between them. Hyacine lingered near her side, steps a little lighter. Cipher dropped back half a pace, hands in her pockets, eyes flicking sideways with lazy curiosity. Mydei walked a little straighter, his silence deliberate.
The chatter quieted - not tense, just tuned down. Like everyone had turned the volume knob a notch lower without agreeing to it. Not awkward. Just… attentive.
Castorice walked just a little behind at first, her gaze flicking between the three of them. She didn’t speak, but she listened, her expression politely neutral, like someone still measuring the rhythm of a conversation before joining in.
Cipher glanced back at her once, then turned to Hyacine. “You know,” she said, “if we don’t find food in the next twenty minutes, I’m going to eat the next pinecone I see.”
Hyacine giggled. “You are not.”
“Have you seen what the vending machines call ‘granola’? It’s one step away from pinecones already!”
Mydei huffed. “That’s because you always buy the one with the cartoon owl on it.”
“It has vibes , Mydei,” Cipher explained breezily.
Hyacine turned slightly toward Castorice. “Don’t worry,” she said brightly. “We won’t actually make you watch her eat pinecones. Probably.”
And just like that, the day was underway.
The city buzzed faintly around them - weekend crowds weaving past cafés, the occasional bus hissing to a stop, sunlight glinting off windows. Their steps eventually led them to the arcade, tucked just off the main street like a glowing secret.
Bright neon lights spilled onto the sidewalk through the windows, along with a faint thrum of synth music, overlapping jingles, and the chaotic joy of people shouting over plastic buttons and old speakers. The sign above the door blinked GALAXIA ZONE in jagged retro font.
Hyacine pressed her face to the glass. “It’s still here,” she whispered happily. “I was worried they closed for good.”
Cipher leaned in beside her, squinting dramatically through the window. “Is that - wait, look at the claw machine, is that a frog ? I can barely tell.”
Hyacine gasped. “The maybe frog! I’ve wanted it since I was a kid!”
Cipher looked at it again. “ That? Your taste is… questionable.”
Before Hyacine could protest, she confidently shoved the door open with one foot and disappeared into the neon glow like she belonged there.
“...You get used to her,” Hyacine said to Castorice.
“That’s optimistic,” Mydei muttered as he passed, heading inside.
Inside, the arcade was stretched and dimly lit by the neon blinking lights of game cabinets and overhead fluorescents. Castorice hovered just inside the threshold, eyes quietly scanning the space - narrow aisles between machines, people darting from game to game, a boy screaming victory at a dance mat.
Hyacine glanced back, catching the slight tension in Castorice’s shoulders.
“Wanna stick with me for a bit?” she asked, gently.
Castorice blinked, then nodded once.
They moved together past rows of glowing screens until a soft, two-player rhythm game caught Hyacine’s eye. The cabinet had a gentle pastel interface and big round buttons that lit up in time with the music. No roaring sounds, no flashing chaos - just gentle synth and cheerful instructions.
“Hey,” Hyacine exclaimed, “I remember this!”
She poked one of the buttons experimentally. The game chirped back at her.
Castorice tilted her head. “You’ve played before?”
“Once,” Hyacine admitted. “...I was so bad.”
Castorice offered a tiny smile. “I might have a chance, then.”
They slid into position, side by side (Hyacine did not feel her heart rate increase at this fact) as the screen loaded a song - a bubbly, retro pop melody with lots of flashing hearts. As the notes began to scroll across the screen, Hyacine immediately missed three in a row.
Castorice, on the other hand, didn’t miss a single one.
Hyacine stole a glance at her - focused expression, barely blinking, like she was in class writing notes on logical fallacies. Her fingers tapped out each rhythm with soft precision.
Hyacine just… watched for a little while, forgetting everything else. Then she realized she had to look at her screen to actually play.
When the song ended, the scores blinked up on the screen - Player 1: 98% and Player 2: 41% (lol) .
“Okay, wow,” Hyacine said, mock-offended. “Did the machine just laugh at me?”
Castorice let out a small laugh. “You weren’t that bad.”
Hyacine tilted her head, squinting at the score again. “I think I might’ve been. Look - my rating is ‘...nice try?’ That’s so passive-aggressive!”
Castorice covered a smile with her hand. “It said ‘Nice try’?”
Hyacine pointed accusingly at the screen. “In all lowercase! It didn’t even bother to capitalize it.”
This time, Castorice really did laugh - quiet and breathy, the kind that made her tuck her chin slightly as if trying to hide it.
Hyacine beamed at her, trying to hide the flush on her face. “Well, remind me never to challenge you again.”
Mydei appeared. “Cipher’s loud,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Cipher’s shout rang across the arcade.
“HYACINE, I REQUIRE MEDICAL ASSISTANCE!”
Heads turned. Hyacine blinked. “What did she do now?”
She scrambled off, leaving Mydei and Castorice behind. The claw machine, apparently, had eaten Cipher’s prize, and she was insisting that she’d been betrayed by fate.
Castorice watched them for a second. “Is… she always like that?”
“More or less,” Mydei said.
There was a pause.
Then Mydei gestured toward a quieter corner. “Want to try that one?” he asked. “It’s not loud. Simple, just aim and throw rings.”
Castorice hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Sure.”
They walked over together.
The ring toss was old - some of the pegs were chipped, the plastic rings faded. Mydei slid a few tokens in and handed her a ring without a word.
They played quietly at first. Castorice missed her first two throws, then landed one. Mydei didn’t clap or cheer - just gave a small, approving nod, and turned to aim his next shot.
He glanced at her. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Not really,” she murmured.
Mydei nodded faintly. “Fair.”
Another ring landed. The rhythm between them settled - comfortable, unhurried. They weren’t trying to win anything. Just tossing rings. Letting time pass.
Mydei stepped up, lining his throw.
“You don’t talk much either,” Castorice pointed out quietly.
“No need to,” he replied.
Castorice made a noise in agreement.
Another moment passed. She aimed, threw, missed.
“…Do you like beetles?” he asked out of the blue.
Castorice blinked. “Beetles?”
He shrugged, pointing. “Cipher’s prize. It looks like a beetle.”
Castorice glanced across the arcade - Hyacine was holding up the claw machine prize in both hands while Cipher made a dramatic bow. The thing did resemble a beetle. Horrifyingly.
Castorice snorted, and quickly covered her mouth.
“Didn’t think so,” Mydei said with a small smile.
They both chuckled. The next ring landed squarely on the peg.
“Nice shot,” he said.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
Hyacine wove back through the rows of flashing games, the hum of neon and electronic music buzzing softly in her ears.
She spotted them near the edge of the arcade - Mydei and Castorice standing at a ring toss booth, side by side. They weren’t talking much, but they didn’t look uncomfortable either. Mydei tossed a ring. It bounced off a peg. On Castorice’s turn, it landed neatly, and Mydei gave a small, approving nod.
Hyacine slowed her steps, a quiet smile pulling at her lips. Seeing them like that - two people who barely knew each other, falling into an easy rhythm - made something warm settle in her chest.
She rocked back on her heels. “Hey, I’m gonna grab drinks,” she called gently.
Mydei gave her a thumbs-up. Castorice turned slightly and offered a small smile.
Cipher popped up from behind one of the nearby cabinets. “Get me something blue!” she yelled. “Or purple. Or mysteriously unlabelled!”
Hyacine laughed. “You’re getting whatever they hand me first!” she called back.
She turned, making her way toward the snack counter as Cipher disappeared again into the arcade chaos.
A moment passed in her absence.
As Castorice stepped off the ring toss area, she stood still for a moment, then her gaze shifted to the claw machine. The strange glittery frog (maybe frog?) plush was still inside - crooked, ugly, and endearing in a way that only someone like Hyacine could’ve found charming.
She hesitated, then drifted closer, hands tucked behind her back. She'd never tried this one before, but she’d seen Hyacine’s face light up at the sight of it. That felt like reason enough to try.
Carefully, she slid a coin into the machine. The claw jerked to life with a mechanical whir.
She moved it slowly, eyes locked on the (maybe) frog. Lined it up. Took a breath. Pressed the button.
Thunk . Missed.
Castorice’s shoulders slumped.
“Plotting a heist?” came a voice beside her.
She turned, startled - Cipher was suddenly there, arms crossed and head tilted, like she’d been watching the whole time.
“I, um…” Castorice’s voice came out soft. “She liked that one.”
Cipher squinted at the (maybe) frog, wrinkling her nose at its bulging eyes. “Yeah, I remember.” She shook her head fondly. “Only Hyacine, huh?”
Castorice glanced down, hiding a small smile.
Cipher grinned. “Okay, let’s get it!” She fed a token into the machine with all the gravity of a sacred ritual.
Castorice blinked, startled.
“Alright,” Cipher muttered. “You guide, I pilot.”
“What?”
“Point where I need to drop. I trust your judgment, Glasses.”
“…I don’t wear glasses.”
Cipher waved her hand dismissively. “You have glasses energy.”
Castorice bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh. She pointed. “A little… more left. Okay. Yes, there.”
Cipher’s finger hovered over the button, eyes narrowed with cartoonish seriousness. Then she tapped it.
The claw dropped.
It clipped the (maybe) frog, barely catching a leg. For a second it looked like it might slip - then it held.
Both of them instinctively leaned forward.
“Don’t you dare fall,” Cipher hissed. “We believe in you. Frog. Maybe frog.”
The prize wobbled all the way across, tilting slightly - then thudded into the chute with a triumphant plunk.
“You actually got it,” Castorice said, surprised.
Cipher crouched and retrieved the plush, holding it up like a cursed idol. “This thing’s cursed,” she said reverently. “I love it.”
She handed it to Castorice without hesitation. “Go on. Hero’s honor.”
Castorice held the (maybe) frog in her hands like it might hop away. She stared at it, then looked at Cipher.
“…Thank you.”
Cipher had already turned away, humming a jaunty tune under her breath like nothing remarkable had just happened.
Hyacine reappeared through the glow of the prize machines, a drink carrier wobbling in her hands and a precarious tower of candy bags tucked under one arm.
“Delivery!” she beamed.
Cipher took hers with a theatrical gasp, like she’d been rescued from a desert. “Lifesaver.”
Mydei grunted in thanks, immediately downing half of the cup. Castorice hesitated a beat, then took the one Hyacine offered with a small, almost shy nod.
They sipped quietly for a few beats, the comfortable silence stretching between them.
Suddenly, Cipher stretched dramatically, then nudged Mydei with a mischievous grin. “Okay, enough sitting around. Time for a real challenge - air hockey!” she declared, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the glowing table.
Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t resist, casting a bemused glance over his shoulder as Cipher practically dragged him away.
Hyacine laughed, shaking her head as she watched them go. When she turned back, Castorice was still sitting, gaze flicking between the departing duo and the something cradled carefully in her hands.
Her fingers curled more tightly around it, then loosened again.
Hyacine tilted her head. “Everything okay?”
Castorice looked up hesitantly, then leaned forward to offer it.
“I… I got this for you,” she said quietly, voice a little unsure.
Hyacine blinked down at the (maybe) frog, her heart skipping a beat. “For me? You didn’t have to -”
“I know,” Castorice said quickly. “You just… wanted it since you were a kid.” Her fingers fidgeted slightly around the plush. “And you smiled when you saw it, so…”
Hyacine reached out slowly, like the gift might vanish if she moved too fast. Her fingers brushed Castorice’s as she took it, and she held it close without thinking. The plush was lumpy and a little uneven, but its stitched-on eyes gave it a kind of crooked charm.
How was she supposed to thank someone for giving her a piece of her childhood back?
“That’s… really sweet of you,” she murmured, not daring to look up. Her cheeks were definitely pink now, and the smile tugging at her mouth refused to be hidden.
Castorice’s hand hovered awkwardly for a second, then dropped to her side. “Cipher helped,” she added, almost in a whisper.
Hyacine laughed softly. “Still, you got it for me.” She hugged the (maybe) frog a little closer. “Thank you.”
They sat there for a second too long, both suddenly very aware of the hum of machines and the muffled clack of air hockey in the background.
“No!” Cipher suddenly shouted, as a loud clatter rang. Hyacine and Castorice looked over, startled, as the puck slid neatly into her goal.
Cipher threw up her hands with mock frustration. “Okay, you two - get over here. I need some serious backup!”
Hyacine and Castorice exchanged a quick glance, smiles tugging at their lips.
As they crossed the arcade floor, the neon lights flickered across their faces in soft, shifting patterns. The (maybe) frog was still nestled against Hyacine’s chest, and every few steps, she peeked down at it like she couldn’t quite believe it was real. Castorice glanced sideways once, opening her mouth as if to say something - then changed her mind.
Ahead, Cipher could be seen flailing dramatically at the air hockey table while Mydei stood calmly in his stance, entirely unbothered. A plastic puck ricocheted wildly off the edge, narrowly missing Cipher’s knee.
“Dangerous sport,” Hyacine muttered.
Castorice let out a quiet puff of laughter.
“Hey!” Cipher called out, catching sight of them. “There you are! Took you long enough. This is not fair, and I demand reinforcements.”
Mydei, without looking away from the puck, added, “I’m winning.”
“That’s not the point!”
Hyacine laughed and picked up her pace, giving Castorice a look that said here we go again .
“Alright, alright,” she said brightly. “We’re here to save the day.”
Cipher bounced on her heels, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, Mydei, who’s on whose team? I call dibs on Hyacine.”
Mydei smirked, folding his arms. “Fine by me. I’ll take Castorice. Seems like she’s got the steady hand.”
Cipher rolled her eyes. “Hey, steady isn’t gonna win this. We need chaos and energy!”
“Chaos tends to lose,” Mydei shot back dryly.
Hyacine laughed, shrugging. “I’m fine with whatever. Just don’t let me embarrass myself.”
Castorice stayed quiet but gave a small nod, the corner of her mouth twitching in a faint smile.
Cipher grinned. “It’s settled then. Hyacine and me, versus Mydei and Castorice.”
Mydei glanced over at Castorice, who gave a tentative thumbs-up.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Mydei said, picking up his striker.
The puck dropped, and the match began once again.
It clicked sharply as it dropped onto the air hockey table, sending a tiny shudder through the smooth surface. Hyacine gripped her striker, eyes wide with determination. Cipher bounced on her heels beside her.
“Watch out, Mydei - we’re coming for you!” Cipher called, fingers poised.
Mydei, cool and composed, barely glanced up from his stance. Beside him, Castorice steadied herself, slender hands curling lightly around her striker, eyes quietly focused.
The puck zipped toward Hyacine and Cipher with surprising speed. Hyacine lunged to block it, sending it careening toward Mydei’s side. Cipher darted after the next shot with wild energy, slapping the puck with exaggerated flair.
Mydei moved with quiet precision, blocking a shot and sending the puck flying back across the table. There was a certain sharpness to his movements - calm, yes, but honed, like someone who wanted to win. He didn’t speak, but the way he tracked the puck was laser-focused.
“Getting competitive, are we?” Cipher called, grinning.
Castorice surprised everyone - herself included - with a deft deflection that sent the puck shooting past Cipher’s strikers.
“Hey!” Cipher laughed, throwing her hands up in mock outrage. “Okay, that was unfair!”
“She’s secretly a pro,” Hyacine called out, smiling.
Castorice flushed lightly. “Beginner’s luck,” she murmured.
Cipher narrowed her eyes playfully. “Suspiciously good beginner’s luck.”
The puck flew toward Hyacine again. She lunged, missed, and spun in a little circle trying to recover.
Cipher whistled. “Graceful.”
“Shut up!” Hyacine said, red-faced.
They bumped into each other again a few moments later, both lunging for the puck. The collision made them pause, eyes meeting briefly, before they both started laughing controllably.
On the other end of the table, Mydei leaned slightly to block another fast shot, barely moving as he nudged the puck back with the same stoic calm he approached everything with. But when the puck just barely skimmed past Castorice’s edge, he tightened his grip on the striker. His next return hit harder, faster.
“Do you ever blink?” Cipher muttered.
“Nope,” Mydei replied.
Another round flew by - Castorice landed a clean shot into Hyacine and Cipher’s goal. Cipher gasped and immediately collapsed over the table in exaggerated betrayal.
“I’ve been struck down by Glasses,” she cried.
Castorice tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice barely above the arcade noise. “Sorry,” she murmured - then glanced up, that tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Kind of.”
Hyacine looked between them, confused. "She doesn't wear glasses?"
Castorice’s smile deepened, just a bit.
The game briefly slowed, everyone taking a moment to catch their breath.
Cipher squinted. “Okay. New plan! Full chaos mode. Hyacine, go left. Distract them with your cuteness.”
“What!?” Hyacine squeaked.
Castorice blinked, startled.
The next volley was even more of a mess. Cipher tried to curve the puck with a ridiculous spin. Hyacine missed her block entirely, and somehow the puck ricocheted off the side wall, hit the striker out of Castorice’s hands, and rolled to a slow stop.
They all stared.
Then Castorice started laughing. Like, actually laughing - unrestrained and breathy and completely caught off guard.
Hyacine froze, startled by the sound. It was bright and unguarded in a way she’d never heard from Castorice before. Heat creeped onto her cheeks for some reason she couldn’t describe.
“That counts as a win,” Cipher said, pointing at the sound of Castorice’s laugh like she’d summoned it.
The match devolved after that - everyone giggling, half-heartedly playing, the competition replaced by jokes and nonsense. Mydei even cracked a smile when Cipher tried to “trick shot” the puck by spinning in a full circle and hitting nothing.
“Betrayed by physics,” Cipher groaned.
“You keep saying that,” Mydei said dryly. “Physics is consistent. You're the problem.”
Hyacine doubled over, laughing.
Eventually, they let the puck drift to a stop. The game was over. There hadn’t been a clear winner.
Didn’t matter.
They drifted back to their table, laughter still echoing faintly in their breaths. They settled back in with drinks, the bright noise of the arcade dimming just enough to make space for something slower, easier.
Hyacine leaned her chin in her hands, cheeks still faintly pink. “Okay, I haven’t flailed around that much since orientation week.”
“Me too,” Mydei said, stretching an arm behind his head with a grunt. “Except then I didn’t have to dodge flying pucks.”
Cipher tipped her drink toward him. “That’s because you didn’t have me on the opposing team!”
“You hit the puck into your own goal,” he pointed out.
“It was psychological warfare,” she muttered.
Castorice sipped from her straw, visibly more relaxed now. The way she sat was still a little composed, a little careful - but her eyes had softened. Every so often, she glanced toward Hyacine when the conversation lulled.
Hyacine caught her looking once and offered a small, quiet smile. Castorice returned it, a bit bashfully.
“Wait!” Hyacine said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “We have to get a photo.”
Cipher blinked. “A what now?”
“The photo booth over there,” Hyacine pointed. “Come on! You can’t have a day like this and not document it.”
Mydei groaned. “Do I have to smile?”
“No,” Cipher said, already getting up. “You just have to stand there and look like you’re being held hostage. It’ll add contrast.”
Castorice hesitated, eyes flicking to the little booth in the corner. “Do all four of us fit?”
“Only one way to find out!” Hyacine declared.
They squeezed in, bumping shoulders and knees, with Cipher dramatically sprawling across Hyacine’s lap and Mydei getting wedged awkwardly in the back corner. Castorice found herself tucked between Hyacine and the wall, looking mildly overwhelmed but not unhappy. A faint smell of buttered popcorn hung in the tiny space.
The first picture caught them off guard - Mydei wasn’t looking, Cipher’s mouth was halfway through a joke, and Hyacine had one hand raised like she wasn’t sure whether to wave or fix her hair. Castorice’s eyes were wide, not quite sure where to look.
The second was better. Cipher flashed finger guns. Hyacine beamed. Castorice smiled - small, but real. Mydei, deadpan, stared straight into the camera like he was contemplating escape.
In the third, Cipher jabbed Mydei in the ribs mid-countdown, and he doubled over. Hyacine nearly doubled over laughing. Castorice’s head was tilted, a little caught in the moment, caught mid-laugh with the beginnings of a crinkle at the corner of her eyes.
The fourth was the quietest. No big faces, no movement - just four tired but happy people pressed close together. Hyacine’s smile had softened. Cipher’s head leaned lightly against hers. Mydei wasn’t smiling, exactly, but his eyes were a little warmer. Castorice looked like she belonged.
When the photo strip slid out, they all leaned in to look.
Hyacine gently ran her fingers down the glossy edge, her grin stretching so wide it nearly hurt. “Best souvenir,” she said, and carefully slipped it into her bag like it was made of glass.
They spilled out of the arcade, the late noon light greeting them. The last of their snacks and sodas were in hand, ice rattling gently in plastic cups. Hyacine cradled her (maybe) frog against her chest like a delicate trophy, her cheeks still faintly pink from laughter.
Outside, the air was warm but gentler than it had been earlier, the sky a soft blue brushed with pale clouds. Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the sidewalk in shifting patches of light.
Hyacine looked over at Castorice, who had slowed just a bit, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket. She still hadn’t said much since the air hockey game ended, but her silence had felt less distant than before. Quieter in a… warmer way.
“Hey,” Hyacine said gently, “we’re heading to a music night - Tribios is performing.” She glanced toward the others. “It’s not far. You should come!”
Castorice hesitated, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Oh, I didn’t know about that… It’s been a long day, and I’m a bit tired.”
Hyacine nodded, understanding. “Maybe next time?”
“Yeah.” Castorice smiled softly. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I’m really glad you came,” she said, smiling back. “I’ll see you soon?”
Castorice nodded. “Yeah. Soon.”
With a quiet goodbye, Castorice turned and walked off, her steps light but purposeful.
Hyacine stood there a moment, watching her go. A quiet warmth bloomed in her chest, slow and sweet and a little embarrassing.
Then Cipher bumped her elbow, smirking. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
Hyacine startled, nearly dropping her drink. “What? No! I mean - she’s just - she’s really nice, okay?”
“Mmhm. Sure.”
Hyacine huffed, ducking her head as they started walking. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m charming,” Cipher said breezily. “And also about to heckle Tribios, so if anyone wants to stop me, now’s your chance.”
“Please stop her,” Mydei muttered, already resigned.
The three of them turned down the street, afternoon daylight catching in the tips of Hyacine’s hair as she tucked the plush under one arm.
She didn’t say anything else - but she looked back once. Just once.
The Big Tree was exactly as grand as its name promised.
A massive, ancient oak rose from the heart of the campus clearing, branches sprawling like an umbrella of stars. Around it, warm lights were strung from trunk to low-hanging limbs, gently swaying with the breeze. The ground had been cleared for makeshift seating - picnic blankets, folding chairs, and a few upturned crates. Someone had set up a portable stage just beneath the largest bough, with speakers humming softly at the edges and a single spotlight bathing the performer in a gentle glow.
It felt halfway between a festival and a dream.
Tribios was already onstage when they arrived, mid-verse, fingers flicking wildly across the strings of her acoustic guitar as she sang passionately into the microphone. Her voice dipped and soared with dramatic flair, laced with emotional weight that clashed just slightly with the ridiculous hat perched on her head - something wide-brimmed and feathered, like she'd robbed a rich wizard on the way over.
Hyacine eased down onto the grass beside Cipher, her eyes wide with wonder. She’d never actually seen Tribios perform before - only caught glimpses of her theatrics in everyday chaos, and heard a little bit of guitar when they first met. But here… here was something else entirely. Tribios was focused, electric, captivating in a way Hyacine hadn’t expected, but it was still her - odd and unfiltered.
Hyacine couldn’t look away.
It was striking how different Tribios felt up there. Gone was the chaotic girl who twirled in hallways and made jokes with her whole body. This Tribios was still intense, still dramatic, but… honest. Unflinching. Her voice wasn’t technically perfect, but it was raw, shaped by emotion more than polish. The lyrics - something about parting and forgiveness, walking backward through your own footprints - were messy and poetic in a way that felt real.
“- what we bury, what we burn, what we leave at the threshold,” Tribios sang, then suddenly switched keys, strumming wildly. “Forgive the parting! Forgive the leaving!”
The crowd, maybe thirty students strong, clapped their hands in time with the beat. A few waved phone flashlights above their heads like soft stars. The atmosphere was… reverent, in a way that didn’t quite fit the silly setting, but also fit perfectly.
“She doesn’t even have sheet music,” Cipher whispered. “Is she making this up?”
Hyacine tilted her head. “I think… no. I think she just memorized a lot. It’s hard to tell.”
“She’s an agent of chaos,” Mydei murmured.
Tribios threw one leg up onto a milk crate and struck a power pose as her playing intensified - wailing into the mic now about memories that sting and apologies that arrive too late, but still matter. Her voice cracked in all the right places. She was showy and unpolished and completely fearless.
Hyacine’s chest swelled. She didn’t always understand the words, but the feeling was unmistakable - raw and open and fierce. A song about trying to stay, and learning how to go. It stirred something quiet in her ribs.
Tribios hit the last note and let it linger, the final chord fading into the warm night air. For a moment, the audience held their breath with her.
Then applause. Real, loud applause.
Tribios beamed, gave a deep theatrical bow, and gestured grandly as if to say you’ve been blessed . She stepped back as the next act fumbled onto the stage: a nervous-looking student in an oversized hoodie, holding a triangle and a kazoo.
Cipher blinked. “We should go.”
They stood, Mydei stretching his arms behind his head. Hyacine tucked her hands behind her back and followed the others to a quieter spot off to the side, near the base of the tree where a few stones made a natural sitting circle.
Tribios appeared not long after, still catching her breath, practically vibrating with post-performance energy.
“Was that not the most soul-rippingly excellent experience of your lives?” she declared, arms flung wide.
“You were amazing,” Hyacine said, still dazed.
“I cried a little,” Cipher added flatly. “Inside. I think.”
Mydei nodded once. “That was… a lot. In a good way.”
Tribios twirled once in place, then reached out to ruffle Hyacine’s hair, just because. “See? This is why we suffer through student openers with bad lighting. The triumph. The transformation. The triumph .” She took a deep breath, opening her arms. “Forgiveness! Redemption! Strange, undefined chords! This is what the soul needs, you know?”
Mydei shook his head. “You’re going to trip on that fan.”
“I never trip,” Tribios said, immediately stepping sideways and nearly colliding with him. “Oops. Sorry, dude.”
She plopped down onto a nearby bench, still buzzing. “Seriously, though, you guys, music nights like this? They’re magic. You feel that… that sparkle in the air?”
Hyacine nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah, it’s different from anything I’ve seen before.”
For a while, the group settled into a kind of peaceful buzz. The night was warm, the lights overhead soft and golden.
Hyacine leaned lightly against the back of a bench, sipping the last of her drink, the frog plush tucked under one arm. Mydei and Tribios were arguing about the structural integrity of auditoriums and if they could handle stomping crowds. Cipher was flopped backward over the bench seat, limbs splayed dramatically as she muttered something about “the tragedy of underfunded arts programs.”
Everything felt… easy. Like the kind of quiet you didn’t notice until it settled over your shoulders.
Then a voice called out, just behind them.
“Cifera?”
The laughter died down. Heads turned. The music seemed to screech to a halt.
Cipher sat up instantly. Her whole body stiffened.
Golden hair.
Aglaea stood a few steps away, still in her usual clean, composed attire - but her expression wasn’t cold. It was… hesitant. Open, in a way that was rare.
Hyacine didn’t understand exactly what she was seeing - but she felt the shift, the sudden silence, the air growing thinner.
Cipher rose slowly, the motion eerily calm.
“Well,” she said, the sudden coldness in her voice sending a chill down Hyacine’s spine. “Look who decided to show up.”
“I wanted to see you,” Aglaea said, looking more vulnerable than Hyacine had ever seen her.
“That’s new,” Cipher said frigidly. “You didn’t seem to care much about seeing me before you left.”
The group was silent. Hyacine felt her heart thudding.
Aglaea hesitated. “I never wanted -”
“You never wanted , that’s right,” Cipher cut in, her voice rising sharply. “You didn’t want to say anything. You didn’t want to fight for it. You didn’t even try. Did you? Can you look me in my eyes and tell me you tried?”
Poison dripped off her last word, and something in Hyacine’s chest twisted. She’d never heard Cipher sound like that - tight and furious, all her usual playfulness stripped away.
Aglaea’s hands were clasped in front of her, her posture perfect as always. “I didn’t know how to say -”
“And now you do?” Cipher shouted, the burst of sound making Hyacine jump. “You vanish and show up like nothing’s changed. Like I’m not the one who had to keep pretending.”
Aglaea opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She began to step forward, then stopped herself. Her hands folded tighter.
Cipher’s shoulders were shaking now. “Do you even remember what you said that night?” she demanded. “Because I do. I remember so clearly.”
Aglaea said nothing.
“Exactly.” Cipher laughed bitterly. “You said nothing . Not. A. Single. Word . I waited. I begged you to just say something, anything, and you stood there like you didn’t care.”
“I cared,” Aglaea said quietly. “You meant the world to me. You still do.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Cipher’s voice cracked on the last word - raw, and close to breaking. “Why didn’t you stop me from walking away?”
Hyacine didn’t know what to do - she could feel the tension vibrating through the air, like a string stretched too tight. Mydei stood quietly at her side, eyes narrowed, but didn’t intervene.
Aglaea took a hesitant step forward. “I -” Her voice was so soft, softer than a feather on the breeze. “I’m sorry. For not… saying anything. That night. I didn’t -”
“Don’t.” Cipher’s arms were crossed so tightly her knuckles were white. Her jaw trembled like she was holding back a dozen words she didn’t trust herself to say.
“I should have said something. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care -”
“ Don’t .”
Aglaea hesitated. “Cifera -”
“ Don’t call me that !”
Cipher’s voice cracked across the open space, loud and sudden, like a door slammed in a quiet house. Everyone flinched. Even Aglaea stepped back.
Cipher didn’t say anything else.
She didn’t need to.
She just turned and stormed off, shoving past one of the tables and knocking a cup askew.
The cup tumbled onto the grass silently.
Hyacine instinctively took a step forward, ready to follow, but Mydei gently caught her sleeve.
“Give her a minute,” he murmured.
So she stood there, watching Cipher vanish swiftly into the night. The glow of the music event felt a lot dimmer now.
And Aglaea - Aglaea just stood where she was, hands clasped, face unreadable.
Hyacine wrapped her arms around herself. She wasn’t cold, not really. Just… suddenly aware of how fragile everything felt.
No one moved.
Chapter 11: To Where the Warmth Is
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The rooftop was quiet.
Night hung heavy overhead, deep and wide and full of breathless space. A faint wind stirred the air, brushing cool across Cipher’s skin, lifting strands of hair where they spilled loose over her shoulders. She sat near the edge, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. One of her fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against the worn rubber sole of her shoe, quick and nervous.
Her eyes were locked on the night sky, unblinking.
Below, the campus lights flickered like stars that had forgotten how to rise. A few distant sounds filtered upward - footsteps, laughter, the low hum of something mechanical - but they felt far away, dulled by the height and the dark.
The hatch behind her creaked open.
Soft steps followed - cautious, uneven. The kind that didn’t want to intrude. Rubber soles brushing metal. The gentle thud of the hatch settling closed again.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.
Who else would bother climbing all the way up here?
A brief pause. Then the quiet shift of weight on gravel, the scuff of a shoe adjusting. Cipher kept her eyes on the stars.
“I figured you might be here,” Hyacine said gently.
Cipher’s hand stopped tapping.
She still didn’t speak. Her gaze was fixed on the stars above - clear tonight, scattered and cold and uncaring.
Hyacine didn’t press. She just made her way over and sat slowly, tucking her legs beneath her with a quiet sort of care, like she didn’t want to scare a bird off.
“It’s quiet up here,” Hyacine said after a while, her voice soft. “I get why you come here. It feels like... the world can’t touch you.”
Still, Cipher said nothing. But her eyes flickered, just a little. Hyacine caught it.
She settled back. “I didn’t follow you because I wanted answers or anything. I just… didn’t want you to be alone.”
Cipher was quiet for a moment. Her eyes stayed fixed on the sky.
“That’s worse,” she muttered.
Hyacine tilted her head. “Worse?”
“You didn’t want anything. You just came anyway.” She looked at her with a silent question. “People don’t do that.”
“Sometimes people need someone by their side,” Hyacine said, offering a small smile.
“You always say things like that,” Cipher mumbled. “Like it’s easy.”
Hyacine blinked. “What do you mean?”
Cipher exhaled through her nose, looking away. “You make it sound simple. Just... say something. Just let people in. Just be there.” Her shoulders shifted. “Not everyone knows how.”
Hyacine didn't respond to that - not right away. But her presence didn’t waver.
Cipher’s fingers tapped restlessly against her knee. “She used to come up here too, you know. Not this roof. A different one. But... same idea. Quiet. Away from everything.” A beat. “I used to think we got each other.”
Something in her voice frayed at the edges, but she caught it and stuffed it down again.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Hyacine murmured.
“I know,” Cipher said. “That’s why I can.”
She didn’t elaborate yet. The silence stretched again.
She drew a breath, then turned her head, just slightly, toward Hyacine.
“You ever get so angry it makes you feel stupid?”
Hyacine’s voice was soft. “Yeah.”
Cipher looked away again.
The stars above glittered faintly, too far away to care.
“I’m not used to this kind of angry,” she said hesitantly, like she was feeling her way through unfamiliar words. “The kind that doesn’t go away. The kind that sticks around even after you shout.” Her throat tightened. “I hate it.”
Hyacine inched a little closer - not touching, not crowding - just there. Warmth in the quiet. A steadiness Cipher hadn’t realized she needed.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Hyacine said quietly. “I think you’re trying not to hurt.”
Cipher’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t really matter what you think.”
Hyacine didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just kept looking at her with that infuriatingly kind expression.
“…Sorry.” It came out low, like Cipher almost didn’t want it heard.
She swallowed.
“She left. And said nothing. Just - vanished. Like I didn’t matter.” A pause, her voice smaller now. “I didn’t know she’d come back.”
Hyacine’s fingers curled against the rooftop, steady and still. She didn’t speak. She didn’t rush.
“I thought I’d be over it,” Cipher said. “But seeing her again - it just…” Her voice trailed off.
Another moment of silence as the sounds of life carried on beneath them.
“I didn’t know she’d come back,” Cipher said at last, voice rough. “After everything. After all this time.”
Hyacine didn’t say anything - just listened.
“I thought I was ready,” Cipher said, her words flooding out like a dam now. “I thought if I ever saw her again, I’d be fine. I could be cool about it. Say something cutting and walk away. But then she looked at me like that - like she wanted to say something - and it all just -” She cut off. Her voice trembled. “It all came back.”
The words hung in the air between them. Cipher’s hands curled into fists.
“I begged her,” she whispered. “That night. I begged her to just say something. And she didn’t.”
Hyacine kept listening.
“I know I’m not easy,” Cipher said. “I know I make everything into a joke, and I never shut up, and I don’t let people see the real stuff unless they pry it out of me.” Her voice cracked. “But I needed her. That night… I really needed her.”
She bowed her head.
Hyacine didn’t speak.
Instead, she shifted carefully, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she leaned her shoulder just slightly against Cipher’s.
Not a word. No pressure. Just quiet contact. Just there.
Cipher’s breath caught. She didn’t pull away.
Hyacine was warm.
They sat like that for a while. The wind stirred again, gentle against their skin. Somewhere far below, a car horn honked.
Finally, Cipher spoke again - so quiet it was almost lost in the breeze.
“I…”
Cipher felt Hyacine’s shoulder shift as she turned to look at her. “Yeah?”
Cipher’s eyes fixed on the horizon, the words difficult. “I… burned a letter. One she never read.” Her mouth twisted. “I wrote it after she left. I didn’t even know what I wanted her to say - I just wanted her to say something.”
A pause.
“It wasn’t good writing,” Cipher added faintly. “Too many run-on sentences.”
Hyacine paused.
“I bet it was messy, but real,” she finally said.
Cipher let out a tiny breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“I would’ve read it,” Hyacine added, smiling.
“I know.”
Silence again.
Then Hyacine shifted a little more, unspooling her arms, resting her hands against the rooftop’s edge.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” she said firmly. “I don’t think you were wrong to yell. And I don’t think it makes you stupid that it still hurts.”
Cipher’s eyes closed for a moment. Her jaw trembled.
“I’m tired,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t want to keep feeling like this forever.”
“You won’t,” Hyacine promised quietly. “Not forever.”
For a few seconds, all that existed was the rooftop - the wind, the stars, the quiet ache between them.
Then Cipher moved - just slightly - leaning into Hyacine’s shoulder in return.
“Thanks,” she said.
Hyacine smiled.
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. Just quiet. Just... peaceful.
Hyacine shifted closer, her voice quiet but steady. “Come on… I know a place that feels a little more like home.”
Cipher didn’t look up, but she let Hyacine stand and extend a hand. Slowly, she took it.
They moved toward the hatch together. The quiet rooftop faded behind them as the hatch closed gently overhead.
Hyacine guided Cipher down the narrow hallways, humming a warm tune, the faint hum of campus life fading behind them. At last, they stopped before an unassuming door tucked away in a quiet corner of the basement.
“Almost there,” Hyacine said, pushing it open.
Inside, the warmth hit Cipher immediately - the soft, warm glow of fairy lights twinkling along the shelves, the cushions piled in inviting little nests on the floor. The faint scent of lavender lingered, mingling with the oddly comforting smell of old wood.
Her eyes caught her small, beat-up fan sitting quietly on a side table, still humming gently from before. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she remembered bringing it - her small attempt to help. Yesterday felt like a lifetime ago.
The room felt different now, like it had grown into itself, becoming a little sanctuary from the chaos outside.
“I call it Nook,” Hyacine said, pride coloring her voice.
Without a word, she moved to a small electric kettle sitting on a table. The whistle began as she poured steaming tea into two mismatched mugs, the rich aroma swirling between them.
“We don’t have to fix everything right now,” Hyacine murmured, handing Cipher a cup. “But you’re not alone. Even in the quietest moments. Someone’s looking.”
Cipher cradled the mug, feeling its warmth seep into her fingers.
The room hummed with a gentle stillness, and she was surprised at how… safe she felt. The scent of lavender caught in her throat, too soft for anger.
Cipher sank down onto the couch, curling into the corner, knees drawn up. Hyacine settled beside her, careful to give space, but close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“Do you want the blanket?” Hyacine asked, lifting it from the back of the couch.
Cipher nodded faintly.
Hyacine draped it over them both, the heavy fabric settling like a promise.
The fan ticked softly as it turned, sending a slow breeze across the room and faintly rustling their hair. Warm light flickered along the walls, catching on the spines of old books and the curve of their mugs. Wrapped in the same blanket, neither of them spoke - but the space between them felt warmer somehow, steadier.
Hyacine watched her for a long moment, then set her mug down gently.
“Would a hug help?” she asked, a little hesitant.
Cipher stared at her. The words didn’t register right away - just sound at first. Then meaning caught up. A hug.
Her stomach twisted.
She didn’t move. Didn’t know how to. Her chest felt full and hollow at once, like if she spoke, she might crack something open she couldn’t put back.
Still, her voice came out before she could stop it.
“…Yeah,” she said. Quiet. Almost ashamed of it.
Hyacine shifted closer, slow, waiting. Cipher hesitated. Then, finally, she leaned in.
Her arms stayed limp at her sides.
Hyacine was warm.
The hug was awkward at first. Cipher didn’t know where to put her hands. She was taller - her chin ended up resting above Hyacine’s head, the top of it pressing lightly against her collarbone. But Hyacine didn’t seem to mind. She tucked her arms around Cipher and held her there, small and steady.
Cipher didn’t breathe.
Then she did.
Just one breath, and suddenly everything cracked open. Her eyes stung. Her fingers twitched, then gripped the back of Hyacine’s sweater like they’d decided something for her.
The warmth of it all - the touch, the closeness, the fact that it was real - hit like a wave she hadn’t braced for.
She didn’t remember the last time someone held her like this.
Not out of obligation. Not because she’d earned it. Just… because.
Her body folded in before she realized it. Chin tipped down, forehead brushing Hyacine’s hair, like her whole self was drawn to that quiet center of gravity. A safe point. She exhaled shakily and pulled Hyacine in tighter.
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
Hyacine didn’t push. She just held on, as if Cipher curling inward wasn’t strange or too much or wrong.
Her hair smelled faintly like rosemary.
When Hyacine finally moved, it was only to pull the blanket around them both. The comfortingly heavy weight settled across Cipher’s back, and she relaxed slightly. One hand still clung lightly to Hyacine’s sleeve.
“Sleep?” Hyacine whispered, already leaning back a little.
Cipher nodded.
Carefully, they eased down together onto the couch. Hyacine settled in first, her back pressed lightly to Cipher’s chest. Cipher followed, curling around her instinctively. One arm tucked under Hyacine’s shoulder, the other resting across her waist. Their legs tangled loosely beneath the blanket, neither of them bothering to sort it out.
Cipher’s chin came to rest on the top of Hyacine’s head. She could feel the soft rhythm of her breath against her collarbone.
It felt… unfamiliar. But so, so warm.
Hyacine murmured something, barely a whisper. Cipher didn’t catch the words, but the tone sank into her like honey.
She let her eyes fall shut.
Hyacine shifted once, just enough to nestle closer, and Cipher’s arms tightened in reflex.
The room was quiet now. No words left. Just the low hum of the fan, the warmth between them, and the slow, careful breath of someone beginning to believe they might be safe.
Cipher’s grip softened. Her eyes closed.
Hyacine was warm.
For the first time in longer than she could name, she let herself rest.
Cipher’s eyes opened to a pale wash of sunlight slipping between the curtains, soft and hesitant as if the world itself was still waking. The quiet hum of the fan mingled with the faint scent of lavender, grounding her in the stillness of Nook.
The weight of the night still pressed against her ribs, heavy and unsettled. Her dreams had come and gone in flickers - half-chased shadows and things she didn’t want to name. But for now, she was here.
Not alone.
Slowly, carefully, reluctantly, Cipher began to disentangle herself from a sleeping Hyacine. She shifted first, one arm sliding free from around Hyacine’s small frame, careful not to disturb the gentle rise and fall of her breath. Her fingers found the fluffy fabric of the blanket, tugging it up just enough to cover Hyacine before sliding away.
Hyacine mumbled something soft and indecipherable in her sleep. Cipher couldn’t help but smile.
Sitting up on the couch, Cipher drew her knees close and rested her arms over them. Her gaze drifted to the worn flyers scattered on the small table nearby - handwritten notes curling at the edges, doodles inked in margins where someone had grown bored during a long wait. She absentmindedly reached out and traced a jagged line between words.
Her mind wandered to fragments - snatches of conversation, fleeting smiles, the fragile hope that maybe this place, this old sanctuary, was a beginning. Time stretched, slow and muted. The world beyond Nook’s walls felt distant, softened by the early light.
Then, behind her, Hyacine shifted.
It was slow. A drawn-in breath. A twitch of fingers. Her head turned slightly, burying deeper into the blanket like she was chasing warmth. She made a faint, unhappy noise and curled tighter, her face still tucked out of sight.
Cipher watched her in silence.
Hyacine stirred again, this time a little more. Her hand searched vaguely for the edge of the blanket before giving up halfway and falling limp again. Her lashes fluttered.
Then, a quiet, slurred mumble: “…m’tired.”
Cipher huffed a small laugh through her nose. “Wonder why.”
Minutes passed. The fan whirred. The world outside crept forward without them.
Finally, Hyacine blinked. Just once. Then again, slower.
Her gaze was unfocused, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. She made a small noise of recognition as she turned onto her side and blinked blearily at Cipher.
“…You okay?” she said, voice groggy.
Cipher nodded, voice scratchy from sleep. “Yeah.”
Hyacine didn’t press. She just rolled over and off the couch, padding her way to the kettle and refilling Cipher’s mostly empty tea mug. She offered it silently.
Cipher took it. The mug was warm in her hands, grounding. She drank slowly, the quiet between them stretching in easy silence.
No demands. No rush.
Just presence.
Cipher let the quiet wash over her, steady and safe.
Cipher slipped quietly into the crowded lecture hall just as the professor’s voice rose over the hum of settling students. She chose a seat near the back, easing down with practiced ease. Her notebook lay open in front of her, pen poised, but the words she scrawled didn’t quite connect. The lines on the page blurred, her thoughts slipping away into the corners of the room.
The murmur of classmates chatting, the tapping of keyboards, the faint scratch of chalk - it all felt distant, like noise from somewhere else. Her fingers drummed restlessly against the notebook’s edge.
Mydei slid into the seat beside her. “Hey. You holding up?”
“Peachy,” Cipher said, forcing a brittle smile. “This philosophy class is a rollercoaster of excitement.”
Mydei’s brow creased with concern, but before he could say more, a student bumped her elbow as they passed by. The jolt startled her. “Watch it!” she snapped without thinking.
The words hung sharper in the air than she meant, drawing a few sideways glances.
Cipher lowered her gaze.
Later, in a small group, her partner leaned in, trying to discuss ideas for the project. Cipher’s response was clipped, a shrug and a curt, “I’ve got it.”
Her partner blinked, taken aback, but said nothing.
The tension built quietly inside her, restless energy clawing at her chest.
When a handout slipped from her fingers mid-note, scattering papers across the floor, she bent quickly to gather them. Her cheeks flushed - not just from embarrassment, but from something deeper, raw and tangled.
She stayed crouched there for a second too long. The classroom tilted slightly at the edges, sounds growing muffled and thin.
When the professor finally dismissed them, Cipher stood abruptly. Her chair scraped harshly against the floor. She was already moving before anyone could say a word.
She skipped the library. Ignored the café. Dodged every familiar face.
Straight to Nook.
The familiar warmth wrapped around her like a quiet shield when she stepped inside. She dropped onto the couch, the day’s weight settling heavily into her bones.
She didn’t move for a long time.
Her notebook was still in her lap. Her pen was somewhere she didn’t remember. Her legs tucked up; her body folded in on itself like a paper crane.
The quiet helped. She exhaled.
The fan hummed steadily in the background, low and constant.
Footsteps padded down the hallway outside - familiar ones, heavy and slow. Cipher tensed instinctively before relaxing again as the door creaked open.
Mydei stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. He didn’t say anything right away.
She didn’t look at him, just stared ahead, eyes distant.
“I didn’t say anything last night,” he started. “Didn’t feel like it would help.”
Cipher didn’t react.
Mydei stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. He took the seat across from her, not too close. Just enough.
Cipher didn’t meet his gaze. Her fingers plucked at a loose thread in her sleeve.
“You were in a mood the whole time,” he said. “Not just after.”
Cipher rolled her eyes. “Thanks. Real helpful.”
“Do you want honesty or silence?”
She glared at him, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “You always pick the worst times to be wise.”
“You always pick the worst times to pretend you’re fine.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You’re curled up like a goblin in the basement, Cipher.”
“Maybe I am a goblin,” she snapped. “Maybe this is where I belong.”
Mydei didn’t flinch. “You don’t get to make a joke and use it as armor.”
Cipher narrowed her eyes. “I can do whatever I want. That’s kind of the problem.”
“That’s not the problem,” he said quietly, sitting down beside her, the couch settling beneath him. “The problem is you think if you’re angry enough, it’ll mean you didn’t care.”
That got her. Her jaw clenched. She didn’t look at him.
He let the quiet settle. Then, carefully: “Did you sleep?”
Cipher shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Eat anything?”
“Why does everyone ask that?” Cipher said, throwing her hands in the air.
“Because when you’re upset, you don’t eat. You forget. Then your hands shake and you pretend they don’t.”
Silence.
Mydei leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was quiet - steady, but kind in a way that was unmistakably him.
“I’ve seen you like this before, Cipher. You tear things up when you’re hurt. Burn stuff. Say things you don’t mean. Make a mess so you don’t have to sit in it.”
Cipher’s gaze was sharp now, fixed on the wall. “I meant what I said.”
“I know,” Mydei said. “That’s why it hit her.”
She didn’t answer.
“She deserved it,” he added. “But you didn’t deserve to carry it that long.”
A breath caught in her chest. Just for a second.
Mydei didn’t press it.
“She left, and she didn’t fight for you,” he said, leaning back again, steady as brick. “And you waited - longer than you ever admitted - for her to fix it.”
Cipher’s voice was a whisper. “She could’ve said anything.”
“I know,” Mydei said. “I remember. You barely looked at anyone for weeks. You’d go missing for hours and come back pretending you were fine. You weren’t.”
“Yeah, well.” Cipher’s voice was flat. “Guess I got really good at pretending.”
“She didn’t try,” he said. “That part’s real. She didn’t fight for you. Not then.”
Cipher’s breath hitched, almost invisible. Then she scoffed. “So what? Now I’m supposed to fall apart because she does try?”
“No,” Mydei said. “But maybe let it hurt. Just a little. Let it mean something.”
Cipher gave him a look. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”
He shrugged. “This is about you, not me. I come later.”
Cipher looked away.
For a while, there was only the hum of the fan and the soft shift of her jacket as she played with her hands.
“…I hate that you’re right,” she finally muttered.
“You always do,” Mydei said, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
That earned him a faint, reluctant half-smile. Small. But real.
She exhaled again, slower this time. The tension in her shoulders ebbed, just a little.
“Lie to me,” Cipher said. “Tell me I look cool right now.”
“You look like a haunted raccoon in a hoodie.”
Cipher barked an involuntary laugh. “ Rude .”
“Truthful.”
“…Fine. I deserved that.”
A long breath passed between them.
“…Are you staying?” she asked.
“If you want.”
Cipher nodded once. She didn’t say thank you.
She didn’t have to.
Mydei settled back into the couch like he belonged there.
For a minute or two, the quiet returned. Softer now. Companionable.
Cipher broke it first. “Hey. If someone writes a tragic play about this later, can you make sure I’m the cool one?”
“You’re already the tragic one,” Mydei said. “Cool’s negotiable.”
Cipher sighed. “Unbelievable. Years of friendship, and I still get slandered.”
“I’m just managing expectations.”
Cipher sighed, flopping her head back against the cushion. “What would it even be called? Some tragic nonsense. ‘Memoir of a Haunted Raccoon in a Hoodie,’ maybe.”
“Cipher Dolos: Lessons in Avoidance,’” Mydei muttered, but he was smiling too.
She laughed. “Wow, harsh.”
Mydei leaned his head back, a small smile playing at his lips. “Still not fine, huh?”
“Nope.”
“But we’re here.”
“…Yeah.”
They let the silence return.
Nothing fixed. Nothing solved - but they were still here. Together.
And for now, that was enough.
END OF PROLOGUE
Notes:
As promised, a little calm after the storm.
...Also, a little calm before the storm.
This marks the end of the Prologue. Prepare for fire.
Chapter 12: The Ignition Point
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
ACT ONE - REBUILDING
The hallway stretched far too long.
Not the real one - the real one was long gone. The floor didn’t creak the way it should have, and the windows let in a kind of light that didn’t cast shadow. The walls pulsed faintly, as if alive.
No matter how many steps Mydei took, he never got closer to the door at the far end.
Doors lined both sides, tall and identical, each just slightly taller than the last. Every knob gleamed with the same cold brass polish. Mydei didn’t try to open them. He knew he wouldn’t be able to.
Something in the air shifted. Behind him, something crackled. Like something electric and wrong. Then a voice:
“Someone help!”
Mydei turned, dread sinking in his chest.
A child stood at the far end of the corridor, impossibly small. Barefoot. Hair white as frost, tousled and uneven. He looked out of place here - soft and frightened in a world made of echoing hallways and breathless quiet. His arms were outstretched, like he was trying to hold shut an invisible door behind him.
And the wall behind him was cracking.
Hairline fractures spread through the plaster like veins under skin. Something moved behind it, heavy and unseen. A presence, not a shape. The sound came again - low, like something breathing.
There was a faint smell in the air now - burned dust, singed paper. Barely noticeable, but wrong . Wrong in a way that felt like it was closing in on all sides.
The boy’s face twisted, not with fear - but anger. A fierce, blazing kind of anger.
“I didn’t mean to!” he yelled, but it echoed strangely. Warped. Swallowed. The sound folded in on itself and came back slower, wrong.
Another voice cut through the space, flat and cold.
“You’ve done enough. Step back.”
Mydei opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came out. The hallway shifted beneath his feet, the floor rippling like water. Gravity bent sideways. His legs stretched longer than they should’ve, weightless and unanchored. Suddenly, he was somewhere else -
- A stage. Massive. Empty. Curtains hung like towering black walls, unmoving. Rows of velvet seats stretched into the dark, lit only by a single harsh spotlight, its blinding beam giving off the scent of smoke.
He stood in the center.
Alone.
The silence rang loud.
He looked down. His hands were red. Not blood - it was thicker than that. Something sticky, clinging to the creases of his skin.
The smell of smoke was stronger now - sharp, acrid. Somewhere, something was burning. But it wasn’t fire that threatened him here.
And then came the weight. The knowing. He had done something. Or failed to stop it. He couldn’t remember which. He only remembered the guilt - hot, impossible to scrub off - burning alongside a different kind of fire: anger, sharp and unspent.
The boards under his feet creaked. Then groaned. Cracks skittered across the floor like spider legs.
A low growl echoed from somewhere backstage. No audience. No exits. Only the feeling of being seen - completely, terribly, in a way that made him want to vanish inside himself.
Something moved behind the curtain. A ripple of air, a shiver of dread. It wasn’t a monster. Not really. It was worse than that. It was something made of feeling. Of shame . Of every moment he’d swallowed his hurt and pretended he was fine - coalesced into a shadow wearing his shape but with too many eyes.
A single eyeball blinked at him, staring at him from every direction he could turn and more - then vanished.
The ground buckled. The spotlight flickered. He turned his face upward -
Glass.
A ceiling made entirely of it, stretching high above. Frosted and humming faintly. Cracks threaded through it like veins. On the other side, barely visible through the misted surface -
The boy.
White-haired. Small hands pressed against the glass. Mouth moving like he was screaming something. Like he was begging not to be left behind.
And Mydei - he didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
The boy’s expression broke into a silent wail.
Then came the sound. The sharp, unmistakable crack of glass giving way.
A spiderweb of fractures raced outward - one, two, a dozen.
The smell of smoke filled his lungs.
The world around him shattered like glass,
Shattered,
s h a t t e r e d
s h a t t e r e d
Mydei’s eyes snapped open. The lingering fog of the dream clung stubbornly to his mind, but something was different tonight. Sharp. Real. A faint acrid sting curled in his nose. Smoke.
Warriors don’t wake from dreams. They endure them.
He sat up fast, heart pounding. The shadows of his room seemed to flicker in the early morning light. A thin haze drifted near the ceiling, curling and twisting like a ghost.
He sniffed again - definitely smoke. Not the dream’s phantom, but something very real.
The distant, muffled sound of alarms buzzed through the building. Panic tightened his chest, but his limbs moved before his mind could protest. Grabbing his phone and jacket, he swung his feet to the floor and rose quickly.
The smoke thickened as he headed toward the door, the sharp scent burning at the back of his throat. Outside his room, the corridor was dim and hazy. The orange glow of emergency lights bled through the smoke, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls.
Somewhere close, a fire was raging.
Mydei’s footsteps pounded down the hall, each breath catching as the smoke thickened around him. His ears rang with distant shouts and the blare of alarms, urgency sharpening every sense.
He burst through the door, eyes widening.
Ahead, the auditorium was a roaring inferno - flames licking at patches of the roof where charred panels had given way, sparks flickering like fireflies against the night sky. Thick clouds of black smoke rose in twisting plumes, dimming the stars and painting the darkness in shades of ash. A sharp crack echoed as a section of the stage floorboards splintered, collapsing inward with a thunderous crack, sending dust and glowing embers swirling through the air. The scent of burning wood and scorched fabric hung heavy, almost suffocating. Firefighters scrambled into position, hoses spraying relentless streams of water onto the blaze.
Nearby, Phainon appeared, his usual easy grin nowhere to be seen - only tension. Their eyes met for a brief moment. No words, no resentment. Just the gravity of what was happening.
Mydei swallowed hard. This was worse than any nightmare.
The sharp crackle of burning wood and distant shouts were joined by hurried footsteps. Cipher and Hyacine appeared through the smoke-shrouded path, faces pale in the flickering light. Cipher’s eyes were rimmed with fatigue, dark circles betraying restless nights. Her usual sharp gaze was clouded, movements slightly slower, as if weighed down by exhaustion. Yet beneath it all, a fierce determination glimmered. Hyacine clung close, her worry palpable. She scanned the scene quickly, spotting Mydei near the collapsing roof.
“Mydei!” Hyacine called. Cipher’s gaze flicked to the roaring flames, then back to him, jaw set tight.
“We’re here,” she said, sliding up beside him.
Mydei managed a tired nod. “It’s worse than I thought.” Each breath drew in the acrid air, thick with smoke.
Hyacine’s eyes were wide. “What do we do?”
Mydei’s shoulders slumped. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said quietly, voice heavy with frustration. “Just wait for the fire to go out.”
“Nothing?” Hyacine asked desperately.
Mydei looked back at the raging fire wordlessly. The sight was answer enough.
The fire roared, relentless and merciless. Sparks shot upward like burning fireflies, and the smell of scorched wood and melting plastic hung thick.
A weakened patch of the roof buckled and gave way with a deafening crash, sending a swirl of ash and embers drifting through the night air.
Hyacine swallowed hard, eyes brimming. Cipher’s jaw tightened.
They stood there, watching the destruction unfold - powerless, small beneath the monstrous blaze. The heat washed over them in waves, the fiery glow reflecting off their faces, pale and tense in the night.
Time stretched, slow and heavy.
The roar of the fire pulsed around them - sometimes surging with sudden bursts that sent sparks swirling high into the sky, other times simmering into a low, ominous hiss. The smell of charred wood and melting plastic clung thick in the air, pressing against their lungs.
Minutes passed, then more. No one spoke.
Words felt useless here.
Hyacine’s hand twitched but stayed still, clenched at her side. Cipher’s breath came shallow, watching as the roof’s edges blackened and sagged, threatening to collapse.
A sharp groan split the air as a damaged section of the wall crumbled inward, releasing a puff of embers. Beneath their feet, the ground trembled with a faint shudder.
They flinched, swallowed by the crackling symphony of destruction.
Bit by bit, the harsh blaze began to ebb. Firefighters moved with urgency - hoses spraying steady jets of water, boots pounding on charred wood, voices barking orders over the roar. Smoke thickened, then thinned, as glowing embers smoldered in patches. The fierce reds and oranges faded to dull grays and whites, the fire’s rage losing its grip.
At last, only embers remained.
Mydei finally broke the silence, voice firm but tired. “We can’t do anything here. You two should get home - rest up.”
Hyacine hesitated, eyes lingering on the flames, but nodded reluctantly. Cipher’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue.
“I’ll check in tonight,” Hyacine murmured, voice still shaken. “This smoke is awful for the lungs.”
The two of them turned away from the fire’s glow, the heat fading behind them as they made their way down the cracked pavement.
Just as Hyacine and Cipher vanished around the corner, a tall, rough figure approached through the smoke haze. He moved with purposeful calm, his sharp gaze assessing the scene before settling on Mydei.
“Mydei,” he said, stopping just short of him. His voice was low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “Didn’t expect you to stay this long.”
“Krateros,” Mydei said, straightening instinctively. “I had to see it.”
Krateros gave a short nod. “Briefing in an hour. Engineering team’s on the list.”
Mydei nodded, swallowing back tension. “Understood.”
Krateros glanced toward the scorched remains of the auditorium, expression unreadable. “We’ll need a team as soon as possible.”
“Where will the briefing be?”
“Main conference hall. Officials, maintenance heads, some of the board. They’ll want answers - what burned, how bad, and what we can do about it.”
Mydei paused, absorbing the weight of the message. “What about manpower? Equipment?”
Krateros shook his head. “The budget's tight. The administration insists on keeping this in-house - for cost reasons and, frankly, reputation. They’re reluctant to bring in outside contractors. They’ll explain more at the briefing.”
Mydei frowned. “So it’s up to us to manage the repairs?”
“That’s the idea,” Krateros agreed, lips tight.
A pause hung in the air as the fire crackled softly behind them.
Krateros turned slightly, watching the ruins with the calm of someone who’d seen worse.
“You’re sharp,” he said. “Good in a crisis. But this one’s going to push you.”
Mydei looked at him. “We’ll handle it.”
Krateros met his gaze, gave a small grunt that might’ve been approval - or warning.
“Get out of the smoke, Mydei,” he advised gruffly. “You won’t get any sleep tonight, I can guarantee that. At least clear your lungs.”
He gave a brief nod and turned away, leaving Mydei standing amid the cooling embers, already feeling the weight of what lay ahead.
With a last glance at the still-glowing embers, Mydei turned away.
The night air was cool, but it carried a weight heavier than the heat from the smoldering auditorium. Mydei’s footsteps echoed along the cracked pavement, the distant glow of emergency lights fading behind him.
Each step felt slower than the last. His mind churned, replaying fragments - the crackling fire, the roof collapsing, the smoke stinging his lungs. The unspoken expectations waiting for him at the briefing pressed down like a physical burden.
Ahead, street lamps flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed and then faded. The city seemed to hold its breath, caught in the uneasy pause between disaster and response.
Mydei’s thoughts drifted to the people he’d rather avoid - the officials, the faculty, the ones who’d demand explanations, assign blame, and add deadlines to an already impossible schedule. Faces blurred together, each carrying the same silent accusation: How did this happen on your watch?
And of course, a certain someone he knew deep down would be there.
He clenched his fists, forcing his shoulders back. There was no use running from it. The fire wasn’t just a physical blaze - it was a spark lighting a fuse he couldn’t ignore.
His pace quickened, steps tapping a sharper rhythm on the sidewalk. The night stretched ahead, dark and uncertain, but he had to face it. No matter what.
Mydei stepped inside the common room, the weight of exhaustion pressing into his bones. The faint scent of smoke still clung to him, sharp and acrid. Hyacine was waiting, already pacing with a glass of water in one hand and a small pouch of supplies in the other.
When she saw him, she stopped mid-step, her eyes crinkled with worry.
“Okay - sit,” she said immediately, nudging him gently toward the couch. “You look terrible. Not in a permanent way! Just, like, fire terrible.”
He blinked at her, and she flinched. “I mean, obviously. Not that you normally look - just - here, sit.”
He obliged, too tired to respond, the room spinning slightly as his lungs still burned from the smoke. Hyacine moved quickly, kneeling beside him with an awkward sort of focus.
“I’ve got eucalyptus,” she said, unscrewing a small bottle. “It helps open the airways. It’s not magic, but it’s close.”
She held the cloth near his nose. The sharp, cooling scent hit him immediately, easing the tightness in his chest. Her hand, light on his shoulder, steadied him.
“Smoke inhalation is tricky,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Not just coughing. It’s your oxygen levels, your circulation, your - oh, your pulse!” She held her fingers to Mydei’s wrist, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Hmm. Okay. You’re going to match me. Ready?”
She inhaled deeply, exaggerated just enough to be followable. “In through your nose - slow - like you’re smelling cookies. Out through your mouth like you’re blowing out birthday candles.”
Mydei gave her a look that said I’m not a kid , but did as instructed.
“Good,” she said, her voice softening. “Now again. You’re doing fine. Just... don’t pass out, please.”
“I’m not going to -” his protest was interrupted by a cough.
She immediately handed him the water, waiting while he sipped. Her foot tapped a quiet rhythm on the floor, like she was holding in nerves that didn’t quite match her calm hands.
“I’m not going to pass out,” Mydei finished flatly as he put the water down. “Pretty sure it’d take a lot more than smoke to knock me out.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” she said, dabbing eucalyptus.
Mydei flinched, more at the words than the touch.
Prove everything, always. Especially when you're bleeding. Your place in this world is earned.
“If you get dizzy, or you feel that tightness come back, tell me immediately, okay?” she said, still watching him closely. “No being stoic. That’s not allowed right now.”
He looked at her, tired. “...You’re good at this.”
Her ears turned a little pink. “I mean - I study. A lot. I might’ve panicked a tiny bit when I saw you like that, but I figured it’d be more helpful to panic later.”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Try to sleep, okay? Just a little. You should be feeling better by morning, but if anything comes up, find me, okay?”
“I can’t,” Mydei said, exhaustion pulling at his features. “There’s a briefing in an hour.”
“Ah,” Hyacine said, subdued. “Well, be sure to sleep when you can.”
For a moment, they were both silent, lost in their own thoughts. The room was quiet except for the faint tick of a clock, the weight of the night settling in around them.
When Hyacine finally stood, she gave him a small, encouraging smile before heading toward the door.
Outside, the distant sound of sirens began to fade.
The meeting room was too bright.
Mydei blinked against the overhead lights as he stepped inside, the smell of disinfectant and burnt dust still lingering faintly on his jacket. Rows of chairs had been hastily arranged, most already filled with bleary-eyed faculty and older students murmuring among themselves. Some wore masks or scarves over their mouths. A few were still coughing softly, the air thick with the faint chemical tang of smoke and medicine. Mydei wasn’t the only one who looked hollowed out.
At the front stood a projection screen, a grainy image of the auditorium collapse frozen on the display. The ruined stage looked worse in stillness, like a warped memory.
Mydei found a seat near the back, slumping into it without ceremony. His lungs still felt raw.
A few more chairs scraped across the floor as late arrivals filed in.
Then the room fell still.
Krateros entered.
He didn’t stride - Krateros never strode - but he moved with a kind of certainty that didn’t leave room for hesitation. His silver-streaked hair was immaculately combed, shirt pressed, not a speck of ash or fatigue in sight. He carried a tablet tucked under one arm and the faint air of disappointment that always seemed to linger, even when he hadn’t said anything yet.
“Let’s get this done.” His voice was sharp and gruff, no room for small talk.
He stepped to the front and tapped the remote. The screen changed, showing a heat-map overlay of the east north.
“The fire started in the lighting rig,” he said. “Spread fast. Poor ventilation, heat built up, system smoldering for who knows how long.”
His gaze scanned the room, unblinking.
“Cause? Neglected maintenance. Outdated gear. Overworked system. All of it avoidable.”
Click .
A diagram flicked into place - fault lines traced in red over a wireframe of the roof structure.
“It’s likely the system smoldered well before fully igniting. Neglect, old infrastructure, and overwork - again, all avoidable.”
Mydei stared at the image, a mix of anger and exhaustion swirling in his chest. Avoidable. Avoidable. All avoidable.
Krateros wasted no time.
“We got lucky. No one was inside when it happened. But the financial hit is heavy, and the fallout - logistical, academic, reputational - is very real.
“Several people near the building required medical attention,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Respiratory symptoms, mostly. Nothing critical. We’ll be monitoring dorms closest to the site.”
Another click. A new slide appeared: stark numbers in bold red, broken down by categories - material loss, projected repair costs, faculty overtime.
“The building’s structurally unstable,” Krateros said flatly. “Debris removal starts this week.”
Mydei swallowed. The image of the stage collapsing flashed behind his eyes.
“That’s the reality we’re facing.” Krateros set the tablet down on the podium with a quiet click. He looked up, gaze sweeping across the room. “Now - reconstruction.”
A silent exhale of exhaustion from everyone in the room.
“There’s no time to wait on contractors. The board’s decision is firm. Delays make us look negligent. And the auditorium was slated to host final performances, exhibitions, guest lectures, and most importantly, the Founder’s Gala in seven weeks. Canceling simply isn’t on the table.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Mydei heard someone behind him stifle a cough. He felt it in his own lungs too - like grit that wouldn’t leave.
Krateros raised a hand, silencing the room with effortless authority. “We don’t have the budget for external teams. What we do have,” his eyes swept the crowd, “are capable students under faculty supervision.”
Then, without ceremony, the trap was set.
“Mydeimos Castrum Kremnos. Phainon Aedes Elysiae.”
Mydei went completely still.
“You’re the top two structural design students this year. Your capstone projects fit emergency response engineering. With oversight, the committee will approve site-based credit and fast-track documentation. It’s unconventional - but necessary.”
Mydei wasn’t shocked. No, it was something more complex. Like recognition, but darker. Like he’d seen this coming and hoped, absurdly, that he was wrong.
Across the room, Phainon was expressionless.
Krateros continued. “You’ll be responsible for designing a safe rebuild of the auditorium’s structure. Material selection, load testing, safety reports, the works.”
There was a pause. The weight of expectation pressed in.
“And we’re not expecting you to work alone,” he added smoothly. “If needed, younger underclassmen can assist. There’s plenty of second-years seeking project hours.”
“No.”
The word came from Mydei, clipped and immediate.
And then again - from the other side of the room.
“No,” Phainon echoed, voice firmer than usual.
Krateros blinked, just once.
“I’d rather work solo,” Mydei added, trying to keep the edge from his tone. “It’ll be faster. Cleaner.”
“I don’t want anyone else dragged into it,” Phainon said simply, arms folded across his chest. “Too much risk.”
They didn’t look at each other. Not once. But something passed between them in that space anyway - silent, charged. Old history and new consequence brushing shoulders.
Krateros gave a curt nod. “Understood. You’ll work solo. But reports are weekly. Faculty oversight is mandatory. And the deadline stands - for self-explanatory reasons.”
He tapped the screen one last time.
“You’ll start Monday.”
Mydei sat still, jaw locked. Of course. He’d been trained for this kind of pressure. Not by teachers, but by silence. By the cold weight of expectations that came home in report cards and fell heavy across dinner tables.
Real men don't ask. They don't stumble. They carry the beam until their arms break.
Then, turning back to the room, his tone shifted - less pointed, more broadly commanding.
“To the rest of you: faculty remain on alert for safety concerns. Of course, no unauthorized access to the building until clearance is given. That includes student media.”
A flick of his hand brought up a final slide - Campus Response Protocol.
“If you experienced smoke inhalation - coughing, dizziness, shortness of breath - report to campus health immediately. Documentation will be required for any accommodations. We are compiling exposure records and may need your cooperation. This is for your safety and liability.”
His gaze swept the rows of weary faces.
“We appreciate your patience through reconstruction. Faculty will keep you updated on temporary relocations for performances, lectures, and exams through email.”
A brief pause. Then:
“Until public announcements have fully addressed this matter, don’t speculate publicly. We expect your continued professionalism. Dismissed.”
As the room stirred with the sound of chairs scraping and students filing out, Mydei stood slowly, joints stiff, the taste of smoke still lingering in the back of his throat. He rubbed at the side of his neck, distracted.
And then he saw her.
Aglaea stood near the side of the room, arms crossed neatly over a slim folder, face unreadable. Her posture was perfect - too perfect. Chin high, eyes forward. But her gaze flicked toward him the moment she sensed his movement.
They locked eyes. The bags under Aglaea’s eyes were imminent. Mydei probably didn’t look much better.
They didn’t look at each other long. Barely more than a second. But it hit like something louder.
She didn’t look surprised to see him. She never did, not since Mydei could remember. But something flickered there - just beneath the surface of her practiced expression. A pull, maybe. Or a shadow. In that one tiny second, Mydei could feel the weight of the years of their history pressing down on them. Happiness, sadness, anger, confusion, regret.
Mydei gave the smallest nod. She nodded back. Neither of them smiled.
She broke the glance first, turning smoothly to speak with a faculty member by the door. Polite. Professional.
Like nothing had passed between them.
Mydei stepped into the hallway. The stale air of the meeting room gave way to something cooler, more open, and he took a deep breath. The faint echo of footsteps bounced off the walls, distant voices murmured, and a sharp breeze carried the faint scent of rain. His thoughts raced. Angled beams. Roof stress. Material costs. Deadlines.
Footsteps followed behind him. Light, familiar ones. He recognized them instantly.
He didn’t turn as Phainon approached.
“Hey,” came Phainon’s voice, easy as always - but with a faint, frayed edge.
Mydei didn’t answer.
Phainon caught up anyway, falling into step beside him like it was nothing. “Guess it’s us again.”
Still, Mydei kept walking.
Phainon gave a soft snort. “You could at least pretend to be excited.”
Mydei exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“This.” Mydei finally looked at him. “The whole ‘if I joke about it, it won’t hurt’ routine. It’s old.”
Phainon’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Some of us don’t get the luxury of brooding silently like a tragic statue.”
“You think this is about theatrics?”
“I think,” Phainon said, voice quieting, “you’re not the only one who walked away from that night with scars.”
That stopped Mydei cold. For a moment, neither spoke.
Phainon didn’t push. He just looked at him - really looked, in that way only someone who used to know you better than anyone else could. “They’re making us do this together. Fine. But don’t pretend that means we’re fine.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” Phainon looked forward again. “Because I’m not interested in pretending either.”
Mydei’s jaw tightened. “Then why agree to this?”
Phainon shrugged. “Because despite everything, I still care if things fall down.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“Besides,” Phainon added, more bitterly, “at least if it’s just us, we know who to blame.”
The words settled between them like dust in the ruins.
Mydei opened his mouth - then closed it again.
Phainon gave a short, sharp breath of laughter, almost amused at himself. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
Mydei didn’t disagree.
Phainon stepped ahead of him then, heading for the exit.
“See you tomorrow,” Phainon said.
He turned and walked off, hands shoved in his pockets, whistling something tuneless and sharp.
Mydei stood there a moment longer, watching the shadow of his old friend disappear down the hall, then continued walking.
Phainon sat on the edge of a cracked concrete bench, phone balanced in one hand. His thumb hovered over the screen, flickering between drafts and empty messages. The words weren’t ready yet - not the ones he needed to say, not the ones he wanted to hear. Frustration curled in his chest.
He set the phone down carefully, like it might shatter if handled too roughly. The silence didn’t help. The longer he sat still, the heavier the words felt.
So he got up.
His feet carried him down the winding path without much thought. Past the fencing, the yellow caution signs, the temporary barricades sagging under the wind. His mind buzzed, but his body moved like it always did - decisive, if nothing else.
He wasn’t heading to the auditorium. Just thinking about the wreckage made his chest tight for reasons he couldn’t name.
Instead, he turned at the familiar bend, slipping through a narrow passage behind one of the older storage buildings. The path was half-lit, cluttered with forgotten equipment carts and a tipped-over sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only: Workshop Closes at 11PM.”
Phainon snorted under his breath. He was authorized personnel. Just... unofficially after-hours.
He made a quick show of checking over his shoulder - habit more than concern - then ducked toward the side door. Not the main one with the security camera. The other one, tucked under the eaves behind a stack of warped pallets. The keypad was still broken. He’d meant to fix it a week ago, but now he was glad he hadn’t.
He reached up, nudged the top casing of the panel open, and clicked the manual override switch tucked inside. The bolt clicked.
“Still got it,” he murmured, slipping inside with the quiet ease of someone who’d never quite stopped treating locked doors as suggestions.
The workshop greeted him like an old friend. Dim light from the streetlamps filtered in through the high windows, casting faint yellow across the walls. Tool racks, half-finished projects, cracked visors and old lab coats hung like ghosts of unfinished work.
He inhaled. The air was warm with oil, metal dust, and familiar comfort. His hand trailed the edge of a workbench as he walked. The overhead lights stayed off. He didn’t need them. His feet knew the way.
Phainon exhaled through his nose.
He dropped his bag in a corner and shrugged his jacket off, the cool night air hitting his now-exposed arms. He walked to the back wall, grabbing a thick length of steel pipe from the scrap bin. His hands closed around the cold weight. He tested its weight in his hands.
Then, without ceremony, he slammed it into the workbench.
Clang .
The sharp ring echoed off the walls, breaking the heavy silence. He lifted the pipe again.
Clang .
Again.
It didn’t fix anything. But it was honest.
Clang.
He kept going. It wasn’t rage, it was rhythm - controlled, focused, like knocking on the door of the world, asking it to make some kind of sense.
Clang.
Each hit was a pulse, a heartbeat, a small defiance against the quiet that threatened to swallow him whole.
Clang .
Slowly, his breathing evened. The weight in his chest lightened a tiny bit.
Eventually, the clanging stopped. He slumped against the bench, breathing hard, pipe still in one hand.
A loose screw rolled across the table and dropped to the floor.
Phainon’s gaze drifted to the pegboard above him. A rusted wrench hung at a crooked angle. A bag of fasteners he’d never opened sat forgotten in a wire bin. A broken clamp sat on the edge of the bench - he picked it up absently, inspecting the hairline fracture down the hinge.
He sat. Just sat.
The workshop hum wasn’t real - it came from memory. From late nights when he’d holed up here just to make something, just to be good at something. When he needed something to hold still.
A part of him wanted to build something now. Anything. Fix a chair. Patch a frame. Replace a hinge. Something that could be finished. Something that didn’t hurt when you touched it.
Fingers curling around the broken clamp, he traced the hairline fracture with slow, careful motions. Then, almost without thinking, he set the clamp on the bench and rummaged through a nearby box of screws and bolts. His hands moved with a faint spark of purpose as he picked out a tiny screwdriver and a few spare parts.
He started to work, quiet and methodical - tightening, adjusting, trying to coax the clamp back from its broken state. The sound of metal clicking and screws turning was familiar and steady, a small anchor against the chaos in his mind.
A soft vibration in his pocket broke the stillness.
He ignored it. It was another automated admin email, another student group message he wouldn’t answer. He loosened the clamp a tiny bit, trying to get it to -
It rang again. With a sigh of reluctance, he wiped off the oil on his hand with a rag and went to pull his phone out of his pocket - only to see a name that hit him like a familiar anchor: Cyrene.
He quickly swiped to answer.
“Hey, stranger!” Cyrene’s voice came through - easy, teasing, but with a warmth that made the tight knot in his chest loosen just a bit. “Did you forget how to use your phone, or were you just hiding from me on purpose?”
Phainon let out a short, humorless laugh. “You caught me.”
“Well, you can’t hide forever. And lucky for you, you have me.” She laughed softly. “Your big sister, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t think I ever had much say in that,” he teased back.
“Exactly,” Cyrene replied. “You’re not exactly ignoring me, but you’ve been quieter than usual. I notice these things.” Her tone softened just a little. “You don’t have to hide from me, you know.”
He looked down at the cracked concrete beneath his feet, the weight of everything pressing down. “I’m not. I’m just… processing.”
“Yeah, right. More like you’re in the workshop hiding from everything. Am I right?”
Phainon stiffened. “How do you always know that?”
She laughed again. “Because you have a predictable flair for rugged loneliness. Plus, I’m psychic. Or maybe it’s just that sisterly intuition. Same thing.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess you could say I’m… dealing with stuff.”
“Oh, ‘stuff’ is the best kind of vague! Spill.”
He sighed, the heaviness breaking through. “It’s complicated. Things broke - more than just wood and metal. And suddenly everyone’s expecting me and Mydei to fix it.”
There was a pause, then she said softly, “Sounds like you got handed a mess. But that’s not on you alone, you know.”
“Yeah, well. Mess or not, it’s on my shoulders now.”
“Typical - taking the blame like it’s a trophy. You’re impossible.”
Phainon chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “I’m good at that. Being impossible. It’s my specialty.”
“Yeah, well, I’m good at seeing through your stubbornness.” There was a pause. “Look, you’re probably expecting a big lecture or some pep talk, but you know I don’t do pep talks. I’m here to remind you that you don’t have to carry all this on your own. Never ever ever.”
He swallowed, eyes tracing the fracture in the clamp as he searched for the words. “Sometimes… it just feels like everything’s falling apart, and I don’t know if I can fix it.”
“What did I just tell you, Pie?” Cyrene’s admonished, voice affectionately exasperated. “You don’t have to fix everything. Not by yourself. Remember when we were kids, and you tried to carry that huge stack of books? I told you to put some down and come back for them later, and let me help carry some. Life’s kind of like that.”
Phainon smiled, the memory warming him. “You were always the practical one.”
“And you were the stubborn one who’d rather haul it all and risk dropping everything.” Her teasing tone returned. “Some things never change.”
He let out an amused exhale. “Guess not. I just - there’s so much I want to say, but it all feels tangled.”
There was a small, knowing laugh on the other end. “Well, I’m coming down in a week or so. Thought you could use someone to help untangle the mess - over coffee, or whatever passes for that in your world.”
A genuine smile broke through Phainon’s fatigue. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” she said, voice light but certain. “So don’t do anything too reckless before I get there, okay?”
“Can’t promise that.”
“That’s my brother,” she said, voice full of affection. “I’ll see you soon.”
They hung up, and Phainon let the silence settle - this time, feeling a little less like a weight and more like space to breathe.
Faintly, he smiled to himself.
Cyrene’s visit couldn’t come any sooner.
Notes:
This marks the first chapter of Act 1: Rebuilding. Yep, that was all the prologue.
Please let me know if I captured the Phaidei tension! There'll be more next chapter, so your criticism will be HIGHLY important to me - like seriously guys, I really really really need feedback on this one. Phaidei is reaaaally hard to get down for me. Their mutual gay tension, their backstory (which we'll find out about soon), their absolute idiocy. If anything about their interactions here don't feel true to their dynamic or even make you uncomfortable, let me know so I can change the tone of their interactions, please please please!
Chapter 13: Clear Away the Smoke
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sun filtered through gauzy curtains, soft and warm, like it was trying to apologize for yesterday. Hyacine didn’t buy it.
She sat curled in her window seat, knees hugged to her chest, one hand absently twisting the end of her pigtail. Her notebook lay open beside her, a fresh white page inviting, but she couldn’t think of anything to write. She probably should. The morning had offered her a rare quiet - the kind that usually asked to be filled with something lovely or silly or soothing. But today it just felt like… stillness.
Hyacine blew a small puff of air toward the glass, fogging it briefly. Then she smiled at the tiny cloud her breath left behind.
She liked mornings. Well, usually she liked mornings - but today, the morning felt too hard like it was trying to forget.
The others were trying. So was she. But something about yesterday still sat wrong in her chest. Cipher had barely slept. Mydei hadn’t looked at anyone properly. She wasn’t used to this… thick kind of quiet.
She glanced toward Cipher’s bed. No movement. No sound. She hadn’t said much when she got back - just shuffled by, muttered something about not getting up for a century.
Hyacine reached for her pencil, letting it rest lightly in her hand. A few lines found their way onto the paper - a bench, a speaker, a warped curtain. None of it planned. Just shapes her hand remembered.
She stood with a sigh, setting the pencil down and tugging on a cardigan as she made her way through the door.
“Hyacine,” came a soft, scratchy mumble from Cipher’s bed as Hyacine opened the door.
She turned back. Cipher hadn’t moved, but her voice was awake, if a little slow.
“I’m going out for a bit,” Hyacine said softly. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
Cipher made a faint grunt of acknowledgement. Then, after a pause: “Bring back something edible. I think our fridge is haunted.”
That earned a small smile from Hyacine. “I’ll try.”
“Mm,” Cipher muttered, already drifting again. “You’re cute when you worry.”
Hyacine flushed. “Sleep.”
As Cipher’s breathing evened out again, Hyacine looked back out the window, toward the barely-visible silhouette of the auditorium. She wasn’t the one fixing it. But she hoped they were okay. Phainon. Mydei. Both of them carried too much, in such different ways.
Then she whispered, mostly to herself, "Please don’t fight too much today."
Mydei hadn’t slept.
He’d tried, once or twice. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fire again - saw the roof give way, saw the auditorium split open like a wound - and his chest tightened. Every breath still felt tinged with smoke, like it had lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest, but it felt wrong to wake Hyacine.
Warriors don’t accept help . His family’s mantra rang in his mind.
Now, he stood at the edge of the sectioned-off construction zone, hood up against the sharp breeze. The sky was cloudless and painfully bright. The air reeked of scorched wood and damp concrete, sour and clinging.
Phainon was already there.
Mydei spotted him across the rubble, crouched over a pile of twisted scaffolding with a measuring tape in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Phainon’s hair was pulled back messily, safety goggles perched too high on his forehead. He didn’t look up right away, just jotted something down, adjusted a beam with his foot, and muttered something to himself.
Mydei exhaled slowly.
He stepped under the caution tape, boots crunching over broken glass and scattered gravel. The campus was quieter than usual. Not silent - but strange. Everyone walked softer, spoke lower, as if the fire had burned more than just the auditorium.
Mydei had thought he’d get here first.
He took a breath, then crossed the lot.
Phainon glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps, but he didn’t straighten. Just raised a hand half-heartedly, like a wave he hadn’t committed to.
“Morning,” he said, voice flat.
“Barely.” Mydei's voice was hoarse. “You been here long?”
“Since before you.”
There wasn’t enough air in the space between them. Just ash and silence and the brittle edge of something too old to be sharp, but too real to be dull.
Neither offered more words.
They stood side by side for a long moment, staring at the broken auditorium. From the outside, it looked like something wounded. A ribcage of scorched beams, bent in strange directions. The roof had caved partially, leaving a gaping mouth of shadow and steel.
They didn’t ask how each other had been. Didn’t mention the weather or the building or the fact that they were about to spend an entire afternoon together hauling the past off its broken bones.
Just turned toward the door. Together.
Phainon reached it first and pushed it open. The metal groaned under his hand.
Mydei followed him in.
The moment he stepped into the auditorium proper, his breath caught.
The room gaped open before him, wide and broken. Half the ceiling had caved in, trailing blackened beams and collapsed rigging like the ribs of some giant carcass. The stage was unrecognizable - smeared in ash, crushed under debris, the floorboards warped and blistered.
The curtains, once deep red, hung in singed tatters. Rows of seats closest to the front were scorched, plastic seatbacks melted in unnatural curves. A spotlight - formerly fixed high in the rafters - had crashed down mid-row, its shattered lens glittering faintly among the ash, like fallen glass from a chandelier.
The ground beneath their feet was uneven, littered with shattered concrete, splintered wood, and twisted metal shards gleaming cold in the pale afternoon light. Every step crunched sharply, cracks echoing beneath their boots like broken promises.
The auditorium was a skeleton now. The walls that had once held eager crowds were blackened and scorched, stained with soot and streaked with peeling paint. Jagged holes punched through drywall, revealing rusted wiring and the hollow ribcage of the building’s frame. It was eerily silent in the wind.
Sunlight spilled unevenly through the gaping maw where the roof had collapsed. Dust motes swirled in lazy eddies, catching the light like tiny sparks of life amid the ruin.
Phainon’s eyes scanned the scene with a practiced eye, flicking from fallen beams to cracked pillars, his jaw tight. Mydei followed more slowly, absorbing every detail - the way a support beam leaned precariously, the shattered glass sparkling like scattered tears on the floor, the remnants of seats ripped from their mounts and tossed like broken bones.
“It’s worse than I thought,” Mydei muttered, voice low.
Phainon didn’t reply.
They walked deeper inside, walking past the rows upon rows of charred seats down toward the crushed stage, the cavernous space swallowing their voices. The familiar buzz of electricity was gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence broken only by distant creaks and the occasional drip of water from a broken sprinkler.
The air felt thick enough to shatter with a blow, heavy with the taste of ash and char. It clung to their throats, sharp and dry. Mydei’s chest tightened again, and he swallowed hard, trying to ignore the raw ache spreading in his lungs.
Warriors don’t show weakness. He held back a cough.
Phainon’s boot nudged something amid the debris. A fallen speaker, cracked and blackened, tilted against a pile of rubble. Curious, Phainon reached down and brushed away the ash. He tapped it lightly.
Static buzzed, then a faint crackle, and slowly a distorted voice emerged - the ghost of a rehearsal recording, muffled and broken, haunting the ruins with a fragment of its past life.
The sound hung in the air, bittersweet and unreal.
Mydei’s gaze flicked to Phainon’s face. For a moment, something passed between them - recognition, loss, the silent admission that this ruin wasn’t just a building, that it ran deeper, deep within their limbs and hearts and minds.
Mydei felt a flicker of frustration. He didn’t need all of this thought distracting him.
They moved toward a corner where a whiteboard had been set up sometime in the night, its clean surface standing out amidst the soot. Blueprints were spread on a makeshift table, edges old and curling.
Phainon crouched by the scattered blueprints, fingers brushing over the ragged edges of the papers. His gaze flicked to a jagged line on a sketch, then up at the leaning support beam nearby.
“Looks like Krateros marked load-bearing here,” Mydei said, pointing.
“Mm.” Phainon leaned in, squinting. “Could shift that east - twelve inches, maybe fifteen - and still hit support. Open up that wing staircase for a rebuild.”
Mydei frowned. “That’s not what the plans say.”
Phainon raised an eyebrow. “And the plans got us a collapsed roof.”
“The fire did that.” Mydei’s voice was harder now. “Not the plans.”
Phainon didn’t argue. Just drew a quick adjustment sketch on the board. His lines were loose, intuitive, like someone finding a rhythm through instinct.
Mydei watched, jaw tight. Then he picked up a marker and began drawing beside him - straight lines, clean angles, precise supports. His style was rigid, architectural. Their designs clashed visibly on the board.
“You draw like everything you make has to stand for a hundred years,” Phainon muttered.
“And you draw like it’s gonna be torn down tomorrow.”
Phainon scoffed but didn’t answer.
Mydei glanced over, then frowned. “That angle’s wrong. The weight would collapse inward.”
“Only if you ignore the outer beam. Which I wouldn’t.”
“You do ignore structure,” Mydei said with tired certainty. “You always have. That’s the difference.”
“And you treat every project like it’s the last thing you’ll ever build,” Phainon shot back.
Mydei stared at him. “So?”
Phainon’s eyes flicked up, then back down. “So nothing. It's just… frustrating.”
Silence fell again, like dust resettling on the ground after a scuffle.
Mydei capped the marker a little too hard. “We should start clearing the west arch. Reinforcements go there.”
Phainon didn’t respond immediately. Then, under his breath: “Lead the way, monument man.”
Mydei didn’t respond, just clenched his hand into a frustrated fist. He stepped past him toward the debris.
The west arch was half-blocked by rubble - chunks of fallen wall, twisted metal from the catwalk, broken chair frames scattered like snapped ribs. Mydei made his way toward it, one hand against the stage as he climbed over a collapsed lighting rack. The metal groaned beneath his boots, shifting under the weight.
Behind him, Phainon followed, his steps a little lighter and faster.
“Cable,” Mydei muttered without looking.
Phainon didn’t answer, but the shuffling of his steps adjusted.
The auditorium did not look much better from the west side. No air flow reached this far in. Dust hung in thick swirls where their boots disturbed the floor. Bits of burnt paint flaked off the walls with the lightest touch.
Every step kicked up the past.
They climbed over twisted rails, ducked under hanging cables, squeezed through half-collapsed beams that creaked under their own weight. Mydei paused at a jagged beam wedged between two walls, half-blocking the path to the archway. It was much too heavy to lift by himself.
“Help me with this,” he said reluctantly. Warriors don’t need help!
Phainon stepped up beside him, closer than either of them probably liked, but neither backed off.
They gripped opposite ends of the beam - splintered, heavy, hot from the suffocating air - and hoisted it up together, muscles straining. For a second, their shoulders nearly touched, the air crackling in between them.
Mydei’s grip slipped for half a second - barely - but Phainon caught the slack without a word, shifting his stance. Neither of them said anything about it.
Together, they tilted the beam up and pushed it to the side where it wouldn’t be blocking the arch. It landed with a dull thud, sending a small bloom of ash into the air.
Still too close. Still not looking at each other.
Mydei moved on.
More obstacles. A burned music stand tangled with wire. A crushed lighting console that crackled when Phainon accidentally nudged it.
At one point, Phainon stepped ahead and offered a hand to help Mydei over a broken riser.
Mydei looked at the hand. Then at the riser. His arm twitched at his side - then stopped. He climbed over on his own.
Phainon didn’t push. Just dropped his hand and kept walking.
Eventually, they stood before the west arch. It was blocked by large pieces of charred wood and metal.
All that remained was work.
So they worked.
Mydei dragged a burnt plank across the floor, sweat slicking his back beneath his shirt. The air was stale and thick, and even with the doors open, the heat pooled inside the wreck like it belonged there.
Phainon was on the other side of the space, hauling a collapsed riser into a neater pile. His movements were efficient - agile, even - but impatient. Like he was itching to skip ahead.
They didn’t speak much.
At some point, Phainon returned with the whiteboard, setting it up against a blackened wall, its drawings already smudged with dust. As time passed, it slowly filled with sketches, most of them vastly conflicting in style.
They met at the board only to argue.
“Look here,” Phainon said, pointing with a carpenter’s pencil. “This corridor here - we could extend the rear stairs and avoid rerouting half the frame. Saves time, and it’s not like the original layout was flawless.”
“No,” Mydei replied, flat and firm. “We reinforce. We don’t redesign.”
Phainon’s laugh was sharp. “Reinforce a disaster? You’d really rather rebuild a burnt-out skeleton than change anything?”
“It’s not broken,” Mydei corrected. “It’s burnt.”
They stared at the board for a moment, not looking at each other.
Phainon snorted. “Poetic, huh?”
Mydei’s jaw twitched - maybe amusement, maybe frustration. “You started it.”
The day moved forward in uneven rhythms. Haul. Measure. Chalk a line. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
At one point, Mydei found himself climbing onto the broken ledge of the old tech booth, balancing against the frame to measure beam distance. Phainon handed him the tape measure without a word, holding the other end steady.
Their arms stretched between them, a single line of metal.
Neither mentioned the way it trembled slightly in the heat. Nor how it was the first time in years they’d shared something without knives in their words.
Back at the board, they sketched and corrected. Markers drew. Dust coated their fingers.
Mydei adjusted a bracket line in red, sharp and clean. He didn’t explain it - just circled the angle, eyes narrowed in thought.
Phainon leaned in, frowning. Then nodded. “Yeah. That works.”
Mydei blinked. Looked at him, just for a second.
“Good,” he said, unsure how else to reply.
The pencil paused in his hand like it wanted to say something else. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You know, you -”
A groan in the far corner startled them both - just a metal beam shifting under its own weight. Nothing dangerous, but loud enough to make them both turn and sever the fragile thread.
Phainon was the first to speak again, voice low but tight. “That joist’s off by a degree.”
He nodded toward one of the chalk-marked beams, where he’d drawn a brace detail with looping shorthand. It was messy but readable - mostly.
Mydei crouched beside it. He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the line, then traced his thumb along the measurement. His brow creased.
“It’s off by more than a degree,” he said flatly. “You measured from the wall, not the true center.”
Phainon frowned, leaning over his shoulder. “I didn’t -”
“You did.” Mydei pointed, more tired than sharp. “The wall sags there. Look at the foundation line.”
There was a pause. Phainon said nothing. Instead, he yanked the chalk from his pocket and erased the line with the heel of his hand, ignoring the way the rough wood scraped his callused palm.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Your way.”
Mydei didn’t gloat. He just drew the new line quietly, hands steady, squaring it with the level. The floor groaned faintly as he shifted his weight to keep the chalk from crumbling against a crack in the wood.
They worked in silence after that - bracing, aligning, adjusting. Mydei set a marker down where a beam needed cutting. Phainon grabbed a handsaw and started on it without asking.
The cut came clean, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack. Phainon exhaled, shaking out his wrist. Mydei was already measuring the next support.
“Can’t believe this place passed inspection,” Phainon muttered, mostly to himself.
Mydei glanced over. “Remember those emails we kept getting? They said the repair was pending. Wonder when they planned to get it done.”
Phainon shook his head, lifting the cut beam into place. “And now we get to be the band-aid.”
“No.” Mydei braced the side. “We’re the scaffold.” We are the warriors this land is built upon.
They pressed the beam into place together, one on each end, pushing upward until the weight settled.
A sharp tug flared in Mydei’s lower back - deep, sudden, unmistakable. He almost swore. But instead - he breathed it in. Pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Pain's a test. Let them see you sweat, and they’ll stop trusting your hands.
He didn’t let go. Just shifted his grip like he meant to, like it was part of the motion.
Phainon glanced over.
Mydei kept his eyes on the beam, like it hadn’t happened.
He waited until Phainon looked away before exhaling - slowly, through his nose - and rolled his shoulders once, subtly, trying to shake it off.
A creak echoed through the rafters above. Dust sifted down, soft and silent.
Mydei stepped back, still discreetly flexing his shoulder, as Phainon checked his watch.
“It’s five already,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “Break time.”
Mydei nodded silently and leaned against a fallen beam.
Phainon grabbed his water bottle. “Want some?”
Mydei hesitated, then shook his head, reaching into his bag. “Got my own.”
They didn’t sit. Just stood apart, facing different directions, drinking in the dusty half-light.
“No one else is coming,” Phainon said as he lowered his bottle, eyes on the doorway.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Mydei answered, voice low. Neutral. Perfectly composed.
“...How’s Cipher doing?” Phainon said, voice light in the familiar way it always was when he was trying not to sound too interested.
“Fine,” Mydei said.
Phainon shifted his weight. “You know, we used to run lines for Farside back in the old drama hall. Feels like this place, but… smaller. And less burnt.”
“I remember.” A pause. Then sharper: “We’re here to work.”
“Right,” Phainon said, and the word hung there like heavy smoke. “Aren’t we always.”
Mydei didn’t say any of the words bottled up inside him. Instead, he turned away and uncapped his water bottle again.
Behind him, Phainon sighed - too soft to carry, but not soft enough to miss.
Sunset leaks over the flat sky as spilled ink - gold bleeding slow and sticky over broken bones of stone and ash.
Two shadows in the rubble. Quiet as breath held too long. Fingers clasped tight around words unspoken.
Silent symphony, their dance of dust and distance.
They’re not fighting, I tell myself, because war wears armor and dents swords and raises fierce voices, and this is a whisper war, a quiet pulling of threadbare ropes between two men who used to be a knot.
Why knot when the rope frays?
…Beats me!
I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, a moth hovering near a candle flame, the world waiting just beyond my wingtips. A twig snaps beneath my boot - sorry, little one - nature’s own percussion to this sad, beautiful song.
If Agy were here, she’d call this ridiculous. A waste of time. Tighten the knot, or don’t.
Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d just stand there, arms folded, face like marble, eyes stormy with everything she’d never say.
Aglaea, Aglaea, Aglaea. The sharp-edged snowglobe cracked just enough to let the flurry of snowflakes escape. Queen of look but don’t speak . I see her armor, see the cracks she won’t show. Beautiful fortress, cold as winter’s breath but with a heart that might melt the glaciers.
Sometimes I want to shake her free, rattle those jewels until they babble secrets like spilled wine. But no, it’s too early for that. Grace in stillness is her rebellion.
Mydei shifts, jaw tight. Phainon tries for a joke - misshapen, off-target, tossed like a pebble into deep water hoping to swim. It bounces off air thick enough to shatter, the glass that was forged overnight from flames, not burnt but pressured.
For a second, just a flicker, I see her in him. That crooked grin. That sharp little dodge when things get too real.
Cipher - oh, fleet-footed storm bottled in a teacup, spinning sparks like fireworks just before dawn. Mischief wrapped in riddles, laughter like shattered glass, beautiful and dangerous and everywhere all at once.
I flick dust from my sleeve - twice, thrice - a tiny ritual, like casting spells no one else knows.
Broken place. Ruined and raw, a non-reflective, perfectly reflective mirror.
Fragments and shards scattered, like stories told in fragments, like people.
Does the auditorium miss the noise? The warmth? Or has it fallen in love with silence? I watch them all like tangled threads on a loom, threads that don’t quite want to weave but can’t help but tangle anyway.
This dance is their music, I murmur, a strange lullaby only the broken can hear. Their silent teardrops sing the only song they want to hear.
Maybe that’s everything they want.
Or maybe - maybe it’s just the beginning of the song.
I twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger, feeling the pull and release. Tight, loose. Knot, unravel. The red threads of fate tangle and fall loose on my whim.
I wonder - if I reach out, will they catch me? Or will we all just fall tangled in the ash?
There’s a wildness in waiting. A restless kind of hope.
Oh! If you’re still reading, thanks. I’m mostly talking to myself anyway!
The afternoon sun filtered through the cracked roof, casting slanted shadows across the auditorium floor. Dust motes floated like slow dancers in the air, caught between light and gravity.
Mydei and Phainon crouched near the east wing, knees scraping scorched wood. Blueprints lay splayed between them, edges curling from the heat.
“Yeah,” Phainon said, pointing to a spot beneath the balcony. “But if we reinforce here with those beams from storage, we can shore up the whole arch. Spread the load better.”
Mydei shook his head, tracing the line with his finger. “That could work, but we’ll need extra cross-bracing. The original plans didn’t account for this angle.”
Phainon shrugged, a quick grin tugging at his lips. “Angles are negotiable.”
“Precision is not,” Mydei said, letting out a short breath, refusing to let the corner of his mouth lift. “Fine. The extra bracing shouldn’t overload it.”
They worked through the details - measuring, marking, sketching adjustments. The back-and-forth was quieter now, more like a rhythm than a battle.
Phainon adjusted the blueprint, erasing a line with a practiced flick. “We’ll need three supports on this side. Here, here and… here?”
“Extra one here,” Mydei said, pointing. “The beam’s way too old.”
Phainon nodded, tapping his pencil against the wood. “All right. Logistics?”
Mydei pulled out his phone, scrolling through notes. “We’ll need to haul the beams from the west storage - multiple trips. Cranes might not get through the rubble.”
Phainon looked up. “Then it’s hands and backs. Just like old times.”
The words hung between them - simple, almost casual. But the weight behind them was anything but.
They stood, brushing dust from their hands. Without speaking, they picked up their tools and moved toward the next section.
“Okay,” Phainon sounded a little more lively than when they’d first started. “This part -”
A sharp creak echoed from above.
They both snapped their heads toward the noise, muscles tightening as if ready to brace for collapse. Without thinking, their hands shot out - Mydei’s palm brushing Phainon’s forearm, Phainon’s fingers grazing Mydei’s wrist.
The contact was electric and immediate, a flash of instinct and unspoken history.
High above them, a support beam shifted slightly, sending a fine shower of dust cascading down.
They froze, eyes locking for a heartbeat too long.
Neither pulled away, but neither moved closer.
Phainon’s mouth twitched - half a smile, half a grimace.
“My -” Phainon started, but faltered.
Mydei didn’t let him finish. “That wasn’t - it… it wasn’t.”
“Yeah,” Phainon whispered. “You’re right.”
Silence, again, as they stepped back, breaking contact as if releasing a held breath.
The dust settled around them.
The danger was gone.
And the quiet that followed felt different - less sharp, just… waiting.
With nothing else to say, they kept working.
There wasn’t much talk now - just the clatter of tools, the scrape of ruined metal being shifted aside, the occasional dull thud of something too heavy hitting the ground. The kind of labor that didn’t need direction, only persistence.
Phainon had rolled up his sleeves. Soot stained the edges of his shirt, his gloves smudged with dust and ash. Mydei’s collar was damp with sweat, his hair clinging to his temple in dark strands. Their backs ached. Their hands burned. But neither of them stopped.
Phainon dragged a half-collapsed storage rack out of the corner and kicked a path clear through the debris. Mydei was across the room, slowly aligning the edge of a broken platform to brace it for removal. Neither asked the other for help, but they fell into each other’s rhythms anyway - clearing what was in front of them, finding the next thing.
At one point, they both reached for the same crowbar. Their fingers brushed, sparked.
Mydei pulled back first.
“You take it,” he said.
Phainon didn’t answer. Just used it to wedge a bent support loose, gritting his teeth as it groaned and gave with a sharp snap.
Mydei, feeling the heat, took off his jacket, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief as the skin of his exhausted bare arms hit the evening breeze. Phainon glanced over, paused for a moment, and kept working.
Hours blurred. They repaired nothing permanent, not yet. Just triaged. Cleared. Prepared. The kind of work that came before anything real could begin.
Eventually, the shadows inside the wreckage began to shift - longer, deeper. The cooler air came as a relief to both of them. Mydei sank onto a half-collapsed bench near the wall, elbows resting on his knees. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knuckles gritty with soot.
Phainon stood for a moment longer, then joined him - close enough to share the bench, but not the space between. A careful distance.
They didn’t speak.
Just sat there, shoulders heavy, backs aching.
“Same time tomorrow?” Phainon asked, voice low, tired.
Mydei hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
They stood slowly, stiff from the long day. Mydei moved first, brushing past the still-smoldering remains of a wooden panel and ducking under the bent frame of the backstage arch. Phainon followed a few steps behind, toolbox slung over his shoulder.
Outside, the light had shifted to amber. The last edges of the day clung to the edges of the roof, where the fire had torn it open.
Neither said goodbye.
They didn’t need to.
They’d be back.
Cipher had been cleaning for an hour before she even realized she’d started.
Dustcloth in one hand, her other was already tucking folded blankets into tighter stacks, smoothing the cushions, straightening the crooked tin shelves where Hyacine had stuck a string of fairy lights through the handle loops. One bulb flickered, but she didn’t have the energy to twist it tighter.
The scent of lavender and old wood was starting to grow on her.
She wiped down the side table for the second time, slower now, letting the last few seconds of busyness trickle away. Then she straightened up and looked around, shoulders dropping as she realized - she was out of things to fix. It was weird; she usually hated cleaning more than morning classes, but somehow, it’d been two hours since she began with the traces of dust she’d found in the corner where the desk leaned up against the wall.
The door creaked before she could move.
She turned, halfway to bracing, but relaxed when she saw the figure in the stairwell.
Mydei.
He looked like a used chimney sweep - shirt half-untucked, hair ash-dusted, posture slumped like every part of him ached. He paused just inside the doorway, blinking like he hadn’t expected to find anyone here.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
Cipher dropped the cloth onto the table. “You didn’t.”
He stepped inside, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if the room would accept him.
She let him get halfway across before gesturing vaguely toward the space. “Sit down before you fall.”
Mydei let out a tired, wry breath. “Is it that obvious?”
He dropped onto one of the wide floor cushions with a grunt. It gave with a soft puff. He stared at nothing for a moment, eyes facing the ceiling.
Cipher stood and crossed to the shelf, taking one of the mismatched mugs. She poured him tea from the kettle Hyacine left earlier - lukewarm now, but still drinkable - and handed it over without comment.
Mydei squinted at it like it had personally offended him. “Chipped and lukewarm. Real five-star service.”
Cipher didn’t roll her eyes, though the impulse was there. She sank back into the cushion instead, pulling one leg up to brace her elbow. “Careful. That’s Hyacine’s favorite set.”
He looked at the cup again, skeptical.
“She says it looks… hopeful ,” Cipher added, too soft for it to be a joke.
“Hopeful in the sense that it’s hoping not to shatter?”
“Hopeful in the sense that it hasn’t.” Her finger traced the chipped rim of her own mug. A habit. Her thumb paused on a crack, then moved on.
Mydei made a face and took a sip.
“Still better than that death brew you keep in that mug,” she said before he could complain. “You know, the one that smells like melted plastic.”
“That death brew was what got me through finals.”
“And this,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her mug, “keeps your soul intact.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just… quiet. She liked it better that way - thinned out, quiet. Not asking her to fill it.
“Busy day,” she finally said.
Mydei scowled. “Yeah.”
“Tell me about it,” she prodded.
“No.”
“Since when did you turn into the ‘go it alone’ type?” she teased.
He shrugged. “Since before I knew you?”
Cipher gave a soft snort. “Liar.”
He didn’t argue. Just looked down into his tea like it might save him from the conversation.
She studied him for a second longer, then let her voice go quieter. “You’ve always been stubborn. But you let people in, back then. Even if it took effort.”
His brow twitched, but he stayed silent.
“Remember sophomore year,” she went on, “when you needed Phainon to bail you out on that project?”
He blinked, then forced a tight smile. “Different.”
“Not really. You didn’t exactly cover yourself in glory then, either.”
His jaw twitched.
“Look,” she said, voice softer, “you’re not good at this alone stuff. You never were.”
He shifted, arms crossed like a shield. “I’m fine .”
“Sure,” she replied dryly. “Fine enough to look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”
He shot her a glare. “What, are you going to start spreading rumors about me crying at soap operas now?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Only if you don’t start talking. I’m good at embarrassing people.”
His lips twitched toward a smile but stayed firmly shut.
She let out a soft sigh. “You don’t have to do this by yourself, you know.”
He finally looked at her. Yes, I do . It wasn’t a challenge, but something he needed to be true.
“I know how it feels,” she said quietly. “But sometimes, it takes more strength to let someone in than to carry it all yourself.”
He looked down, rubbing his neck.
“Hypocrite,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
“No one’s good at it at first,” she continued, ignoring his (true) jab. “But you don’t have to be good at it right away.”
The silence stretched a beat longer before Mydei exhaled, sharp and uneven. His fingers tapped lightly against the chipped mug.
“…Today was the first day working with him.”
Cipher’s eyes flicked to him. She didn’t say anything, just stayed quiet - listening.
“It was…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Tense. Weird. Like we were both waiting for the other one to blow up.”
“Did he?” she asked, voice low, careful.
“No. Neither of us did. But we didn’t say anything either. Not really.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, words coming out slowly, like he was struggling to say them aloud. “We just… worked. Like strangers who both happened to know how the other thinks. Every time I looked at him, I kept thinking about how easy it used to be.”
Cipher let her gaze drift back to her mug. “And now it’s not.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah.“
There was another long pause. Mydei’s grip on the cup tightened.
“I kept telling myself I didn’t care. That I just wanted the job done. But every silence felt personal. Every moment I wanted to say something - I didn’t. Just swallowed it.”
He looked up at her, tired. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to go back. Or if I want to… run away. Or punch him.”
Cipher shifted, resting her chin on her hand. “Maybe it’s not about all that.”
Mydei looked at her, and Cipher’s heart clenched at the deep, deep weariness in his eyes. “Then what?”
She didn’t have an answer. But she didn’t need one. Not yet.
So she just said, “Maybe you build something new.”
He didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But he stayed quiet in the way people do when they’re still thinking about the words long after they’ve been spoken.
Cipher sat with him in the stillness, and for once, it didn’t feel like either of them had to fill the space.
Finally, he met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable there. “...Thanks.”
She gave a faint, tired smile. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m just the annoying voice making you think about yourself for once.”
He winced as he shifted.
Her eyes flicked toward the motion. “You okay?”
“I think I pulled something while lifting a beam. Construction’s making me age in dog years.”
“Good,” she muttered. “Maybe by next week you’ll be old and wise enough to stop trying so much on your back.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“Kettle knows when to sit down and drink her tea.”
“The tea’s still lukewarm.”
Cipher sighed. “What isn’t?”
He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth did lift.
For a long moment, they both just sat there - held still by the soft glow of the room, the hush of old wood, the only space that didn’t ask for anything.
Cipher leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
“Hold it together, idiots,” she murmured.
Notes:
Mydei: I'm fine.
Phainon: You just winced when you picked up that pencil?!
Mydei: It was a very HEAVY pencil
Chapter 14: He Reached Out for the Feather
Chapter Text
The auditorium was just as deafeningly quiet as yesterday.
The morning air was thick with the ghost of smoke - days old, but still stubbornly clinging onto its memories. Ash dusted the edges of the auditorium’s front steps. Phainon climbed them slowly, toolbox in one hand, and swiftly ducked under the red tape and cheap barriers.
Inside, the silence hit harder.
The soot had settled, but the damage was still raw. Char streaked the walls like claw marks. The back row of seats had collapsed inward, a jagged mouth of melted plastic and splintered wood. Every time the building creaked, it sounded like it might cough itself into dust.
Phainon let out a slow breath through his nose.
He hated this part. The stillness. The in-between. When no one else was around and there was nothing left to distract him.
Usually, he could rely on noise. People. Movement. A joke and a grin and a little too much confidence, just enough to keep people from paying too much attention to the empty parts.
But here?
Nothing landed right. Nothing deflected.
He walked down the blackened aisle, his boots crunching over bits of ruined tile and shattered glass. Even the reverb was wrong, deadened by the mess. This was the place that used to echo with everything: laughter, music, yelling, footsteps running up the risers.
He barely recognized it anymore.
He found the edge of the stage and sat on it. Just for a minute. Let his legs dangle. The room groaned somewhere high above him, and a curl of dust spiraled down in lazy arcs.
No easy fix.
Phainon stared at the burn lines crawling across the far wall.
“Real helpful, buddy,” he murmured to the empty space. “Where’s your joke now?”
The building did not answer.
The next sound wasn’t the creak of the ceiling or the whisper of dust. It was footsteps - measured, grounded. Phainon didn’t need to turn. He knew that rhythm all too well.
Mydei stepped through the side door like he was reporting for duty. His braided orange-red hair hit Phainon with the same sense of sad familiarity it always did. He carried a folded set of blueprints under one arm and a heavy canvas bag of tools on the other shoulder. His sleeves were already rolled, muscles rippling under the dim light.
“Morning,” he said, not slowing.
Phainon, crouched by a pile of scorched debris, flicked ash from his glove. “Wow. You talk now.”
“I’ve always talked.”
“Must’ve missed it yesterday.” Phainon stood and stretched his arms overhead, glancing toward the twisted wreckage. “You’re late.”
“I’m on time.”
“Cool, cool. I’ll tell the charred roof beam that.”
Mydei didn’t smile. He just walked past, dropped his bag beside a charred support, and started unrolling the blueprints.
Phainon crouched beside him, hands on his knees. Yesterday’s silence still echoed in his head - every unsaid word, every unfinished sentence. It had pressed in too close, too long.
This morning, he’d woken up knowing he couldn’t take another round of that.
So he switched tracks. Old tracks. Tracks that used to work.
Mydei knelt by their rickety table, opening the blueprints and weighing the corners down with broken scrap. The paper unfurled stiff and smudged.
He pointed. “West wall’s stable enough to reinforce. Tie it into the main frame. Get support before the rest settles wrong.”
Phainon wandered over, looking down at the diagram. “That’s assuming the load-bearing joints aren’t completely trashed.”
“They’re not.”
“You checked?”
Mydei nodded once.
Phainon didn’t press. Just dropped into a crouch on the opposite side of the blueprint and leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Love that for us.”
Mydei pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and started marking zones across the floor with slow, measured strokes. Phainon watched. Waited. No room for a joke there either.
They got to work.
The next stretch unfolded in fragments: the scrape of boots across warped tile, the rasp of drywall breaking loose under pressure, the mechanical click of a measuring reel retracting. Mydei moved like someone following a blueprint he couldn’t deviate from. Phainon moved like someone trying not to look over his shoulder too often.
They fell into an uncomfortable but productive rhythm. It was muscle memory. Ghostly choreography. The way someone moved when they’d done it a hundred times before, but not with this version of the other person.
Once, he glanced at Mydei’s notes - perfectly straight pencil lines across crisp blueprint paper - and found himself wanting to draw something across it just to break the order. Something curvy, wild, anything that wasn't rigid straightness.
He didn’t.
At one point, they lifted a scorched beam together. Mydei stepped in to brace one end without speaking. Phainon circled to the far side and tested the weight with a grunt.
“Careful,” he said lightly. “If this thing crushes you, I’m gonna have to build a whole somber memorial display. That’s a lot of pressure.”
Mydei didn’t reply. They hauled it into place in silence. Phainon felt a sting.
The dust in the air turned the light gold and soft around the edges, like the building was trying to look gentler than it really was. The illusion didn't last.
When they reached a partially collapsed support post near the far wall, Phainon crouched beside it, studying the mess. “Could brace this with a weld plate. Temporary fix. Fast.”
Mydei didn’t even look. “No.”
“...Why no?”
“Too much pressure on the joint. It'll fail again under load.”
“Yeah,” Phainon said slowly, “but the rest of the building’s already failed.”
He was trying to be casual. Casual was easier than wounded.
“That doesn’t mean we add more risk.”
“It’s not risk, it’s a workaround.”
“It’s a shortcut.”
There it was - delivered like always: clean, even, final.
Phainon opened his mouth to make another joke - something about shortcuts being efficient, about him being allergic to straight lines - but it didn’t come.
His face stayed still.
He felt the hit anyway. The recoil inside. The spot where the joke met a wall and left a bruise.
He tried again.
Forced a grin. “Right. Of course. Should’ve known you’d be married to the blueprint.”
Mydei’s face didn’t change. He stepped past him.
Phainon stood there a moment longer. He could’ve pushed back. He could’ve joked more, louder, sharper - but what was the point? It’d just bounce off.
He wiped his face with the back of his arm, smearing dust across his cheek. He didn’t know why the correction stung so much. Maybe because it was exactly the kind of correction he used to rely on. Back then, it had meant they were building something together.
He kept working.
When he passed a struggling Mydei again, he handed over a bracket without being asked. Mydei accepted it without looking.
That was the whole exchange.
They didn’t talk after that. They didn’t argue, either. They just moved - circling, trading tools, stabilizing what they could.
Not building trust, Phainon thought, feeling a bitter laugh bubbling up inside him.
Just stabilizing.
They were digging through the debris backstage when Phainon’s eye caught on something - half-hidden behind a crumbled beam and cracked plaster. He leaned forward, brushing away ash and dust with slow, careful fingers, revealing a fragment of painted feathers - reds and golds curling like flames.
He turned his head to find Mydei already at his side, eyes fixed on the mural, expression unreadable.
“ Chasing the Firebird’s Feather ,” Mydei said softly, the words barely more than a breath.
Phainon felt the floor drop from under him.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “That was a long time ago.”
Mydei’s jaw clenched. “Before everything…” he trailed off.
Phainon’s chest tightened. He swallowed. “Right.”
They stood in silence, the faint glow of burnt paint strangely vivid in the muted light, the dust settling around them like a fragile shroud.
Phainon finally broke it, voice quieter than usual. “We fought over that book. Like idiots.”
Mydei didn’t look at him. “We fought over everything.”
There was a flicker of something in Mydei’s eyes - surprise? Pain? Phainon wasn’t sure anymore. Years ago, he would’ve known. The knowledge stung him more than he’d like to admit.
He let out a breath, staring at the feather’s singed outline. “We used to get the ending wrong, you know. We thought only one of them held the feather.”
“They both did.”
“Yeah,” Phainon said, filled with a sudden desire to say a million things. “They both did.”
Another silence.
Mydei’s hands tightened at his sides. “We’re wasting time,” he said, clipped, but his gaze stayed on the mural.
Phainon looked at it too, heart aching for a time long gone. For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Mydei brushed away another layer of soot with his sleeve. The feather shimmered slightly beneath it - blistered, half-destroyed, but still there.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood.
Phainon hesitated, then reached out to help. Their hands didn’t touch. But the space between them felt smaller.
Mydei’s gaze lingered on the mural, the faint shape of a firebird’s feather curling up from the scorched wood.
Phainon made sure to keep his voice even. “Did you know that was back here?”
Mydei shook his head slowly. “No. It must’ve been hidden behind a wall.”
Phainon stared at it, at the soot-streaked edges and the half-burnt paint that somehow still clung to form.
“Hell of a thing to survive,” he said. “Everything else…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Mydei’s jaw flexed. “Not everything burns clean.”
Phainon let out a quiet breath. The silence between them stretched, tense but brittle.
“You ever think we would’ve held it?” he asked suddenly.
Mydei didn’t move. “The feather?”
Phainon glanced at him, then back at the mural. “...the rest of it.”
The words hung heavy.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Mydei said shortly, the way he always did when he was talking about something that was about to make him cry.
Phainon felt the swing of it, the way it pulled something old and sore.
“Maybe not,” he said, softer. “But it still showed up.”
Mydei didn’t answer.
They stood in the silence a moment longer. Then Mydei turned toward the wreckage again. “East trusses need reinforcing.”
Phainon followed. “Can’t let the wall fall in.”
They didn’t say anything as they walked away from the mural.
Didn’t need to.
Phainon’s skin still itched with the image, the charred streaks and half-formed wings burned into his memory like the smoke still clinging to the rafters.
Ahead, Mydei crouched near the edge of the collapsed east scaffolding. “Support lines shift past this corner,” he said, already reaching for the chalk. “We’ll have to reroute before the floor dips.”
Phainon glanced at it. “Are we doing crawlspace checks or straight lift?”
“Lift. The subfloor’s too unstable to crawl.”
“Perfect.” Phainon popped his back with a wince. “Just what my spine wanted to hear.”
They dropped to either side of the broken floor section. Splinters, char, and warped boards jutted like teeth. The far joist was half-collapsed, blocking access to the beam beneath.
Phainon squinted. “We’re not moving that without bracing. Or dying.”
Mydei gave a nod and moved to grab a side support. The beam was heavier than it looked - half-burned, waterlogged, and buckling under its own weight.
Phainon braced his feet against the warped frame and slid in beside him.
“Push on three,” Phainon said. “One, two -”
Mydei tensed suddenly, a sharp flicker of pain crossing his face, but he didn’t slow down. The beam shifted abruptly, and Phainon stumbled sideways, catching himself with a grunt as the end twisted out of Mydei’s weakening grip.
“Holy -!” Phainon gasped, catching his breath. “You skipped three.”
Mydei’s jaw clenched, but he shook his head. “...You hesitated.”
“Because we were lifting a death plank?!” Phainon said, eyeing Mydei with concern.
Mydei didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted his stance and adjusted his grip, hiding the grimace that flashed when he straightened his back.
Phainon slid back in beside him, softer now. “Hey, are you okay? You’re -”
“Fine,” Mydei interrupted, voice tight but firm.
Phainon’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t press. They counted silently this time, muscles coiling in sync.
Together, they lifted.
This time, it held.
But the joist beneath them cracked - sharp and sudden. Mydei flinched. The floor gave an inch, then stilled. Phainon reached out before thinking, hand grabbing Mydei’s arm to steady him.
For a split second, Mydei didn’t move. Just stared at the point of contact, like it burned.
Then he shook him off. “I’m fine .”
“Really.”
Mydei exhaled. “Yes. Set the brace.”
They worked fast after that. Phainon drove the brace into the corner while Mydei held the beam steady, arms taut, jaw clenched. The burn scars on the ceiling above them traced long, ash-colored lines across the beams - ghosts of everything that used to be here.
When they finally secured the brace, Phainon leaned back on his heels and wiped his arm across his forehead.
“Next time,” he muttered, “we build a school out of paper. Just fold it into shape. Way easier.”
Mydei almost smiled. Almost.
Then he turned back to the blueprint and said, “Next section’s warped. We’ll need to jack the frame and check alignment.”
Phainon groaned but stood up anyway.
They didn’t speak again for a while. But when Mydei passed him the jack handle, their fingers brushed - just for a second. And this time, neither of them flinched.
The sun dipped behind the scorched roofline, casting long shadows across the wreckage. The dust in the air caught gold and held it like a memory too stubborn to fade.
They finished the last brace in silence.
Mydei stood slowly, wiping his hands on his pants, eyes scanning their work without comment. Then, without looking at Phainon, he said, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Phainon replied, a beat too late.
Mydei slung his bag over his shoulder and ducked out through the side door, vanishing into the evening.
Phainon stayed.
The quiet settled around him, familiar now. A heavy sort of familiar.
He walked back toward the mural, boots scuffing faintly against the tile. In the failing light, the image looked older. Like it had always been there, half-buried beneath coats of paint and time. Like the fire hadn’t destroyed it - it had revealed it.
The feather's arc was still visible under the soot, its lines jagged but recognizable. Almost like a brushstroke, reaching.
He dragged over a broken wooden beam and sat on it, wordlessly looking at the mural.
They used to argue over this. Over who was the clever one. Who got the feather in the end.
He smiled faintly.
For a second, it almost felt like he could see them again - two kids squabbling over a picture book, one trying to be brave, the other trying not to show he cared.
A voice broke the stillness, echoing in the massive room.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Phainon startled - just a little. He turned.
Aglaea stood in the doorway, backlit by the dimming sky. Same posture as always: straight-backed, composed. Her hair was pinned up and her arms were crossed, but the corner of her mouth wasn’t quite stern. Just... unsure.
He blinked. “Aglaea?”
“Phainon.”
They stared at each other for a beat too long.
He cleared his throat, forcing a grin. “You know this place is off-limits, right?” he called. “You’re officially the rebel of the university.”
“I’m aware,” Aglaea said dryly, making her way down the charred steps.
“Risky move. I like it,” Phainon joked, voice lighter than he felt, as he rose to meet her.
For the first time in years, they stood face-to-face. With an internal jolt, Phainon noted that he stood half a head taller than her. He still remembered when she towered over him, back then.
Phainon searched her eyes for something - an apology, a spark, a hint of the girl he used to know.
“You’re still the same,” he said softly, “in all the ways I remember. And… so different.”
Aglaea’s gaze flickered away briefly, then back, steady and unreadable. “I came to check on the progress.”
The wind stirred loose strands of her hair, and Phainon found himself wanting to reach out, but stopped.
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck with a self-conscious tilt. “Right. Progress. Well... it’s slow.”
She looked around the auditorium like she was walking through the shell of a memory. “You and Mydeimos were assigned to this, weren’t you?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You still call him that?”
“It’s his name.”
“Still weird to hear it.” He sat on a piece of rubble, gesturing for her to do the same.
Aglaea shook her head.
“So, what brings you here?” Phainon asked, trying to keep his voice light.
“I was curious.” Her voice softened, just enough to hint at something underneath. “It used to be beautiful. The theatre.”
“It will be again,” Phainon promised.
She nodded. Quiet. Then, without quite meaning to, her gaze drifted toward the mural. Her brow furrowed.
“Is that -?”
“Feather mural,” he said, voice dry. “Hidden behind some drywall. The fire brought it back.”
She walked closer, stopping beside him, and for a second they both looked at it without speaking.
Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “You remember it.”
He exhaled. “Of course.”
“You and Mydeimos… always fought about that story.”
He gave a short laugh. “You always mediated. Played judge.”
“Because you were both exhausting.”
Phainon smiled. So did she, faintly.
The silence that followed was thick, filled with years of things unsaid.
Phainon glanced at the floor, then back at her. “It’s been a while.”
Aglaea’s fingers twitched at her side, then she looked away. “Yes.”
Another pause.
He tried again, softer this time. “I’m glad you showed up.”
She didn’t meet his eyes but her voice was steady. “It’s important to see things through.”
Phainon swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Yeah.”
They both looked away.
She shifted her weight, and Phainon caught a tiny glimpse of the awkward girl he knew. “It’s… strange seeing you again.”
He looked over at her. “Yeah. You kinda disappeared.”
“I moved.”
“I noticed,” Phainon said, offering a half-grin.
Another pause.
Aglaea glanced toward the exit, then back at Phainon. “I shouldn’t really be here.”
He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Rules were made to be bent. You’re already off the list.”
She gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Rebels, then.”
They started walking slowly up the aisle, their footsteps soft on the cracked floor.
“So,” Phainon said, breaking the silence, “how’s life outside the ghost town?”
Aglaea’s gaze flicked toward him, steady but careful. “Busy. Different. Not... easy.”
“Yeah, change isn’t usually easy.”
She nodded, lips pressed together. “No.”
They passed rows of broken seats, the sunlight catching splinters of shattered wood.
Phainon gestured. “This place looks worse every day, but it’s not finished. Like us, I guess.”
Aglaea’s eyes followed his hand. “I suppose some things take longer to rebuild.”
He grinned, just a little. “Long enough for a lifetime, if you’re unlucky.”
“Or just long enough to learn patience.”
They moved a few steps more, the silence between them now lighter, less sharp.
“So, still joking your way through everything?” Aglaea asked, a teasing edge beneath the formality.
Phainon smirked. “Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.”
She gave a short chuckle, quickly masked again by her usual composed expression.
“Glad some things don’t change,” she said.
“Me too,” Phainon said, warmth spread through his chest at the sound.
They reached the exit and stopped.
Phainon looked back at the stage, shadows stretching like fingers across the beams.
“Maybe one day this place will feel alive again,” he said quietly.
Aglaea glanced at him, the faintest softness breaking through her usual reserve.
“Maybe.”
Phainon shifted the toolbox on his shoulder as they stepped out into the cooling evening air. The street was quiet, the fading light softening the edges of the buildings around them.
Aglaea walked beside him, every movement poised and elegant. She glanced at him briefly, eyes calm but carefully unreadable.
“So,” Phainon broke the silence, “not exactly the usual night stroll, huh?”
Aglaea’s lips curved faintly. “I don’t believe we can be considered in the same sentence as the word usual .”
He gave a small grin. “A fact I’m proud of.”
They walked on, the quiet between them stretching as the streetlights cast long shadows.
As they turned a corner, Phainon’s gaze caught movement ahead - a younger student struggling with a tangled mess of cords outside a dormitory, frustration written across his face.
Without hesitation, Phainon stepped over. “Need a hand?”
The student looked up, relief flooding his expression. “Oh, you’re Phainon! Yes, please. I’m trying to set up this projector for a study group and - well, I’m hopeless with cables.”
Phainon crouched, fingers deftly untangling the mess. “These things always end up in knots of spaghetti after a while in storage, don’t they?”
The student laughed. “Exactly.”
Half a minute later, the cords were sorted, projector working. The student looked up at Phainon with genuine gratitude.
“Thanks, man. You saved me.”
Phainon shrugged, a modest grin. “No problem. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”
Aglaea watched the exchange quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips.
As the student left, she turned to Phainon. “You haven’t changed. Always ready to jump in.”
Phainon grinned. “What can I say? It’s in my nature.”
She arched an elegant brow. “Always the showoff.”
“Or the hero - depends on who’s asking,” he teased. “And I’m clearly your biggest fan.”
Aglaea’s smile twitched at the corner, the tension in her posture softening ever so slightly. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re the rebel princess of the university, after all.”
“Don’t push it, or I might just report you.”
Phainon laughed. “Worth the risk.”
They walked a few more steps in companionable silence, the city lights flickering on like scattered stars.
“Still,” Aglaea said, voice quieter, “I’m glad I ran into you tonight.”
Phainon’s grin softened into something genuine. “Me too.”
They reached a fork in the road. She glanced down one street, then back at him.
“Well, this is me.” She gave a small, almost reluctant nod.
Phainon nodded in return. “Same here.”
A beat passed.
“Maybe we could catch up again sometime?” He asked hopefully, careful not to sound too eager.
Aglaea hesitated, then lifted her chin slightly. “Perhaps.”
With that, she turned, walking gracefully down her path.
Phainon watched her go, then turned the other way, a small smile playing on his lips as the night settled around him.
He paused at a small street cart tucked near the campus entrance, its soft amber glow spilling onto the cracked sidewalk. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon. A handful of students milled about, laughing and chattering as they clutched steaming cups.
He shifted, then stepped forward. The vendor, an older woman with kind eyes and a tired smile, greeted him without surprise - as if she’d been expecting him.
“Evening, Phainon. Usual?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The rich aroma of the dark roast wrapped around him as he waited, fingers curling around the warm paper cup when it was handed over. He took a slow sip, eyes drifting to the distant glow of the university’s old clock tower.
For a long minute, he simply stood there - alone, but not lonely - letting the quiet seep in. The hum of life continued around him.
Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Strawberry Shorty: Phainon!!!
Strawberry Shorty: The chair broke again
Strawberry Shorty: Do you have a minute…
He smiled to himself.
The Nook was quiet when he arrived, the dusty scent of old books mingling with faint traces of lavender. Hyacine was sitting cross-legged on the floor near the small, battered chair.
“Lightbulb hero reporting for duty!” he said dramatically, coming down the stairs.
“Phainon!” Hyacine said, looking up and smiling.
Phainon grabbed a screwdriver and settled onto the floor. The chair still wobbled, just like it had last time. His fingers brushed the underside and - yep. He’d absolutely forgotten to reinforce it.
“Ah,” he muttered. “That one’s on me.”
Hyacine, perched nearby on a floor cushion with her legs tucked beneath her, looked up quickly. “Oh! No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to guilt you or anything, I just - um - I thought you might want to know it broke.”
Phainon blinked. “Broke?”
Hyacine leaned back on her hands, looking sheepish. “Well, you know… I kind of… forgot. That it wasn’t stable. And I kind of put a bunch of books on it…” she tapped the wobbly leg lightly. “It made this really dramatic creak before it gave out. Like it knew.”
Phainon raised an eyebrow. “You broke its spirit.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she protested. “It was just one book. Well, five. But they were thin!”
He pulled out a fresh bracket. “You treat your furniture like it’s invincible.”
“I treat them with love,” she said, folding her arms with a huff.
“That chair was on its last leg the first time I saw it.” He leaned down and started tightening bolts, the easy rhythm of the fix setting in. A low creak from the chair answered him, like it was holding back a complaint of its own.
While he worked, his eyes lifted slightly - just for a second - to take in the room.
It was the first time he’d really seen it finished. The string lights gave the corners a warm haze, and books were tucked into every odd shelf and windowsill like they’d grown there. There were layers - blankets, cushions, pieces of other people’s presence - and all of it looked lived-in.
Safe.
It didn’t hit him right away that he’d let out a soft breath. That his shoulders had dropped. That he hadn’t even joked in the last minute and didn’t feel the need to.
He tightened one more screw and rocked the chair gently, then stood, brushing his hands off. “You’re building a whole empire down here, y’know.”
“I like it,” she said, a little dreamy. “Everyone can come and just… be.”
“That’s rare,” he said quietly.
Hyacine looked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice. Then she offered a small smile. “You can be too. If you want.”
Phainon dropped back onto the floor cushion across from her, crossing his legs. “Don’t tempt me. I might start showing up uninvited.”
“You already do,” she said, nose scrunching slightly. “That’s kind of your thing.”
She leaned over to grab a blanket and tossed it across both their laps without asking. Phainon didn’t object. Honestly, it was kind of nice.
Phainon watched her for a second - relaxed, warm in the lamplight, the ever-so-slight curve at the corners of her mouth like she didn’t realize she was smiling. Something about the moment softened.
“Sooo…” he said, tilting his head, tone just a little singsong. “You and Castorice, huh?”
Hyacine, face immediately turning bright red, nearly choked on her tea. “Wh - what?”
“You’ve got that look,” he said, pointing at her face.
“What look ?”
“The ‘We haven’t kissed, but also don’t you dare say anything about her or I’ll explode into confetti and embarrassment’ look.”
“Why do we have to talk about -”
“Cute,” he said, grinning. “Very… telling response, honestly.”
Hyacine groaned and buried her burning face in her hands. “You are the worst.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’ll come up with new ones if you keep going,” she threatened, voice muffled.
“Now we’re talking!”
She peeked at him through her fingers. “We’re not a thing.”
“Yet.”
“ Phainon …”
“Hey! I’m just saying - if I had a single nickel for every time I caught you making goo-goo eyes during Introduction to Logical Thought -”
“Okay, that’s it.” She lunged for a pillow and lightly whacked him with it. He yelped, arms raised in defense.
“Uncalled for violence!”
“You earned it!”
Phainon scrambled for a nearby throw cushion in mock retaliation, but she was already retreating, hugging hers protectively against her chest. “Hey! This is a peace fort now. No escalation allowed.”
Phainon snorted. “So you get the last hit?”
Hyacine blinked innocently. “I never said I played fair.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you win,” he muttered, tossing the cushion lazily at her feet.
They laughed.
Phainon tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Y’know… I didn’t expect to end my night in a glorified blanket fort surrounded by twinkle lights and sticker albums, but…”
“But?” she prompted.
He looked at her. “Could be worse.”
Hyacine beamed, completely forgetting her grudge. “You’re welcome any time.”
Her face dropped.
“Oh… but… Mydei comes here often, too. So. If you needed to avoid him….”
“Ah,” Phainon said.
Silence filled the room.
“How’s it been?” she asked gently. “Working with him again.”
Phainon didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on one of the old posters pinned to the brick wall, one corner curling with time.
He exhaled. “Dusty.”
Hyacine waited.
He glanced over, half-grinning. “Literal dust, mostly. But also, y’know. Metaphorical dust. Emotional debris.”
She made a sympathetic noise, drawing her knees up beneath the blanket. “That bad?”
Phainon shrugged. “It’s… weird. We haven’t worked together like this in years. And back then it was different. Stupid kid energy. No real stakes.”
“And now?”
“And now there’s… tension. History. Burned beams and burned bridges. Take your pick.”
Hyacine was quiet for a moment. Not pushing. Just waiting.
Phainon shifted, fingers drumming restlessly on the repaired chair. Then he stopped. Let out a breath. And frowned a little, like he was annoyed at himself for what he was about to do.
“This is… wow, okay,” he muttered. “Didn’t plan on trauma-dumping today.”
Hyacine didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch either. Just tilted her head slightly, enough to show that she was really listening.
“You’re not sensitive to seizures, right?” Phainon asked.
Hyacine shook her head. “I should be okay.”
“Well, tell me if it ever gets too far, okay?”
Hyacine nodded.
“It was our first sleepover,” he said. “Me and Mydei. Middle school. We were - loud. Competitive. Kinda dumb in that way you can only get away with as kids. We stayed up late arguing about that Firebird book. I swore the hothead got the feather. He was Team Cleverness. Neither of us backed down.”
As the words left him, the memory unfurled - clearer than he expected. Almost too clear.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
The blanket fort was sagging in the middle, half-collapsed against the Kremnos living room couch. Flashlight beams bounced off pillowcases and action figures. A beat-up copy of Chasing the Firebird’s Feather lay open between them, pages marked with old jelly stains.
“You’re wrong,” Phainon said for what had to have been the fifth time, jabbing a finger at the page. “Spark totally gets the feather. He’s the hothead who dives into the fire. That’s what makes him the hero.”
Mydei shook his head fast. “No way. Smolder is the smart one. He figures out the puzzle and gets the feather without burning himself.”
Phainon rolled his eyes. “Smolder just hides! Spark actually does something. The book even says the feather’s ‘fireproof.’ That means Spark wins.”
“Yeah, but the story says Spark almost dies. That’s not winning, that’s dumb,” Mydei said, crossing his arms.
“But Spark was brave! Smolder would still be in that maze if Spark didn’t -” Phainon waved a hand, trying to think - “explode the lava door or whatever.”
“It was a sacrificial chamber,” Mydei said automatically.
Phainon laughed. “Okay, nerd.”
Mydei rolled his eyes and elbowed Phainon in the ribs, not hard. “You’re just mad Smolder beat your guy.”
“ Ow ,” Phainon said dramatically, grabbing his side. “You’re gonna wreck Fortress Lavafeather!”
“That’s not what you called it last time,” Mydei pointed out, already scooting to fix the sagging wall with his foot.
They both grabbed the book at the same time, fingers bumping. Mydei put his elbow against Phainon’s knee like a table.
Phainon grinned, hair sticking up from rubbing against the blanket fort. “We could share it. That’s how it ends anyway.”
Mydei snorted. “Sharing’s for losers.”
Phainon laughed. “Yeah, sure, Mr. ‘I’m always right.’”
As Mydei shifted to elbow him again, the blanket wall drooped.
“Don’t lean on the edge,” Mydei said right away. “It’s slipping.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Phainon scooted over and pulled the blanket higher over Mydei’s shoulder without thinking. He gave Mydei’s ankle a soft kick under the covers. “You’re lucky I’m the engineer and the librarian.”
“I’m the boss,” Mydei said sleepily, leaning into him a little.
“You wish.”
Their fingers bumped again on the page. They kept reading.
Later, when the arguing stopped and the flashlights dimmed, Phainon rolled onto his side, arms folded under his head. “You’d totally pick the clever guy.”
“And you’d definitely run into the fire,” Mydei said, almost asleep.
Phainon grinned. “You’d come after me though.”
Mydei didn’t answer. But he didn’t say no, either.
The room was dark except for the small glow of the nightlight in the corner. It made long shadows on the walls. Phainon lay on the mattress on the floor, eyes heavy but still thinking about the story. Mydei was across the room, curled up in his blanket. He looked asleep, but his breathing wasn’t steady.
“Last one to sleep loses,” Phainon whispered, grinning despite the quiet.
No answer.
Phainon sighed, pulling his blanket up. The room felt too quiet. The kind of quiet that made his ears feel weird.
A sharp breath cut through the silence.
Phainon sat up fast, his heart jumping. Mydei’s eyes were open, but they looked wrong. Glazed over, like he wasn’t really there.
“Hey - what’s wrong?” Phainon’s voice shook.
Before he could move, Mydei’s body went stiff. His hands turned into fists. His legs jerked. His arms twitched hard. A sound came out of his throat - low and scary.
Phainon’s body went cold.
He scrambled over. “Mydei! Breathe! Talk to me!”
But Mydei didn’t answer. His body started shaking harder. Then he arched off the mattress like he was trying to fight something.
Phainon froze. His brain didn’t know what to do. He wanted to help, but how?
His hands shook as he reached out. A tiny voice in his head said to wait. Maybe to stay still. But he didn’t listen.
He tried to hold Mydei’s head gently, but it was too hard - his body kept jerking. Phainon reached again, grabbed his shoulders, trying to help.
That just made the shaking worse.
Mydei gasped between spasms. “Don’t… don’t move me… please… just stay still…”
But Phainon couldn’t just sit there. He was scared. His chest felt tight. He held on tighter. He couldn’t let his friend hurt himself.
“Help! Somebody help!” he yelled down the hallway. His voice cracked. His hands were still on Mydei, trying to stop him from hitting the floor or the bed.
“Don’t… Phainon,” he gasped, eyes wide. His fingers clawed at Phainon’s arms. “Please… stop…”
Phainon stopped moving - but only for a second. His heart was thudding too fast. He reached for his phone. “I’m calling! You need help -”
“No!” Mydei shouted, louder this time. His voice was raw and sharp. “Phainon… shut up…”
Something cracked inside Phainon’s chest. His fingers hovered over the screen. He didn’t want to make things worse. But he didn’t know what else to do.
Mydei grabbed at him again, weaker this time. “Stop… please…”
Phainon hit call, and everything after that moved slow.
Mydei was still shaking, but not as much. His breathing was weird and heavy. Phainon stayed on the floor next to him, not sure if he should move.
The minutes crawled by.
Then - footsteps. Fast ones.
The door flew open, light flooding the room as two paramedics rushed in. One knelt next to Phainon and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Step back, kid. We’ve got it.” He wasn’t yelling, but it was serious.
Phainon backed away fast. His hands felt empty. Useless. He just watched them work.
One checked Mydei’s pulse. The other talked to him, soft and calm. “Can you tell me your name, buddy?”
Mydei’s eyes flickered, and then closed again.
Phainon felt a cold sweat bead at his temples. He wanted to explain. To say he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. But the words were stuck.
Then he heard more footsteps.
The door opened wider, and Mydei’s parents stepped into the room.
Mydei stopped moving. His whole body went quiet. Like he knew they were there. Like he was waiting for them.
Phainon reached out, but Mydei flinched back, pulling away just enough to hurt.
Mydei’s mom frowned. “What happened here?” she asked, sharp.
Phainon swallowed hard. “I - I called for help right away. I was trying to keep him safe. I even tried to hold him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself.”
Mrs. Kremnos’s face tightened, a flicker of panic beneath her worry. “You should have stayed calm and let the professionals handle it. Moving him could’ve made things worse.”
Her voice was sharp, but Phainon could tell she was scared under it.
Mr. Kremnos stepped forward, arms folded tightly, voice low and serious. “You endangered him by interfering.”
Phainon’s throat tightened. His heart pounded with a mix of confusion, guilt, and growing frustration. “Mydei - please. Say something. Tell them I didn’t mean to -”
But Mydei didn’t look at him. He didn’t say anything.
His shoulders were stiff. His face didn’t move. Then he turned away.
“No,” Phainon whispered. “You can’t just…”
His chest squeezed tight. The floor felt wobbly under his feet.
“Why won’t you say anything?” His voice cracked. “You’re my best friend. I was trying to save you. I -”
But Mydei didn’t answer.
Phainon’s hands curled into fists. His throat felt like it was on fire. His head buzzed with noise and heat.
He took a step back. He couldn’t stay standing anymore.
Everything had cracked open.
Usually, it was that he hadn’t done enough, but this time, he’d done something wrong . And he didn’t even know what it was.
He wanted to say sorry. To fix it, but all that came out was a whisper.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
But he had.
Phainon crouched behind the hedge outside his house. His hoodie wasn’t warm enough. His knees were wet from the grass, but he didn’t move. Inside, grown-ups were talking. Their voices came through the wall in blurry pieces. He pressed closer, trying to catch the words.
“Mydei’s condition is delicate,” Mom was saying.
He held his breath.
“Absolutely,” came the clipped reply - Mr. Kremnos. “We… appreciate Phainon’s concern, but his impulsiveness is too risky. We need calm and control for Mydei, not disruptions.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened.
Dad’s voice chimed in, more measured but resolute. “We understand. It’s just - Phainon was trying to help.”
Something in Phainon’s chest untwisted a little. Okay. Okay, good. Dad got it. Maybe this was fine. Maybe they’d tell Mydei’s mom and dad he didn’t mean to mess up. That he was scared. That he was trying.
“Intentions don’t erase consequences,” Mr. Kremnos answered, tone icy. “His interference endangered Mydei’s stability. We can’t allow it to continue.”
Phainon didn’t like how he said “consequences.” Like it was a trap he’d fallen into. Something he couldn’t get out of now. He didn’t understand the other long words, but his tone reminded him of Mrs. Johnson.
No one liked Mrs. Johnson.
A pause.
“And what of Mydei himself?” Mom asked, softer this time.
“A moment, please.”
The line went silent.
Phainon held his breath.
This was it! He was going to speak. Say something. Defend him. Even just a little.
The silence dragged on.
Phainon waited. And waited.
Any second now …
Mydei would say something. He’d say it wasn’t Phainon’s fault. That he wanted to see him again. That they were still friends. He always did! Even when Phainon accidentally knocked over Mydei’s project and broke it, Mydei always said something.
But the silence didn’t end.
Phainon’s heartbeat surged in his ears. Say something , he pleaded silently. Please. Just one word .
After a long moment, Mrs. Kremnos said quietly, “It’s best to respect his silence.”
Phainon’s whole body went cold.
His best friend - his best friend - hadn’t said anything.
His hands gripped the hedge tighter, fingers hurting, but he didn’t care. Something was twisting up inside him, sharp and hot and awful.
Nothing.
He said nothing.
Why?
Didn’t he know Phainon was trying to help?
Didn’t he know ?
He wanted to shout. To run inside and yell you’re lying! or you’re wrong! or I didn’t mean to! But his mouth wouldn’t open. His throat felt full of gravel.
He crouched lower, trembling. His breath came sharp. Choked.
Dad sighed. “So. Phainon will no longer be allowed at the Kremnos home. It’s for everyone’s safety.”
Phainon’s hands balled into fists, the world around him blurring. Somewhere in his chest, it started burning hot. Hot like fire.
The call ended, and he stayed crouched in the cold.
NOW
Phainon blinked hard.
The room swam into focus - warm fairy lights, worn cushions, the chair now firmly in one piece. But the air still felt thin. His chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow. His palms were clammy. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping the screwdriver until his fingers ached.
“Phainon?”
Hyacine’s voice was soft, uncertain. She leaned forward just a little, eyes wide with concern. “Are you -?”
He let out a shaky breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah. Just... give me a second.”
Hyacine didn’t press. She stayed where she was, hands folded nervously in her lap, not too close. Just close enough.
“You’re breathing really fast,” she said gently. “Um. You don’t have to talk or anything. Just… here. Watch me?”
She inhaled slowly, over-exaggerated on purpose - holding it like a cartoon character would. Her cheeks puffed out.
Phainon stared at her, thrown.
Then, despite everything, he huffed out a single, surprised laugh.
“Okay,” he muttered, dropping his gaze, trying to follow her lead. “Okay, yeah. That was ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling sheepishly. “But it helps. I think. Probably.”
He matched her next breath. Not quite steady, but better. The tightness in his ribs eased, just a bit.
“It’s not your fault,” Hyacine said gently.
Phainon didn’t reply, but he felt something in his chest thaw a little bit at the words.
“Um,” she said, voice softer than usual. “Would… would a hug help?”
Phainon glanced at her, surprised.
Her cheeks turned pink instantly. “I mean - it’s okay if not! Just - you looked like maybe… I don’t know - I want to hug my friends when they look like that. So -”
He didn’t answer with words. Just nodded.
Hyacine scooted closer, careful and warm, and wrapped her arms around him. It wasn’t a tight hug - it was a curl-in kind of hug, like she was trying to shield him without overwhelming. The top of her head barely reached his chin.
Phainon didn’t even realize how badly he needed it until the tension started to unwind in his chest. He let out a breath and, after a moment, returned the hug - one arm curled around her back, the other resting over hers.
She was small and warm and steady. Nothing about it felt loud or demanding.
Phainon slowly, reluctantly pulled back.
“It’s not something I ever talk about,” he said eventually. “Not with anyone. Not even myself, most days.”
“I’m honored, then,” Hyacine said, smiling.
He blinked at her. “Honored?”
“Well, yeah.” She paused for a moment. “I mean - I know that was hard. And I’m glad you trusted me.”
His lips twitched, then curved into a tired smile.
“You’re a little bit magic, you know that?” he said, voice hoarse but sincere.
She blinked, stunned - and then promptly turned red. “I’m not.”
He laughed, a real one this time - small and lopsided, but real.
They sat in a moment of fragile quiet.
Then Hyacine nudged his foot gently under the blanket and offered, without a trace of hesitation, “You can stay as long as you want.”
Phainon didn’t answer right away.
But he didn’t get up either.
He just leaned back on his hands, breathing a little slower now, letting the hush of the room settle around them. The fairy lights flickered faintly above, casting slow-moving shadows on the walls.
Hyacine stood up - quietly, carefully - and padded over to the back shelf. There was a soft clink of ceramic. Then the hiss of a tiny electric kettle.
“I made tea earlier,” she said, almost bashful. “It’s not… fancy or anything. But it’s warm.”
Phainon looked up, caught off guard. “You keep a kettle down here?”
Hyacine glanced over her shoulder. “Nook essentials. Obviously.”
He shook his head, a little smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “You’ve built a whole universe down here.”
She looked pleased, even as she fiddled with mismatched mugs. “You helped, remember?”
The kettle clicked. Steam curled gently into the room.
She returned with two mugs - one with a chipped floral print, the other solid blue and a bit too heavy. She handed him the floral one, like it wasn’t even a question.
Phainon accepted it without protest, wrapping his hands around the warmth. “You’re giving me the prettier mug?”
“You need it more,” she said, completely serious.
He laughed. “You say that like I’m on the verge of a collapse.”
She blinked innocently. “Am I wrong?”
He mock-glared, took a sip, and nearly burned his tongue. “Point taken.”
They sat in quiet again, sipping tea. The walls of Nook seemed to soften with the steam and stillness. Somewhere in the building above, pipes clanged faintly, and the floor creaked with ghost footsteps of other lives going on.
Phainon let his head tilt back against the wall.
Hyacine tucked her knees up to her chest, the mug warming her hands. “You really don’t come down here enough.”
“You might regret saying that,” he joked. “What if I start showing up every day? Leave tools lying around. Rearrange your pillow stacks. Mess with your kettle.”
Hyacine narrowed her eyes, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Touch the kettle and I will cry. You’ve been warned.”
Phainon raised his mug in surrender. “Kettle’s sacred. Got it.”
Time slid by unnoticed. The mugs cooled on the floor beside them. The fairy lights buzzed faintly, golden and constant.
Phainon had stretched out by now, one arm folded behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. Hyacine lay curled on her side, still wrapped in her blanket, her hair a fluffy, lazy mess against one of the throw pillows.
They weren’t talking anymore - just existing, tucked into the safety of Nook, the space dim and cozy around them like a held breath.
Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Phainon murmured, “This place is dangerous.”
Hyacine made a questioning hum.
“You sit down and suddenly everything’s… not terrible,” he said, eyelids half-shut. “Feels like a trick.”
She smiled sleepily. “I’m really glad. That’s what I made it for.”
Then Phainon said, quieter, “Thanks. For not... asking too much.”
Hyacine didn’t open her eyes. “You already gave a lot,” she said softly.
Another silence followed, softer than the last.
Phainon didn’t remember when his eyes finally slipped closed. Maybe it was after the third time he yawned and pretended he wasn’t tired. Maybe it was when Hyacine’s breathing slowed, steady and even beside him. Maybe it was once he realized his chest felt lighter than it had in years, like talking about that night had physically lifted a weight from his body.
Maybe it was just the comfort of being in a place that wasn’t constantly watching.
Sleep came to him easily.
Chapter 15: Built on a Maybe
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The dragon snorted smoke, curling protectively around its hoard of glittering, probably-stolen treasure.
“We’re not stealing,” Spark whispered, crouching behind a half-scorched boulder. “We’re liberating . Big difference.”
“Your plan was to throw a shoe at its head,” Smolder muttered, arms crossed. “That’s not a plan. That’s barely an idea.”
“It got its attention.”
“Now its attention wants us dead.”
The dragon’s growl rumbled through the cavern.
“Okay,” Spark said, pulling out a slingshot. “Plan B! Distract it again while I go for the pendant.”
Smolder blinked. “How is that different from Plan A?”
“It’s got steps, duh. That means it’s more organized.”
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“You’re the one who said it was worth the risk.”
A long pause. Then Smolder sighed. “Fine. But if we die, I’m haunting you first.”
“Aw,” Spark grinned, already moving, “you’d come back just for me?”
Mydei snapped the book shut.
The sharp sound cut through the quiet of his dorm like a blade.
His hands stayed clenched around the book for a second longer, thumbs digging into the edge of the front cover as if he could press hard enough to forget the ending.
It wasn’t even the ending he had flipped to. Just one of the middle chapters - stupid, light-hearted, nothing special. He knew it by heart.
Still made his chest tight.
This was stupid.
He placed the book down - face-down, like it might stare back - and stood with mechanical precision. Everything around him was ordered: desk perfectly neat, papers stacked, bed made sharp enough to pass inspection. But the calm didn’t reach his shoulders.
He hadn’t read Chasing the Firebird’s Feather in eight years. Not since that night. But he still had the dialogue memorized. Still knew every quip, every twist, every dumb plan Spark made that Smolder begrudgingly followed.
The fact made him irrationally annoyed.
He still remembered when the book was a symbol of comfort, a home he could go to whenever things got too loud or scary. Now, it felt like a weight pressing down, a reminder of the impossible task ahead.
His gaze drifted to the window, where the campus was awake, students milling between classes and eating lunch, laughter and chatter floating up like taunts.
He couldn’t focus. Not here.
The walls of his dorm, lined with blueprints and models, seemed to close in. He needed noise. Distraction. Something chaotic enough to drown out the thrum of frustration and regret.
He grabbed his jacket and stepped outside, the afternoon sun hitting his face with warmth. His feet led him, almost without thought, toward the library, toward Nook - that cluttered basement Hyacine cared so much about.
It was a place he never thought he’d seek comfort in, but today felt like maybe he needed a little warmth - the kind he couldn’t get from the sun beating down on him.
The thought that he needed comfort reached him with a small tap of shame.
He pushed the door open.
Warm lamplight pooled over mismatched rugs and chaotic book stacks. Pillow forts half-built slumped between chairs. Fairy lights blinked like sleepy stars. The place smelled like old pages and cinnamon. Someone, most likely Hyacine, had brewed tea - chamomile, maybe. Definitely floral.
His gaze caught on the wall of stick-on stars, unevenly placed. One corner of the ceiling had an origami mobile tangled in twine.
It was… hideous.
Everything about it scraped against his neatly-ruled world, and some part of him hated how much his chest loosened at the sight.
Cipher looked up from a battered graphic novel. Her expression flickered with quiet recognition, but she didn’t say anything. Just nodded.
Hyacine, curled in an oversized cushion, lit up the moment she saw him. “Mydei!” she called, cheerful and immediate, like she was waiting for him.
He paused for a moment too long.
Then exhaled and stepped inside, letting the warmth wash over him.
Hyacine glanced up from the sticker album she was organizing when the door creaked open.
Standing outside the door was Mydei, shoulders tight, eyes darting briefly over the cluttered mess of Nook.
“Mydei!” Hyacine exclaimed, happy to see him seek out the place on his own.
“Hi,” he said, stepping inside.
“You want tea?” She was already halfway to the kettle before he could answer. “We have orange-peach and a weird one Tribios left here that smells like moss. It’s labeled ‘Green Thunder,’ which is a little concerning.”
Mydei hesitated, then moved to sit near Cipher, choosing the sturdier of the beanbags. He let himself sink into it with a quiet sigh. “Peach’s fine.”
Hyacine hummed and got to work, happy to perform a familiar routine.
Cipher didn’t glance up. “You’re always dramatic when you show up here.”
“I’m not dramatic,” he muttered.
She raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “You look like you challenged your emotions to a fistfight and lost.”
“Not far off.”
Hyacine flicked her gaze to Cipher, who sat tucked into a corner, a graphic novel open but clearly not being read. Her fingers curled tightly around the book’s edge, knuckles pale.
Hyacine returned, offering him a mismatched mug before settling herself beside Cipher with her own cup. “How’s the auditorium?”
“Dusty,” he said. Then, after a pause, “And I’m not thrilled about who I’m stuck working with.”
Hyacine’s smile faltered, just slightly. Cipher’s page turn slowed.
“Phainon?” she asked softly.
Mydei gave a humorless breath of a laugh. “Who else?”
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t push. Still, the edge in his voice said plenty.
“You two used to be close,” she said gently.
Mydei stared into his mug, jaw tight. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
A pause. The kind where words could go, but none would quite fit.
“I’m sorry,” Hyacine said.
He gave a small shrug. “Not your fault.”
Hyacine looked at Cipher, who was very much not looking at anyone.
She scooted over, careful not to crowd her. “You okay?”
Cipher’s response was clipped, tight. “Fine.”
Hyacine didn’t believe it for a second.
“Mydei mentioned Phainon,” she ventured gently, “and it seems like it hit a nerve.”
Cipher’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It’s nothing,” she said, voice cool. “Just old history.”
Hyacine leaned in a little, lowering her voice. “You’ve been carrying that ‘nothing’ for a long time.”
Cipher’s gaze flickered to the worn spine of her book as if willing it to shield her.
“I don’t want to dredge it up,” she said, clearly trying to sound dismissive. “Not now.”
Hyacine’s heart ached for her friend, knowing how much was left unsaid.
Mydei shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat but saying nothing, his eyes cast toward the floor.
Hyacine pressed on. “Sometimes avoiding the past only makes the weight heavier.”
Cipher’s hands clenched, her voice softer now but still firm. “Maybe. But it’s safer.”
“Sometimes safe means alone,” Hyacine said softly, “and I don’t want that for you.”
Cipher finally met her eyes for a brief moment - a flicker of vulnerability masked quickly by resolve.
“I’m not ready,” she said, voice barely audible.
“That’s okay,” Hyacine smiled, squeezing Cipher’s hand lightly. “No rush. Just… when you want to.”
The room fell quiet again, heavy with all the things they didn’t say.
Mydei glanced between them, a complicated expression passing over his face - like part of him wanted to bridge the gap, and part of him still kept his distance.
Hyacine caught it. “We all want the same thing,” she said. “Maybe just in different ways.”
Cipher’s lips twitched - almost a smile. It was faint, but Hyacine clung to it.
“Thanks,” Cipher murmured, voice softer now.
She leaned back, her head gently bumping the bookshelf behind her, fingers idly tracing the creased cover of her graphic novel.
Across the room, Mydei shifted like he might speak, then thought better of it.
The quiet between them wasn’t heavy - just tentative. Like they were all standing near a ledge, unsure who’d be the first to take a step.
Hyacine’s voice was light, but her gaze stayed steady on Cipher. “He… misses you, you know.”
Cipher’s brows lifted just slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t,” Hyacine admitted. “But I believe he does. It’s in the way he talks. Or doesn’t talk.”
Mydei let out a quiet breath through his nose - something halfway between agreement and reluctance. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. “He asked about you. Our first day on the job. Just once.”
That got Cipher’s attention.
She blinked, her expression unreadable. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mydei said after a moment. “But it wasn’t a joke. That’s rare for him.”
Hyacine looked over at Cipher, her voice gentle now. “You don’t have to forgive anything. Or explain. But if it’s something still hurting you… maybe letting him talk wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Cipher’s fingers resumed their quiet drumming. She didn’t meet their eyes.
“It’s not about Phainon,” she muttered.
That got Hyacine’s attention. “No?”
Cipher hesitated, then said it like the words were teeth she was trying not to bare.
“He reminds me of Aglaea.”
The name hung in the air like a shard of glass.
“Every time he walks in,” Cipher continued, voice sharper, “it’s like she’s back too. Floating around like some specter from a past I didn’t agree to relive.”
Hyacine gave a soft, understanding nod. “Totally fair.”
“I’m serious,” Cipher said, narrowing her eyes. “If this is some ‘let’s-get-the-old-gang-back-together’ plan, I’m out.”
“No plans,” Hyacine promised. “Just… a conversation. On your terms.”
For a moment, Cipher looked like she might shut down again. But instead, she let out a long, tired breath and muttered, “I hate that you’re good at this.”
Hyacine smiled. “I’m not. I just like listening.”
That earned a small huff of reluctant amusement.
Mydei rubbed his temples. “Just so I’m clear, I don’t have to be involved in this, right?”
“No thank you,” Cipher said dryly.
Mydei gave her a tired look. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
And just like that, the tension thinned - just a bit. The air felt breathable again.
Cipher leaned her head back once more. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But this doesn’t mean I’m getting involved in anything else. Especially not anything Aglaea’s touched.”
Mydei raised his eyebrows. “You think she’s touching anything willingly?”
Hyacine snorted into her sleeve.
Cipher gave them both a long look, and for the first time all day, her shoulders eased.
“I’m going to regret this.”
Hyacine beamed. “You might. But I’ll owe you snacks.”
Cipher’s eyes narrowed. “The one with the cartoon owl on it.”
“Done.”
The rehearsal room echoed in ways it hadn’t before.
Without bodies to fill it, without music to coat the walls or blocking tape stretched across the floor, it felt cavernous. A shell. Aglaea moved slowly through it, her heels clicking softly on the exposed wood. One of the salvaged garment racks sat by the mirror - bent, but upright.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn’t flinch, but her spine straightened out of habit.
“Miss Okhema,” came a calm voice. Polished shoes. Chair Mityphon, ever impossible to avoid.
“I was wondering where you’d ended up,” he said. “You’re hard to pin down these days.”
“I’ve been busy,” Aglaea replied smoothly, though they both knew she hadn’t.
Mityphon didn’t press. He stepped into the space, letting the quiet settle between them like dust.
“We’re all still reeling,” he said. “But the department’s trying to look ahead. We have… a tentative idea.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a manila folder, setting it carefully on the piano’s lid. The label on the front was elegantly printed: Kindling Festival – Autumn Showcase .
“The administration wants something uplifting. Cross-departmental, creative. A reminder that the year didn’t burn with the auditorium.” He smiled slightly. “A tall order, I know.”
Aglaea approached the piano and opened the folder. Schedules, notes, scraps of vision. A spark of something not yet real.
“You’re not asking me to run this,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“I’m offering,” Mityphon corrected gently. “You’ve only been with us a few months, but your ability to lead - calmly, precisely - is rare. People listen to you. Even when you wish they wouldn’t.”
Aglaea didn’t respond, but her fingers lingered on the edge of a concept sketch. Lanterns strung across an outdoor courtyard. A stage outlined in hopeful pencil.
“The truth is,” Mityphon added, “we need someone who still believes this is worth doing.”
Aglaea looked up sharply.
“I didn’t say I -”
“I know,” he said. “Just think about it. If you choose to refuse, just leave the folder here.”
Then, with a respectful nod, he left her alone again, the door clicking shut behind him.
She stood there a moment longer.
She could say no. She could walk away. She had scripts to memorize, lines to rehearse, a wall of schedules mapped out in her planner to the half-minute.
But her mind, unhelpfully, was elsewhere.
Cipher’s face - not the smirking, half-lidded one from casual conversation, but the closed-off one. Bruised in a way Aglaea didn’t have language for. She hated the sight, and more than anything, she hated herself for knowing she was the cause.
This wouldn’t fix it. Obviously. Logically.
And still -
She didn’t walk away.
Instead, she turned another page in the folder. Lanterns. A chalk signboard. Some kind of collaborative mural.
Her thumb traced the corner of the page. She imagined Cipher seeing it - just for a second. Not impressed, but interested. Something quiet and flickering behind those new but achingly familiar eyes.
Aglaea closed the folder with a soft snap.
Not for him. Not really. But maybe she could show her something anyway.
She turned out the lights with a flick of her wrist.
The folder came with her.
The afternoon sun wanes. Shadows lengthen and bleed into one another, stretching thin across the cracked pavement and scattered rubble. The campus hum quiets, voices thinning as day bleeds toward evening.
Somewhere beyond the orderly halls and lecture rooms, broken things gather, held by silence and something unsaid.
An hour passes, maybe more. Time folds into the dusk.
I find my place above the wreckage. Watchers wait in stillness.
Below, two boys who used to be two halves of a fire.
One wipes sweat from his brow, he’s scrubbing at a memory. The other coils his cord, too methodically, too quiet, pretending it’s just wires between them and not years.
I watch them like theater, like myth. Like a scene someone whispered about in the halls of Olympus gone unheard by the scribes.
…You left the conduit unsecured, Mydei says, gravel dragged across tension.
Phainon shrugs slow, almost tired. Didn’t have the right bracket, he says, words curling like smoke from an old flame.
That’s not a reason, Mydei snaps back. Stones thrown hard against cracked glass.
Didn’t say it was, Phainon murmurs, eyes weighing the last ember in his palm.
There! That’s it. The wrong chord plucked. The air shivers.
Mydei turns, not sharply, but in that way people do when they’re holding themselves very carefully together.
You always do that, he mutters. Make excuses and call it charm.
Better than saying nothing and pretending that fixes it, Phainon snaps, too quick.
Ah. There it is. Tension like a violin string stretched too tight.
They stand in the wreckage, surrounded by the ribcage of what used to be music and light. Where once applause rang, now silence grows vines.
There’s a grief in their stance. A held breath. Two tectonic plates refusing to shift, though both know they must.
I sit with it, the heaviness. Sip it bitter. Everything deserves to be savored while it lasts.
Phainon wipes his hands on his pants and looks away, toward the stage.
I didn’t forget, he says, softer. About what happened. You think I did, but I didn’t.
Mydei doesn’t reply. Doesn’t have to. His silence screams in cursive.
Phainon speaks again, but lower, trying not to wake ghosts. You think I liked what happened?
Doesn’t matter what you liked, Mydei says. You still did it.
Neither raise their voice. Neither throw anything. There are no sparks, no lightning bolts. Just ash. Just two people standing in the aftermath of a fire and pretending they’re not still burning.
I lean my head against a cool stone beam, eyes half-lidded.
This is not the reunion of old friends. And yet - they are here. Even stars don’t speak when they collapse. They just glow until they can’t.
Maybe that’s the most important part…?
Let’s wait and see!
Phainon crouched beside a frayed bundle of cables, screwdriver poised but hesitant. Mydei hovered over him, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable.
“Pass me the multimeter,” Mydei said suddenly.
Phainon fumbled through the toolbox, the sound of clinking tools louder than usual in the silence. He handed over the device, trying to keep his fingers steady.
Mydei clicked the dial, inspecting the wires with clinical precision. “These connections are sloppy. You can’t just twist and tape them.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened. “This is temporary. We don’t have the parts for a full rebuild yet.”
“Temporary doesn’t mean careless,” Mydei said flatly. “If this shorts during a performance, it’s on you.”
Phainon opened his mouth, then closed it. The sting in Mydei’s tone hit deeper than he expected.
They worked side by side, movements mechanical, each unwilling to meet the other’s gaze.
A stray wire sparked as Phainon connected it to the power source. Mydei flinched, but didn’t say a word.
“Watch the grounding,” Mydei finally muttered, voice low but firm.
Phainon adjusted the wire carefully, the tension between them as taut as the cables beneath their hands.
Mydei’s phone buzzed - sharp and insistent. He glanced at the screen, lips pressing into a thin line.
“Sorry,” he muttered, already backing toward the auditorium doors. “I need to take this.”
Phainon didn’t look up from the wires he was sorting. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the stage from collapsing without you.”
The door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the hushed skeleton of the auditorium.
He exhaled, long and slow, letting his shoulders fall for the first time in hours. No quips. No audience. Just the creak of scaffolding and the faint hiss of cooling wires.
A dust mote spiraled past his head, catching the light. He watched it for too long.
Kephale, it was quiet.
He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then crouched again beside the exposed cable junction. The wires stared back at him like veins - cut, waiting to be stitched. Maybe he’d gotten it right this time. Maybe Mydei wouldn’t rip the whole thing apart when he got back.
He touched the taped end of the connector. It was fine. Secure. He’d checked it three times. So why did his stomach feel like a frayed wire left humming in the walls?
From the wings came a sound - a shuffle, a breath.
He turned, startled.
A lithe figure stood just beyond the curtain.
She wasn’t smiling. Not mischievous, not smug, like he remembered her. Just… still.
Phainon blinked.
“…Oh,” he said, after too long. “Hey.”
Cipher didn’t move. Her arms stayed crossed, expression unreadable, chin tilted slightly like she hadn’t decided whether to run or speak yet.
He wiped his hands on his pants again, though they weren’t dirty. “You, uh. Lost?”
“Don’t start,” she said immediately. “I’ll leave.”
Phainon winced. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t - just. Habit.”
A beat passed. The air felt heavier now, somehow.
She stepped in, just barely, like the floor might shift beneath her. “I’m here to talk.”
Phainon stepped back to give her space. “Awesome. Uh. You want to sit or -”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded. “Cool.”
Another pause. Then another.
Phainon cleared his throat, fiddling with the cable again just to have something to do with his hands. “So… what brings you here? Besides the scenic lighting rig and overwhelming tension.”
Cipher gave a dry, tiny exhale that might have been a laugh, if you took off your glasses and squinted at it sideways. “Don’t make this harder.”
“I’m not trying to,” he said quickly. Then softer, “I’m just nervous.”
She glanced toward the scaffolding, then toward the patchwork of tarps covering the far end of the auditorium. “Yeah. Me too.”
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
He sat back on his heels, legs cramping a little. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“But you did.”
Cipher didn’t answer at first. Then: “Hyacine asked.”
He blinked, then huffed in amusement. “Of course she did.”
“It wasn’t just that,” she added quickly, then grimaced. “I mean - it kind of was. But I… thought about it.”
Her arms dropped to her sides and she leaned one shoulder against an ashen wall.
“I don’t like talking about things I can’t change,” she murmured. “But I keep thinking about. You know. Everything that happened.”
He nodded, slow. “I think about it too. A lot more than I should.”
She stepped closer, boots crunching on a piece of fallen plaster. “You and Mydei… you were both so angry, back then. Everything was angry. And I hated it. So I cut off one side.”
Phainon looked up at her. “I’m not angry.”
“But it wasn’t -” She cut off. Exhaled through her nose.
He didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“That feeling,” she said finally, “where everything spins and you can’t stop it, and no one listens to you because they’re already too busy deciding what matters.”
She sank onto the edge of the stage. Her hands twisted in her lap.
“I didn’t want to be part of something that might pull me under again.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
She blinked, surprised by how easily he said it.
“I mean, it sucks,” he added. “But I get it.”
Cipher looked over at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You’re different now.”
Phainon gave a crooked smile. “I would hope.”
She didn’t smile back. But her gaze softened.
“I miss how we used to be,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “You and me. You, me, Mydei. The… whole group.”
Cipher didn’t move.
“But I know we can’t go back.”
Still, she didn’t speak. Her foot tapped once, twice, against the stage edge.
Then: “I don’t know if I want to be friends yet.”
Phainon nodded. “That’s okay.”
“I don’t even think I’m mad.”
“Also okay.”
Cipher looked around, noticeably lighter. “…This place is awful.”
He grinned, sudden and lopsided. “Hey, don’t insult my home.”
“Is this where you live now? Surrounded by broken drywall and shame?”
“Close enough.” He looked up at the broken light rig above. “I’ve got great views. Free dust.”
“Luxury.”
They stood in it, something shifting. Like old rhythm tuning its strings.
Cipher tilted her head. “Seriously, though. Why are you even working on this?”
“Because they told me to. And because I thought it might help.”
“Help what?”
He shrugged. “The school. Me. I don’t know. You?”
Cipher stared. “What?”
“I mean - not you-you, just… everything.” He waved his hand. “Forget it.”
“No, you said me.” Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
Phainon didn’t answer at first. Just kicked a pebble across the floor with the toe of his boot.
Then, “Because I figured if I built something… maybe it wouldn’t feel like everything fell apart.”
Her face shifted - subtle, something like caution softening. “You think this fixes it?”
“I’m not delusional.” He gave a half-shrug. “But it’s better than doing nothing.”
“…You always thought action was the answer,” she said quietly.
“You always thought standing still made you safe.”
Cipher flinched. Just barely. But she didn’t leave.
They stared at each other across the space between, something raw and old uncoiling in the middle.
Then she broke it. Pointed at a broken cord on the ground.
“That’s a tripping hazard.”
“I am a tripping hazard,” he said.
That got a huff. “Some things never change.”
“Oh, I’ve grown,” he said mock-seriously. “I now trip with purpose.”
Cipher rolled her eyes. “What purpose?”
“To cause maximum chaos. Obviously.”
She bit her lip, hiding a smile.
Phainon rocked back on his heels. “You remember when we rewired the entire south wing just to reroute power for your ‘secret lair’?”
Cipher gave him a long look. “You electrocuted yourself four times.”
He laughed, and she didn’t stop him.
A beat. Then her voice lowered again. “I still don’t want anything to do with Aglaea.”
His grin faded - but didn’t disappear entirely. “Understood.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. This -” he gestured vaguely at the mess - “isn’t about her. And it doesn’t have to be.”
She didn’t nod. But she didn’t walk away either.
Phainon took a step closer, slow and unthreatening. “I missed having someone who made fun of me with such sass.”
“…I didn’t miss you.”
He put a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”
She tilted her head. “Maybe a little.”
“Wow. Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Shut up.”
They stood there, not quite friends again. But something open. A cracked window. A thread tugged loose.
“…You want to help me fix the breaker panel?” he asked, grinning.
“Absolutely not,” Cipher said, turning to leave.
“Wait, I’ve grown, right?” Phainon called at her back.
“Not in personality,” Cipher said, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“…Fair.”
The door creaked open with a dramatic flair.
Tribios didn’t even step in at first - just popped her head around the frame, hair windblown and one earbud still dangling. She blinked, tilted her head, and beamed. “You’re home!”
No response.
Aglaea sat cross-legged on her bed, back ramrod straight, her laptop perched on a decorative throw pillow that had definitely not been designed for utility. A half-empty teacup sat precariously near the edge of her nightstand, forgotten. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving. Pages of notes - neatly bullet-pointed and color-coded - lay fanned around her like petals.
Tribios’s brows lifted. “...Are we...planning a coup?”
Aglaea, without looking up: “A festival.”
“Cuter than a coup.” Tribios kicked off her boots and walked in, letting the door click shut behind her. “Should I be concerned you’ve weaponized a color-coded spreadsheet?”
“I haven’t weaponized it,” Aglaea said, though the pen in her hand was gripped like a dagger. “Yet.”
Tribios dropped her bag on the floor and jumped into her bed, bunked above Aglaea’s. She leaned over to read one of the headers upside down.
“‘Kindling Festival’? That sounds suspiciously uplifting.”
Aglaea hesitated - just a flicker - but didn’t look up. “It’s supposed to be. After the fire.”
A beat passed. Tribios didn’t fill it.
Instead, she watched Aglaea closely. The coat still on. The tea going cold. The way her hand kept hovering over a sketch, never quite settling. Something inside her softened.
“Did they ask you to do it?”
Aglaea didn’t answer.
Tribios rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “Or did you offer because you secretly miss being stressed out of your mind?”
A pause.
Aglaea finally exhaled. “I think I need to do something that matters.”
A sour straw dangled alarmingly close to Aglaea’s head. She shifted slightly, in dignified silence.
“So how’s it going so far?” Tribios said.
“Great,” Aglaea said.
“Liar. You want the rest of this?” A sticky sour straw wiggled into view, swaying in front of Aglaea’s eyes like bait.
Aglaea closed her eyes. “Tribios.”
“What?”
“I will dropkick your face.”
Tribios laughed and drew the straw back up like a retracting fishing line. “Just say no like a normal person.”
A sudden puff of air tousled Aglaea’s carefully combed hair. She froze. “Did you just blow on me?”
“You looked tense. I was being therapeutic.”
Aglaea exhaled tightly through her nose. “I’m not tense.”
“You’re panic adjacent,” Tribios said, waving a sour straw like a divining rod. “Your aura’s starting to hum.”
“I do not have an aura.”
Tribios gasped. “She denies her glow. Tragic.”
She reached down - half of her body leaning off the bunk - plucked one of Aglaea’s neatly arranged papers, squinted at it, then crumpled it into a loose ball.
Aglaea’s head snapped up. “Tribios!”
“What?” Tribios asked innocently. “I’m liberating you from the tyranny of bullet points.”
“That was a list of -”
“Exactly,” she said, tossing it toward the trash can and missing wildly. “You don’t need a list. You need a miracle. Possibly a minor theft.”
Aglaea pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Why is that your solution to everything?”
“Because miracles are rare and stealing folding chairs from the philosophy department is a tangible goal,” Tribios said brightly.
Aglaea said nothing - she tried to glare at her friend, something she could never do properly.
Tribios just smiled. She did that thing where she didn’t push, didn’t poke, didn’t fix anything - but still somehow got closer just by existing in the same space.
“Agy,” she said upside-down, voice too sincere for the position she was in, “you are a tower built of glass and deadlines. You can’t hold up the moon and carry the guest list at the same time.”
Aglaea blinked. “What does that even mean.”
Tribios rolled off her bed, swinging into Aglaea’s bed and sending papers flying. “I don’t know, it sounded wise. But the point is - you’re not meant to do this alone.”
Aglaea’s mouth opened, then closed again. The silence was less sharp now - more like a pause in a piece of music.
Tribios scooted closer, legs folded under her like a very stylish gremlin. “You’ve got people. Weird people. Capable people. People who build marshmallow towers and argue with whiteboards.”
Aglaea sighed. “I doubt they want to help after… everything.”
“Then apologize,” Tribios said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world (which, granted, it might’ve been at that moment). “Forgiveness is fuel for good art and excellent festivals.”
“You are not allowed to say that when you haven’t read the logistics packet.”
Tribios shrugged. “Packets are mortal. Vibes are eternal.”
Aglaea gave her the look of someone losing an argument to a person who thought highlighter color was an accurate display of one’s personality.
Then - finally - she laughed. Just a breath. Quick and surprised.
Tribios smiled. “There it is. The laugh of a woman teetering on the edge of letting someone else help her.”
Aglaea let her shoulders fall back against the wall. “I can’t ask.”
Tribios leaned forward with an eager glint. “Simple! Start with a circle. A real one. Gather your allies. Feed us muffins. Give us glitter. Threaten us with interpretive dance. Then we plan.”
Aglaea rubbed her temples. “There’s no ‘we,’ Tribios. I can’t drag you into this.”
“Sure you can,” she chirped. “I’m very light. Like a morally gray feather.”
“Why are you helping?”
Tribios paused. Her expression softened just a little.
“Because you never ask for help,” she said. “And because I like you better unburnt.”
A pause.
“…If I let you touch the spreadsheet,” Aglaea said slowly, “you have to promise not to rename any tabs.”
Tribios was already grabbing her laptop. “No promises. But I will add flair.”
The door groaned faintly as it swung open. Phainon glanced up from the breaker box as Mydei made his way down from the doors. Phone in one hand, brow knit, mouth tight. No nod of greeting. Just forward motion.
Phainon straightened. “Hey.”
Mydei didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room, tossed his jacket aside, and knelt beside the supply crate. “Conduit brackets arrive?”
“Yeah.” Phainon nudged the box with his foot. “You missed Cipher.”
That made Mydei pause. Only for a second, but Phainon noticed.
“She came by?” he asked, surprised.
Phainon nodded. “We finally talked.”
“Good.” Mydei pulled out a drill. “Back to work, then.”
And for a little while, they did.
It was the kind of work that kept their hands busy and their minds just loud enough to drown out things better left unsaid. Clamps. Screws. Tension cords. Phainon handed off tools without needing to be asked. Mydei barely spoke.
Sweat trickled down Phainon’s spine, the kind that made your shirt cling wrong. The sun was starting to set again - how long had they been at this?
And then it happened.
A wire slipped from its bracket, snapping free and whipping the air with a sharp twang. It caught nothing but tension.
Mydei swore under his breath and reached to fix it - but Phainon was faster, moving instinctively, grabbing the loose wire with a practiced grip.
“You didn’t secure that one properly,” Mydei said, voice flat.
Phainon didn’t look up. “I thought I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“It’s one wire.”
“It’s not just one wire. That’s how things catch fire.”
Phainon let out a small, sharp breath, aware of the sarcastic grin that had crept up on his face. “Oh, right, because that didn’t happen already.”
The air chilled, like someone cracked open an old grudge and let the cold spill in.
Mydei’s jaw locked. “Don’t.”
“You’re the one making everything a big deal.”
Mydei glared. “We are building something that is going to serve as the pride of this school.”
“But we don’t have time to make everything perfect! We have a deadline!”
“Then stop joking around,” Mydei snapped.
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re smiling.”
Phainon’s grin vanished like it had never been there.
“Every time we try to do this,” Mydei said quietly, “you pull this... this comedian routine. Like if you pretend it doesn’t hurt, it won’t.”
“And every time we do this,” Phainon snapped back, “you pretend you’re not angry when you obviously are. You shut down like a gate.”
The last bracket clattered to the floor.
Neither moved to pick it up.
Then -
A soft hum. A mechanical whirr that didn’t belong.
Phainon blinked, stood upright, and squinted toward the exposed upper scaffolding. “Wait. Is that…?”
Mydei followed his gaze. A small, floating object bobbed through a shaft of sunlight, blue LEDs blinking innocently.
“…Cipher?” he muttered, squinting. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The drone dipped lower in greeting, let out a cheerful ding! - and then immediately veered too close to a suspended tarp.
“Oh no,” Phainon said flatly.
The drone spiraled lower like a curious bird, camera lens turning to face them with mechanical judgment. A sticker on the front read: “ANGSTPLANE"
It snagged.
The drone panicked. Beeped. Tried to reverse.
A loose cord whipped free. Something cracked overhead.
The tarp came down like a soft avalanche - followed by a rattling crash of wood, splinters, and a rain of old stage lights thudding down beside them.
Phainon hit the ground, arms over his head. Mydei staggered back, coughing through the dust.
Silence.
Then, through the settling haze, the drone hovered up from the chaos - singed slightly, but alive. It spun once in place, clearly pleased with itself.
From a tiny, tinny speaker, a very distinct voice that they both knew very well:
"Oops."
It left the way it came.
Utter silence.
Then Mydei barked out a laugh - sharp and stunned, the kind that escapes before you even know it’s coming. His shoulders jolted with it, mouth open like he couldn’t believe the sound came from him.
Phainon turned, blinking. “Did -”
But he didn’t finish. A breath hitched oddly in his chest, and the laugh cracked out of him too, tangled in disbelief and something old and aching.
The two of them folded at once - Mydei doubled over, one hand braced on a beam; Phainon dropping to a crouch as the laughter kept coming, helpless and real and ridiculous.
Mydei tried to speak - some complaint, some insult - but all that came out was a wheeze.
Phainon slapped the floor once, like it might help him breathe. It didn’t.
Mydei’s face was red. Phainon’s eyes were watering. One pointed at the drone, cheerfully making its escape. The other tried to form words and failed.
They just laughed.
Not out of joy. Not exactly.
But because the world had finally tipped too far sideways and the only thing left to do was laugh so hard it hurt.
…And because it was really damn funny.
“ Nikador ,” Mydei wheezed. “She named it. She named the damn drone.”
They were still standing in rubble. Still raw and unresolved. But now - there was something cracked open. A thread of something like an old rhythm, not yet healed but breathing.
Phainon watched the drone disappear into the distance. “You think she programmed it to do that?”
Mydei sighed, hands on his hips. “I think Cipher doesn’t do anything by accident.”
“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “I missed it.”
Mydei didn’t answer. But he didn’t walk away either.
And somehow - somehow - the silence didn’t feel as heavy anymore.
Notes:
Finally, a glimpse of hope.
However, the worst of the angst is still not here.
That's why I'll be taking a short hiatus, between one to two weeks! The reason being: I don't want to continue afflicting this world with Phaidei angst. We have enough of it! That's why I'll be releasing the next three chapters, the last stretch of heavy angst, in rapid succession directly after the hiatus. If you see Chapter 16 being posted, you'll know there'll be a new chapter the next day~
Chapter 16: False Spring
Chapter Text
For the first time in a while, Hyacine sat alone.
She sat curled on the shaded side of the fountain wall, notebook propped on her knees, pen tapping idly against the page. Around her, the courtyard buzzed with midday life - scattered laughter, rustling, someone’s off-tune singing from a blanket in the grass.
She’d chosen this spot on purpose. A little out of the way. A little quiet. Her eyes kept drifting across the plaza, searching for no one in particular.
Until a familiar figure stepped into the corner of her vision.
Hyacine looked up, startled. Her heart gave a small, guilty skip.
Aglaea stood a few feet away, backlit by the sun, carrying herself with the same impossible poise she always did, like a painting come to life. Not one hair out of place, not one flicker of emotion showing where it shouldn’t. But something in her eyes caught Hyacine off guard. Not coldness. Not distance.
Something softer.
“Hyacine,” Aglaea said, as though testing the name aloud.
Hyacine blinked. “Oh. Um. Hi.”
A beat passed. Then Aglaea stepped closer, one hand trailing the stone edge of the fountain.
“May I sit?”
Hyacine nodded, immediately shifting over. “Yeah. Of course.”
For a while, neither said anything. Hyacine went back to fiddling with the corner of her sleeve. She wasn’t sure what version of Aglaea this was. Not cold. Not stern. Just… still.
Then, quietly: “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Hyacine froze. “I - no, I didn’t mean to. I just… I wasn’t sure.”
Aglaea didn’t push. Just waited.
Hyacine swallowed. “I was with Cipher the other day,” she said. “She looked…” She looked down. “She looked hurt.”
Aglaea’s fingers were folded neatly in her lap. She stayed quiet, her gaze dropping slightly to the water. It glittered in the corner of her eye like something unshed.
“I didn’t know what it meant,” Hyacine said, subdued. “For my friendship with her. If there would be any… problems.
“I know it’s not my place,” Hyacine said quickly. “But I care about both of you. And seeing everyone like this - it just makes me sad. I didn’t know what to do.”
Still no response.
Hyacine swallowed. “You both mean a lot to me. And I think - I think you still mean a lot to each other.”
Aglaea looked away.
“I was awful to her,” she said.
Hyacine blinked. That… wasn’t what she expected.
Aglaea glanced down, then up again. “And to you. That first day. When I found out you were her roommate.”
Wait.
“Oh,” Hyacine said, slowly. “That was - wait, really? I thought you just didn’t like talking.”
Aglaea huffed softly. It might’ve been a laugh. “That was generous of you.”
Hyacine tilted her head, brows furrowed. “I mean, you weren’t mean. Just kind of quiet. And chilly. But, like - ice cream chilly. Not... frostbite chilly.”
“…Is that a compliment?”
“Sort of?”
Aglaea offered a small smile.
Hyacine’s chest tightened. “I wish I’d known.”
Aglaea shrugged, her smile flickering with sadness. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
There was a beat. Then Aglaea looked down again, and when she spoke, her voice was gentler than before.
“I’m… sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I was projecting. And angry. And - mostly just a coward.”
Hyacine’s heart gave a tiny, confused flutter. “You’re not a coward.”
“I think Cipher would disagree.”
“Well,” Hyacine said, bouncing her foot up and down, “Cipher also thinks replacing eggs with orange juice-filled water balloons is a good use of her time, so... I don’t know if she gets the final say.”
Aglaea blinked. Something cracked at the edge of her expression. A smile. Small, but real.
“I didn’t think she’d care that much,” Aglaea admitted, so quietly that Hyacine almost didn’t catch it.
Hyacine’s shoe stilled. She looked at her. Really looked at her.
“She really, really does,” she said softly.
Aglaea didn’t answer. But she looked down at her hands, as if she didn’t know what to do with them.
“…Could you let me know if she’s okay?” she asked after a long moment. “I mean - I know she wants space. But just… if something changes.”
Hyacine’s chest ached in a strange, soft way. She smiled.
“I will.”
A small pause, warm but uncertain.
“It still feels weird,” Hyacine sighed. “It feels like nothing is going to be the same again.”
“...Then maybe we start over,” Aglaea said, eyes still fixed on her lap. “From the beginning.”
Hyacine blinked. Her face lit up before she could stop it. “Start over like… pretend we’ve never met?”
“If that helps,” Aglaea said dryly. But there was a faint curve to her lips now.
“In that case,” Hyacine said, scooting a little closer and holding out her hand, “Hi. I’m Hyacine Dawncloud. I like tea, hugs, and cuddling in blankets right after taking them out of the dryer.”
Aglaea hesitated - then shook her hand, cool and steady.
“Aglaea Okhema,” she said. “I like Shakespeare, quiet rooms, and… apparently being emotionally unavailable.”
Hyacine giggled. “I think we’re gonna get along.”
They both laughed, just a little.
“Oh!” Hyacine perked up. “You should come to Nook sometime! It’s really cozy - we usually hang out there after class, just for snacks and homework and stuff.”
Aglaea paused, then shook her head. “Thank you, but… I think it might be too soon. I know Cipher is there often.”
Hyacine’s expression softened. “That’s really kind of you.”
Aglaea didn’t say anything, but her hands relaxed slightly.
“…But maybe,” she said after a beat, “you’d help with the Kindling Festival?”
Hyacine tilted her head.
“It’s something the student council put together,” Aglaea explained. “After the fire. They wanted a way to bring people together again. Community, creativity, ‘spirit renewal’ - that sort of thing.”
Hyacine’s eyes widened. “That sounds so cute. Like - bonfires and booths and lanterns and stuff?”
“Possibly,” she said. “I’m in charge of planning. The university’s pushing it as a sign of resilience. It’s supposed to bring departments together - show we’re still standing.”
Hyacine nodded. “How many people do you have to help?”
Aglaea gave a faint, wry smile. “It’s mostly me, to be frank. I haven’t exactly begun to focus on recruitment.” Her eyes met Hyacine’s, direct but carefully measured. “I… thought you might want to help.”
Hyacine blinked. “Me?”
Aglaea shrugged. “You’re good with people. You’ve got energy. That’s not my strength.”
Hyacine swallowed. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
Aglaea nodded. “If you have the extra time…”
Hyacine closed the folder and looked out at the students milling by, their voices a murmur in the warm afternoon.
“Okay,” she said at last, smiling. “We’ll figure it out.”
Aglaea’s lips twitched into a real smile. “Good.”
They fell silent, listening to the steady splashing of the fountain.
“I’m sorry,” she added quietly, voice almost swallowed by the water.
Hyacine blinked, caught off guard.
Aglaea’s eyes flicked away again, but her voice held steady. “For everything. I was... difficult.”
Hyacine’s smile widened, gentle and forgiving. “I didn’t even notice.”
Another pause.
Aglaea glanced down. “You don’t have to forgive me.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “I wasn’t mad.”
They sat quietly, the sun lowering, two people taking the tentative first steps toward something new.
Cipher hadn’t meant to end up here.
She was just walking - one corridor, then another - until the doors of the empty lecture hall opened and swallowed her up. She slipped into a middle row, dropped into the creaking seat, and stared straight ahead like she was waiting for a professor who’d never show up.
Footsteps behind her.
She didn’t turn.
“If this is Hyacine trying to ‘check on me,’” Cipher said flatly, “tell her I already passed my emotional midterm.”
A pause.
“Guess again,” came the reply - soft, stingingly familiar.
Cipher stiffened. Her head turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
Tribios stepped into the room, unusually still. No sunglasses. No guitar. No flyers or crazy words. Just her - arms crossed, a faint slump in her shoulders, her curls tied back messily. Her eyes looked tired.
Real.
“…So what,” Cipher said, voice low, “now you’re here to make me join your cult in exchange for closure?”
Tribios stepped into the room. Her footsteps were quiet for once.
“I’m not here to fix anything.”
She stopped near the end of the row, not quite approaching.
“I just wanted to say it. Out loud.”
Cipher stared at her. “Say what?”
“I knew,” Tribios said. “I knew who you were. I knew about you and Aglaea. Everything. We’re roommates.”
Cipher didn’t move, but inside, she felt a dull kick. It was the one thing she was hoping she wouldn’t hear.
Undeterred, Tribios went on. “She told me the version where she left without saying goodbye. The version where she kept rereading old messages but never wrote back. The version where you stopped trusting people after that.”
Cipher looked away. Her jaw tightened.
“Then why didn’t you tell me who you were?” she asked, almost too quiet.
Tribios’s voice barely carried. “Because I wanted to meet you. Not her version of you.”
A pause.
“And because I thought… maybe if I didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t matter.”
Cipher laughed - short, bitter. “Wow. That’s a hell of a plan. How’d that work out?”
“Badly,” Tribios said.
Cipher gave a tight, sarcastic smile. “At least you’re self-aware.”
Tribios tilted her head. “Yes. Usually around two weeks too late.”
Cipher turned her eyes back to the front of the room. “So what’s next? Guilt trip? Group hug?”
“No.” Tribios’s voice stayed quiet. “You get to be mad. You should be mad.”
Cipher’s fingers curled around the armrest. “Don’t give me permission for my feelings like that makes you noble.”
“I’m not trying to be noble.”
“Then what are you trying to be?”
Tribios hesitated. Her hands dropped to her sides.
“Someone who showed up,” she said. “Even if it’s late. Even if it’s messy.”
Cipher let out a breath, sharp and tired. “Cute. Are you going for a medal or just a forgiveness badge?”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness.”
“Smart,” Cipher said.
Silence. The kind that settled like dust in old corners.
Tribios didn’t leave, and Cipher didn’t look at her.
Eventually, Tribios sat down - not close, just a few seats away. The row creaked under her, the distance between them filled with everything that hadn’t been said, and maybe never would be.
They sat in silence.
Cipher’s foot tapped against the seat in front of her - once, twice, then stopped. Her arms crossed tighter, like they could keep something from slipping out.
Tribios stayed still. No twirling, no dramatic flair. Just her, breathing inaudible, eyes flicking over the empty hall like she was reading the room for ghosts.
Then, softly: “I thought she wouldn’t talk about you at all.”
Cipher didn’t move.
“I figured it’d be like a scar. You know - healed over, neat, closed.” She gave a dry little laugh. “Instead it was like… she kept picking at it. Quietly. All the time.”
Cipher’s fingers curled into the sleeve of her jacket.
“She reread old messages,” Tribios said. “Didn’t reply. Just stared at them. Like maybe they’d write back on their own.”
A long pause.
“She didn’t delete them,” Tribios added, quieter. “Even when she deleted everything else.”
Cipher’s jaw clenched. She didn’t look up, but her foot had gone still.
“It wasn’t a scar,” Tribios said. “More like - something she was still bleeding from. She just didn’t want anyone to see.”
Another silence fell between them. But this one was different. Not as stale. Not as sharp.
Cipher’s voice came rough, like it scraped something on the way out. “That’s not better, you know.”
Tribios nodded. “I know.”
She didn’t try to explain. Didn’t try to justify.
She just sat there, a few seats away, staring at the ghost-light of the stage.
After a long while, Tribios rubbed the back of her neck. “I was gonna write you a poem.”
Cipher glanced at her, cautious.
Tribios tilted her head thoughtfully. “But it started rhyming dawn’s first light with emotional spite , and there was a bit where a raccoon was crying into a book, so I decided maybe… not.”
Cipher blinked. Tribios looked completely serious.
“The raccoon was grieving,” Tribios sighed. “Potentially flammable.”
A short, sharp sound escaped Cipher’s nose. A laugh. It surprised her. She clapped a hand over her face like it might stop it from counting.
Tribios smiled at the sound, small and sheepish.
Cipher shook her head. “You’re the worst.”
Neither of them moved, but something in the air had shifted - just a bit looser, a bit lighter. The silence that followed wasn’t hostile anymore. It was waiting.
Cipher spoke first, her tone cautious. “You’re not going to pretend like we’re friends now?”
Tribios tilted her head. “Would it help if I pretended not to be?”
Cipher rolled her eyes, but the edge had dulled. “Zagreus. You’re exhausting.”
Tribios smiled, small. “Well… if we ever were friends, this would be the part where we tried again.”
Cipher didn’t answer right away. Her arms crossed tighter, then loosened.
“…I’m still mad,” she said.
“Good.”
“And I still don’t trust you.”
“Even better.”
Cipher paused. Tribios’ equanimity both made her feel slightly better and slightly more annoyed.
“But maybe,” she muttered, “we could start over.”
Tribios looked up.
Her usual smile didn’t appear, not right away. She blinked, just once, then tilted her head like she’d heard something spoken in a different language and was trying to translate it properly.
“…Yeah,” she said eventually, voice gentler than usual. “I’d like that.”
There wasn’t a joke. Not right away. For a second, Cipher thought maybe she wouldn’t make one.
Then Tribios added lightly, “You mean like - Hi, I’m Tribios, part-time aspiring guitarist and part-time snowglobe breaker?”
Cipher huffed a laugh. “Exactly like that.”
A beat.
“Cipher,” she said, mock-formal, “professional grudge-holder. I like pranks and emotional repression.”
Tribios offered her hand across the gap between the seats. “Nice to meet you, Cipher.”
Cipher stared at it. Then shook it, quick and dry.
Outside, rain started pouring.
“Ominous timing,” Cipher joked, pointing out the window.
“The gods have decided our fate,” Tribios said, straight-faced.
Cipher exhaled a breath of a laugh and stood up. “I was going to Nook. Before you ambushed me with your full tragic honesty monologue.”
Tribios brightened, but didn’t go full sparkle. “I like Nook.”
Cipher raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been?”
Tribios shrugged. “Once. I brought a bunch of cool little fairy lights and beanbags.”
Cipher sighed like it pained her. “Fine. Come with me. But if you start doing jazz hands, I will kick you out regardless of what Hyacine says.”
“You don’t have to forgive me,” Tribios said suddenly.
Cipher looked over, flat. “I’m not.”
A beat passed.
She grinned. “But I’ll let you buy me a cookie on the way.”
“Oho,” Tribios said, standing. “Forgiveness through snacks. Now that’s my language.”
Thunder cracked, long and deep, rumbling through the floor. Rain battered the skeletal frame of the building, slamming against the tarp-covered scaffolding in waves.
Phainon wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped back from the sawhorses, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “You cut the panel too short,” he called above the din.
Mydei didn’t look up. “I cut it exactly to spec,” he called back.
“Your ruler’s a liar.”
“It’s a scale ruler. It can’t lie.”
“Then it’s gaslighting me specifically.”
A flash of lightning flared through the half-finished structure, illuminating the awkward angle of the crooked beam above them.
Mydei exhaled through his nose, sharp. “You want to redo it?”
Phainon looked at the board. Then at Mydei. Then at the crooked beam again. Thunder boomed overhead. “No. We’ll just rotate the piece. It’ll fit.”
“Like the north wall on the shed,” Mydei said absentmindedly.
They both froze.
Phainon’s eyes flicked up. Mydei didn’t look at him, but his hand paused on the drill. Somewhere overhead, a loose metal bracket creaked as wind rattled the exposed roof.
The silence stretched, thick with old summers and half-built projects and the ache of knowing exactly how the other person thinks.
“…Can’t believe you remember that,” Phainon muttered.
Mydei’s voice was quiet. “You screamed at me for an hour.”
“I was nine. And it was your math that was wrong.”
Mydei finally looked over, one brow raised. “Was it?”
Phainon cracked a smile. A real one. Brief. “Shut up.”
They worked for a while in silence, but it wasn’t jagged this time. Phainon handed Mydei a level without being asked. Mydei steadied the ladder when Phainon climbed. They didn’t speak, but the rhythm came back - the old shorthand of shared effort. Outside, rain continued to roar, the sound a constant crash like static wrapped in thunder.
Before they realized it, they'd finished the framing for the western side.
Phainon leaned against a beam, breathing lightly. “This’d go faster if you weren’t such a perfectionist.”
Mydei wiped rain off his face with the back of his sleeve. “This’d go faster if you weren’t such a disaster.”
A pause. Wind howled through gaps in the walls.
“…Almost like we cancel each other out,” Phainon said, eyes still forward.
Mydei didn’t answer. But he didn’t disagree either.
They moved through the frame layout like clockwork.
Phainon adjusted the support beam without being asked, bracing it with his shoulder while Mydei anchored the base. Mydei didn’t speak, but his grip shifted just slightly - subtle confirmation.
When Phainon handed him the nail gun, Mydei checked the cartridge without looking up. “Loaded it already?”
Phainon rolled his eyes. “What am I, incompetent?”
“Yes.”
“Besides that,” Phainon said, waving his hand dismissively.
Mydei snorted. A tiny sound. But Phainon caught it, and didn’t say anything.
They didn’t talk much after that, but something clicked into place - not peace, exactly, but purpose. Mydei would point, and Phainon would already be halfway there. Phainon would tug a cable into place, and Mydei would catch it before it hit the ground.
It felt like scaffolding built out of old muscle memory. Like they remembered how to build things - if not trust, then at least buildings.
Outside, lightning flared again. Rain spilled through one of the open ceiling panels, dripping steadily into a plastic bucket by the wall.
At one point, Phainon stood back to admire the brace system they’d rigged together.
“This is actually kind of solid,” he said. “We might be good at this.”
Mydei didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth pulled upward. “We are good at this.”
Phainon gave a quiet laugh. “Kinda messed up, huh?”
“What?”
“That this is the one thing we don’t screw up.”
Mydei’s hand paused over the drill, then moved again. “Yeah.”
He paused before a support beam, and Phainon was instantly there, ready at the other side.
The angle was awkward, the leverage was awful, and they were too stubborn to ask for help. It creaked as they maneuvered it upward, metal straining against wood.
Rain pounded harder.
Phainon adjusted his grip. “Okay, on three. One - two -”
Mydei’s face twisted. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth.
“Wait -”
Too late.
His back buckled, the weight slipping sideways as his legs gave out. He dropped fast, hard, the beam tipping dangerously before Phainon lunged and caught it just in time, slamming it against the frame with a curse.
“Mydei!”
He was half-curled on the floor, jaw clenched, one arm pressed tight against his back. Thunder cracked so close it shook the frame.
Phainon dropped to his knees beside him, not caring about the mud. “Hey. Hey, look at me. What happened? What -”
“Don’t -” Mydei gasped, pushing him away. “Don’t touch me.”
Phainon froze, hands still midair.
“You’re hurt,” he said, low.
“I said don’t -” Mydei shoved him again, uncoordinated but desperate. “I don’t need you.”
Phainon stared at him. “You collapsed .”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Just back off!”
Lightning seared across the sky. Rain lashed through the open scaffolding, and something inside Phainon snapped.
His voice rose. “You’re doing it again. Pretending like you’re fine, like nothing’s wrong -”
“Because that’s what I have to do,” Mydei cut him off, clawing his way into a kneeling position.
Phainon blinked. “What?”
“I don’t get to fall apart, Phainon!” Mydei’s voice was suddenly loud, sharp, splintered, as he jabbed a finger into Phainon’s chest. “I don’t get to mess up. I don’t get to have someone call for help while I seize on the floor and have it not mean anything!”
He was shaking now, fists clenched at his sides.
“You think I could just stand there and watch you - watch you die?” Phainon’s voice cracked, breaking into something raw. “I didn’t do it for me . I did it because you mattered.”
“But you didn’t listen.” Mydei’s voice was quieter now, but bitter, gutted. “You didn’t listen. Not then. Not now.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I begged you not to call them. And you did it anyway. You broke everything .”
Phainon reeled. “I saved your life!”
“I would’ve been fine!”
“How was I supposed to know that?!”
Mydei’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You could’ve thought .”
Phainon opened his mouth to retort -
“Fine!” Mydei roared. “I was scared ! Not of the seizure. Of what would happen after!”
Phainon went still.
“You think you saved me?” Mydei said, voice rough and rising again. “All you did was hand me over.”
“To who?”
“My family,” Mydei spat. “After that night? They pulled me from sports. Clubs. No more friends over. No more going out. Not without a leash.”
Phainon frowned, blinking. “Wait - what?”
“They yanked my room off the second floor,” Mydei went on. “No more stairs. No privacy. No doors. I was a ‘ safety concern .’ Three years proving I deserved the second floor bedroom, gone.”
The words were ugly, and the way he said them wasn’t dramatic - it was matter-of-fact, and that somehow made it worse.
Phainon stepped back a little. “I didn’t know that.”
Mydei’s eyes snapped to him. “Of course you didn’t.”
“I thought - I thought you quit,” Phainon said, voice cracking. “I thought you were shutting me out. That you were mad.”
“I was mad,” Mydei said, voice rising. “I was furious. I still am. But no, I didn’t quit. They cut me off. From everything. I was already trapped, and then you gave them the excuse to tighten the cage.”
Phainon didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
He looked up, eyes burning. “So when they said you were a bad influence? Too reckless? That you couldn’t be trusted around me anymore?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Phainon’s face was pale.
“You didn’t say anything,” he said quietly.
“How could I?” Mydei snapped. “If I defended you, the ‘ bad influence ,’ they’d take more. I’d lose what little freedom I had left. I was already on ice and you - you made it worse.”
Phainon’s voice cracked. “I didn’t know.”
“I spent years trying to earn it all back,” Mydei said. “And I never got any of it. But hey - thanks for saving my life.”
Phainon’s chest was heaving. Mydei was shaking, barely upright.
The air between them was thick with the past. The memory of sirens. Of silence. Of words never said and words said too late.
Mydei finally pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.
“Don’t follow me,” he said, voice hoarse, barely audible above the pounding rain.
Then he was gone, limping toward the stairwell, his back visibly shaking with the effort of keeping his shoulders straight.
Phainon stood alone in the half-built skeleton of what was supposed to be something new.
And all he could do was watch him go.
Chapter 17: The Distance Between Two
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, they arrived exactly two minutes apart.
Phainon was already inside, hunched over a cracked support bracket, wrench in hand. The sharp clack-clack of ratcheting bolts echoed in the open space.
Mydei reluctantly stepped in. He spotted Phainon immediately, who glanced up, catching Mydei’s sidelong look. He lifted a brow, as if silently challenging, but said nothing.
Mydei took his place without comment, and the day became a careful game of cat and mouse.
It went on like that all morning. One would move, the other would counter. Mydei climbed the catwalk; Phainon suddenly had urgent business with the foundation. Phainon started sorting bolts at the supply station; Mydei “remembered” something he had to cut on the far side of the frame.
It unfolded like a chess game. Mydei hated chess. Too many rules to memorize.
Phainon moved toward the supply table - and Mydei spun away, ‘remembering’ a tool he needed on the opposite side.
Phainon adjusted a beam near the east wall; Mydei found extremely urgent repairs on the opposite side.
They never shared the same patch of floor.
At one point, they both reached for the same length of pipe and froze. Phainon gestured like he was offering it. Mydei gestured like he was refusing.
A full five seconds of intense eye contact.
Then they both let go and picked entirely different pieces, at the exact same time.
The silence wasn’t awkward.
It was strategic .
So Mydei told himself.
Later, Mydei stripped a screw and Phainon instinctively reached to help, then stopped halfway - mid-reach, mid-breath - letting his hand drop like it had caught fire. Mydei kept working.
They didn't speak. But tools passed between them anyway. A level was left exactly where it was needed. A wrench shifted to the edge of a crate just as the other reached for it. There was something frustratingly practiced about it - like an old duet they both pretended not to remember.
Phainon found himself stepping over a pile of scrap metal only to see Mydei already waiting just a few feet away, narrowing his eyes as if daring him to come closer. He detoured sharply to the opposite side, pretending to inspect a loose panel.
A faint breeze stirred the ash, and the distant hum of campus life filtered through the broken windows.
When Phainon tried to bring a toolbox across the room, Mydei stood up and stretched - blocking the path with a perfect “I’m totally not avoiding you” posture. Phainon raised an eyebrow, then lowered the toolbox and circled around.
And yet, through some miracle, their work clicked - measured steps, perfect timing, materials passed wordlessly over crates and through scaffolding gaps like they’d rehearsed it. By the time 10 AM rolled around, they had covered twice as much ground as usual and exchanged zero words, not counting muttered swearing at jammed screws.
They didn’t look at each other once.
But neither of them left.
The bench hadn’t looked like a trap. It was just a normal bench - sun-warmed, tucked beneath a tree on the plaza edge, and occupied only by Hyacine for all of ten minutes before she dashed off in a panic, convinced she was late for class on a Saturday.
She didn’t notice until two buildings later that her notebook was missing. Not just any notebook, either - the one with little flower doodles in the corners and half-finished bird drawings she would absolutely pretend weren’t hers if questioned.
Doubling back with her heart thudding, she scanned the plaza - and there it was. Her notebook, dangling lazily from someone’s fingers like a rescued pigeon.
“Forget something?” the girl holding it asked, one brow arched and a faint smile tugging at her mouth.
Hyacine skidded to a stop. “Oh my gosh, yes - I’m so sorry, I - thank you -!”
The stranger handed it over with the ease of someone deeply amused. She was fairly tall, polished in a stylish kind of way - sporting a knit top, sunglasses pushed back into her soft pink hair, a golden necklace, and the kind of confidence that made it look like the world politely rearranged itself around her.
“No apology necessary,” she said breezily. “Happens all the time. Benches like this are notorious for snacking on personal items. Especially sentimental-looking ones.”
Hyacine blinked. “Sentimental-looking?”
The girl gestured at the notebook’s cover. “You doodled a daisy and what I think might be a swan. Very high snack value.”
Hyacine flushed. “It’s… a goose, actually.”
The girl tilted her head, mock-serious. “Ah, a tragic waterfowl. I stand corrected.”
Hyacine laughed, despite herself.
The girl glanced across the plaza, toward a squat, familiar little café. Her gaze softened.
“Tell you what,” she said. “There’s a decent little place over there. If you’re not rushing off, I’ll treat you to a muffin. You look like you could use a breather after your goose chase.”
Hyacine blinked, startled by the offer. “Oh! I mean - sure! If you’re not too busy -”
“Never too busy for caffeine and cute company,” the girl said, already turning, waving for Hyacine to follow.
The words made Hyacine blush instantly, but the tone was so light, so unbothered, she couldn’t tell if it was a flirt or just the sort of thing this girl said on autopilot.
Still dazed, she trotted a few steps to catch up. “Um… I’m Hyacine, by the way.”
The girl looked over with a warm smile. “Cyrene.”
They crossed the plaza, Hyacine clutching her reclaimed notebook like it might wander off again if she loosened her grip. Cyrene walked with the easy stride of someone who knew exactly where she was going and exactly how good the food would be when she got there.
She nudged open the café door, letting out a soft chorus of squeaks and chair legs dragged across tile. The scent of cinnamon hit immediately - sweet and warm, like someone had just pulled a tray of muffins from the oven.
The place was a little crowded, all chipped mugs and wood-paneled walls, and every chair made a sound like a sneeze when you sat down. Cyrene didn’t seem to mind. She picked a spot by the window without hesitation, waiting just long enough for Hyacine to settle in before sliding into the seat across from her.
A waitress came by with a notepad and a practiced smile. “Just the two of you today?”
Cyrene glanced up and grinned - easy, confident. “Unless you’re joining us.”
The waitress blinked, caught mid-blink, then let out a short, startled laugh. “I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”
“Shame,” Cyrene said, still smiling as she plucked a menu and began leafing through it. “You seem like you’d have great taste in pastries.”
That earned her a look, somewhere between flustered and impressed. The waitress scribbled down their drink orders and walked off a little faster than she’d arrived.
Hyacine stared. “Did you just - flirt with her?”
Cyrene shrugged, looking deeply unbothered. “What can I say? Cute girl, good coffee, no regrets.”
Hyacine made a tiny, startled noise that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re… amazing.”
Cyrene winked. “I know.”
As Hyacine looked around, she felt something in her chest ease. “This place is sort of special,” she said softly. “I met a really good friend here. He showed me how to build arches with marshmallows.”
Cyrene arched her brow, amused. “Oh yeah? Wild hair, loud voice, allergic to shutting up in class?”
Hyacine blinked, then laughed. “Wait… you know Phainon?”
Cyrene grinned over the rim of her cup. “So he hasn’t changed.”
“Not really,” Hyacine admitted. “He’s… a lot. But in a good way.”
“He can be a disaster,” Cyrene said, nodding with a fond sigh. “But he means well. He’s my little brother.”
Hyacine froze and blinked fast. “Oh wow. I didn’t know! That’s… that’s amazing.”
“Don’t worry,” Cyrene said gently, still teasing. “You don’t have to be nervous. I like you. You’ve got good taste in cafés and questionable taste in friends.”
Hyacine half-laughed, half-hid behind her drink. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Cyrene leaned back, studying her with mild amusement. “So. Hyacine. New girl on campus, already collecting misfits like shiny rocks. What’s your secret?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Hyacine said, cheeks warm. “They kind of pulled me in before I could think about it.”
Cyrene leaned back with mock solemnity. “Mhm. You stumbled into my brother and lived to tell the tale. That alone deserves a medal.”
Hyacine laughed. “He’s loud. But nice. He’s been really kind to me.”
“He does that,” Cyrene said, softer now. “Makes a scene, then makes a difference.” She leaned in secretively. “Okay, other than my delinquent brother, what other people have you found?”
So, for the next half an hour, Hyacine talked.
She didn’t mean to at first. Just a few names, a quick description or two. But Cyrene listened so easily, with that tilted-head half-smile like everything Hyacine said was worth hearing, and before she knew it, she was describing them all.
“Tribios is like… glitter with legs. And a manifesto. She’s kind of amazing, even when she’s too much.”
Cyrene hummed. “I like her already.”
“Cipher’s - um - she’s tricky. Not in a bad way! Just, you know. Always a little ahead of you. It’s like playing tag with someone who knows all the hiding spots.”
Cyrene laughed at that. “Accurate.”
“Mydei’s harder. He doesn’t talk much. But when he does, it feels… important.”
“That boy’s always been a stormcloud with a soft core,” Cyrene agreed. “Didn’t think anyone else noticed.”
“I noticed,” Hyacine murmured.
She went on. About Aglaea’s sharp poise that cracked when she cared too much. About Castorice’s quiet kindness, more careful than the notes she wrote in class. About Phainon.
Her voice faltered.
She stared down at her drink for a moment, fingers tightening slightly on the mug.
“Phainon’s… he’s like a sunbeam that keeps bouncing off walls,” she said, a little slower now. “Always joking. Always loud. And it’s easy to think that’s all there is. But when he thinks no one’s looking, sometimes he just… sinks.”
Cyrene didn’t interrupt. Her expression had shifted - softer, more focused.
“He tries really hard,” Hyacine whispered. “To be okay. To make everything okay. But sometimes, it’s like he’s still stuck in something that happened forever ago and doesn’t know how to move past it. And Mydei - he’s still trying to prove something, but he doesn’t know what…”
Her breath caught. She blinked quickly, but it was too late. Her eyes had gone glassy, and one quiet tear traced down her cheek.
“Sorry,” she muttered, swiping at it. “I don’t even know all of it. But it just… I want them to fix it. I don’t know how to help.”
There was a long pause. Cyrene didn’t reach across the table, didn’t offer a tissue or a platitude. She just sat back, watching her with something new in her expression - something gentler. Wiser. A little amazed.
Then, she asked, more gently, “And what about you? Where do you fit in with your little collection?”
Hyacine sniffled. “I… don’t know.” She offered a small shrug, eyes fixed on her mug. “I guess I just… try to help where I can.”
Cyrene watched her quietly for a moment, her expression unreadable. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I mean,” Hyacine fumbled, “I’m there. Ask questions. Give out hugs. That kind of thing.”
“Support class bard energy,” Cyrene said, nodding. “I get it.”
Hyacine laughed softly. “Maybe.”
Cyrene leaned back in her seat, swirling her straw idly. “You ever think that maybe being the one who listens, or softens the edges, is the role?”
Hyacine glanced up, uncertain.
“Everyone’s trying so hard to hold it together. People like you make it easier for them to breathe.”
There was a pause. Hyacine didn’t answer right away. Just thought.
Cyrene let the silence sit for a beat longer, then leaned back again, letting the warmth settle. “So. Got your eyes on anyone in particular yet?”
Hyacine made a noise halfway between a squeak and a groan. “For Aquila’s sake.”
“That’s not a denial.”
Hyacine buried her face in her hands. “I am not discussing this with Phainon’s sister.”
“Technically, I’m everyone’s older sister,” Cyrene said cheerfully. “It’s in the bylaws. I get to tease you and give you terrifyingly good advice.”
“Please don’t give me advice. Or teasing. Or anything.”
Cyrene grinned. “Too late. Castorice, is it?”
Hyacine made a strangled noise, putting her head on the table. “Why does everyone say that. We’re just friends.”
“Don’t worry.” Cyrene leaned her elbows onto the table, voice syrupy with delight. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m here to gather data. For science.”
Hyacine peeked out from between her fingers. “This is bullying.”
“This is love,” Cyrene corrected. “This is the sacred duty of every older sister figure. Tease first, support forever. Those are the rules.”
Hyacine let out a whimper.
“Castorice sounds a lot like Mydei,” Cyrene said, sounding thoughtful.
Hyacine perked up, immediately forgetting the past minute of relentless teasing. “Yes! She’s quiet too. Her vibe is like Mydei’s, but softer.”
Cyrene nodded, looking pensive.
“Anyway,” she continued after a moment, stirring her drink, “I don’t need you to say anything. You’ve got that look.”
Hyacine froze. “What look?”
“The one that says: ‘Oh no, I think about her at very inconvenient times and it’s ruining my academic productivity.’ That one.”
Hyacine buried her face deeper into her arms.
Cyrene smiled and sat back, sipping her drink like a queen who’d just won the war.
After a long pause, Hyacine peeked out again, this time with her chin resting on her folded arms. Her voice was quieter now, less flustered. “You’re really good at that, you know.”
Cyrene arched a brow. “At what?”
“Getting people to say things they didn’t think they were going to.”
“I like to think of it as emotionally unlocking people like puzzles,” Cyrene said, smug. “Very ethical. Barely any damage done.”
Hyacine huffed a laugh, then sat up, her fingers curling around her mug. Her thumb traced the rim once, twice.
A quiet settled between them - not heavy, just still. Then Cyrene shifted, smile returning like sunlight through blinds.
“Anyway. You’re in the thick of it now, huh? Friend group drama. The glitter, the angst, the rooftop confessions - soon you’ll be doing secret handshake rituals at midnight.”
Hyacine giggled. “Only if there’s hot chocolate.”
Cyrene raised her mug with mock solemnity. “Hot chocolate is the glue of all meaningful relationships.”
A soft beat passed. Then, without comment, Cyrene reached across the table and gently turned Hyacine’s drink so the label faced her.
“By the way,” she said, casual as anything, “you ordered this wrong. Next time, get it with oat milk and a pinch of cinnamon. You’ll thank me later.”
Hyacine grinned. “Is this what being mentored feels like?”
Cyrene’s eyes sparkled. “Oh honey, if I ever mentor you, you’ll know. You’ll come out of it with better shoes and a devastating wink.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, sighed, and stood - graceful and light.
“Duty calls. Professors don’t catch up with themselves, unfortunately.” She hesitated just long enough for it to mean something. “You’ve got a good heart, Hyacine. Don’t let all this smoke and mess convince you it’s not worth shining.”
Hyacine blinked. Her throat felt warm. “...Thanks.”
Cyrene tapped two fingers on the table in parting. “Tell Phainon he still owes me coffee. And if you ever need someone who can spot shoddy makeup jobs or emotional repression from a mile away - text me.”
She left in a cloud of rose perfume and squeaky chairs, and Hyacine, still holding her mug, realized only then that she’d been smiling the entire time.
Though their pace was twice as fast as usual, it still took them all afternoon to get to the electricals. By the time they began, the sun had shifted just enough to cast long, dusty bars of light across the charred interior. It made everything feel weirdly holy, like they were working in some broken cathedral. Phainon didn’t say that out loud. It was the kind of thing Mydei would roll his eyes at, and Phainon wasn’t in the mood to see that expression again.
Besides, they hadn’t spoken in hours - not since lunch. Which was maybe a new record since they’d started the project.
He adjusted his gloves and crouched beside the fuse box, now open like the flayed chest of some mechanical beast. Wires - melted, tangled, scorched - spilled out like a nightmare. It was honestly impressive no one had been electrocuted yet.
“Right,” Phainon said to himself. “Super straightforward. No big deal.”
Across from him, Mydei was kneeling beside a bundle of conduit lines, already sorting them with gloved precision. Still silent. Still doing that thing where he didn’t look directly at Phainon, but clearly registered every move he made.
Phainon swallowed down the part of him that wanted to poke fun at it. Instead, he reached for a spool of replacement wire and nudged it in Mydei’s direction - without looking.
It slid across the concrete floor and bumped gently into Mydei’s foot.
Mydei paused, then picked it up without a word.
Progress .
The next hour passed like a puzzle neither of them wanted to admit they were solving together.
They communicated through caveman-level points, gestures, muttered tool names, and once - a single, near-mythical moment - Phainon coughed in a way that kind of resembled “thanks.”
Mydei didn’t acknowledge it.
They didn’t fight. But they also didn’t exactly not fight. The tension was in the negative space - like static electricity clinging to every unspoken thing between them.
The problem, of course, came when Phainon spotted a breaker panel with a warped, blackened edge - clearly fried. The label said it routed to Dorm Two’s lower level.
"This one's toast,” Phainon said, reluctantly breaking the silence between them. “It looks like it’s pulling current from both sides."
Mydei glanced over from his end of the corridor. His brows drew together, then he came over to crouch beside Phainon. The closeness twisted something uncomfortable in Phainon's chest, but he held still.
"That shouldn’t be possible,” Mydei muttered to himself. “Not without someone forcing a bypass."
He tugged the cover off the panel and examined the wires inside. A moment passed.
“Someone must’ve tried to re-route around a blown fuse,” he mused, exhaling shortly. “It’s pulling uneven current.”
He reached behind him for the toolkit, digging through the clutter until his hand stilled in frustration. Then, silently, he held out his palm toward Phainon without looking.
“Cutters.”
Phainon blinked. Words? Actual words? He fumbled a bit but passed them over. No joke this time. He just nodded, lips pressed tight.
Mydei worked quickly, snipping back the melted insulation.
Phainon leaned over slightly, squinting into the mess. “Shouldn’t we kill the main for this?”
“I checked,” Mydei replied shortly. “That line’s dead.”
“Then what’s the -”
A faint spark popped from the lower coil.
Both of them froze.
Phainon swallowed. “Okay but like, that didn’t look dead.”
Mydei’s head jerked up. He traced the wiring backward, fast, frowning. Phainon noticed the little crease in his brow that happened whenever he was thinking hard, then mentally slapped himself.
“…That’s not a bypass.” Mydei’s voice had a slight edge of tension. “That’s a loop. You wired the diagnostic tester through -”
Phainon frowned. “You told me to ground it -”
“- to the housing, not the return line!”
The breaker buzzed.
Phainon looked. “Oh that’s - uh - new.”
Mydei’s expression sharpened. He lunged toward the fuse relay, trying to yank it free -
FZRRRRCHT
Everything went dark.
There was a long pause. Dust floated in a beam of sunlight like someone had turned the world sepia.
Phainon broke the silence. “…Sooo, was that… us?”
Mydei didn’t answer.
Then - somewhere far off - a shriek.
A dorm window slammed. A kettle screamed. Someone shouted something about their thesis vanishing.
Mydei stood up slowly, brushing ash off his knees. His jaw was set.
Phainon couldn’t stop an incredulous grin. “Kephale, we just blacked out Dorm Two.”
Mydei’s face was still. “It’ll come back online in fifteen minutes if we reroute the load.”
Phainon looked around, hands on hips. “Hey, on the bright side, it’s not your dorm. That makes it mildly funny instead of catastrophic.”
Mydei didn’t respond. He squatted back down beside the breaker panel, fingers running along the scorched casing. “The fuse cascade wasn’t supposed to hit the east wing.”
“Well,” Phainon said, rocking on his heels, “it did. Which means either you miscalculated, or -”
“Or you connected the auxiliary line before I finished isolating the primary circuit,” Mydei snapped.
Phainon opened his mouth, paused, then raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. Mutual idiocy. Are we good?”
Mydei’s silence said no.
“I can fix it,” Mydei muttered, mostly to himself. “Fifteen minutes. If the subfeed didn’t melt.”
“You’re bleeding,” Phainon said.
Mydei blinked and looked down. His forearm was streaked with a thin, red line where the insulation had cracked and caught his skin.
He wiped it off against his sleeve without flinching.
“You could, like, not just absorb damage like a tragic hero, you know,” Phainon said. “We do have band-aids.”
Mydei didn’t answer. He stood and grabbed the strippers.
Phainon exhaled, stepping a little closer. “Hey. Seriously. Are you okay?”
Mydei’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”
Phainon narrowed his eyes. “Don’t what? Ask if you’re alive?”
Mydei rubbed his temple like this was giving him an actual headache.
Phainon stepped back, giving him space. “Okay, okay - look, we’ll fix it.”
He stepped over the wires, reached for the tools again, then hesitated. “Unless you wanna… I don’t know. I can just hold the flashlight and let you do the boring stuff.”
If looks could kill, Phainon would be a part of the troposphere right then and there.
“You shorted it,” Mydei said. “You fix it.”
Phainon swallowed back a protest, and they knelt again, side by side.
Still silent.
Still stubborn.
But their movements - complicated, careful, synchronized - began to match. Hands passed tools without touching. Glances were exchanged like Morse code. Somehow, it started to look less like sabotage and more like collaboration.
At one point, Phainon accidentally bumped Mydei’s hand reaching for a voltage tester. They froze.
Then simultaneously pulled back like startled cats.
Phainon cleared his throat. “I’ll just - uh. Yeah.”
They swapped positions, awkwardly mirroring each other, then resumed as if nothing happened.
By the time the breaker was rerouted and the light snapped back on, Phainon was covered in dust, his arms a patchwork of wire-burns and grime, and his heart weirdly light.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did Mydei.
But when they packed up, Phainon noticed they didn’t bother dodging each other quite so much.
Maybe because it was the end of the day.
Maybe because both their legs were so cramped they could barely walk straight.
Or maybe because it took both of them to bring the damn thing back online - and accidentally plunge half the dorms into darkness first.
“Still counts as teamwork,” Phainon murmured to himself.
He didn’t say it loud enough for Mydei to hear.
But something in Mydei’s posture shifted - like maybe he had.
The desk lamp flickered once.
Then twice.
Then surrendered.
Castorice blinked at the sudden dark, fingers hovering above her keyboard. The glow of her screen had vanished, too. For a moment, she stayed exactly as she was - poised, unmoving - as if staying still might somehow bring the light back.
It did not.
She tilted her head toward the lamp.
The overhead light had gone too. So had her charger, her kettle, and the low hum of the radiator. Outside her window, the hallway security lights blinked off like stars being plucked from the sky.
Power outage, she concluded. Unscheduled. Probably campus-wide. Or localized to this building. Likely not her fault. Statistically, anyway.
She stood, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape, and made her way to the window. Outside, students were already starting to stir - poking heads out of doorways, murmuring in confusion. Someone had a flashlight. Someone else dropped a stack of papers down the stairs and yelled “I just picked those up!” in the voice of a broken soul.
Castorice frowned faintly.
This would… complicate her study schedule.
She stood there a while, arms folded loosely, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. Her dorm room was always neat. Immaculate, even. A place for every item. No clutter. No frills. Just enough to be livable. Exactly enough to be hers.
But in the dark, even order felt unfamiliar.
Eventually, she gathered her coat and notes, sighing through her nose. If the building stayed down, she’d need somewhere else to work. Somewhere with light. And seating. And minimal conversation.
She opened her phone. The signal was weak, but working.
For a moment, her thumb hovered over the screen. She could go to the library. Or wait it out. Or…
Her finger tapped open her messages before she could talk herself out of it.
castorice (school account): hi. sorry to bother. is Nook still open?
She sat absolutely still, the phone screen glowing in her hands.
Seconds ticked by. Too many. She almost closed it. Almost turned it off and pretended she hadn’t sent anything.
With the radiator dead, cold slowly began creeping into her room.
Then -
hyacine (nook): Yes!!! Totally open
hyacine (nook): Come by, there's outlets and also cookies if you're lucky :OOO
Castorice stared at the reply.
Then, slowly, without allowing herself to analyze it too hard, she got up.
She pulled on a sweater, fixed her hair quickly in the mirror under the flashlight of her phone, and slipped her notebook into her bag. Then she paused again at the door, staring at the handle as if expecting it to ask her what on earth she thought she was doing.
It remained silent. She let out a silent breath and turned the knob. Stepped into the hallway.
Her heart fluttered faster than it had any right to.
The door to The Nook creaked softly as Castorice stepped in. The smell of lavender curled around her, grounding her nerves just enough to step further inside. Her gaze swept the room, catching on the bright blur of someone waving her down.
“Castorice!” Hyacine’s voice carried, a touch too loud for the space - then immediately shrank to a whisper as if she’d startled herself. “I mean - uh, hi. You're here! Wow.”
She stood up halfway before realizing she didn’t know what to do with her hands and awkwardly sat back down, nearly knocking over her paper cup.
Castorice gave a quiet blink, then moved to the table with careful steps. “Hello.”
“I thought maybe you got electrocuted,” Hyacine said, then immediately made a face. “Not actually electrocuted. Just… the power’s out in your dorm, right? Like your hair all spiky and - sorry, that’s not helpful. I’m glad you’re not zapped.”
She paused, tapping her own cheeks with her palms as if trying to cool down. “Anyway, um. Sit! If you want. You don’t have to. But you totally should.”
Castorice took the seat beside her with the grace of someone trying not to breathe too loudly. Her fingers curled neatly around the edge of the table, just above a napkin that read "Nook'd and Blessed."
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she murmured.
“You didn’t!” Hyacine glanced at her notebook, which had one doodle of a smiling toaster and zero notes. “Honestly, I was just sitting here pretending to study, uh, and thinking about whether brownies have souls.”
There was a pause.
“…Do they?” Castorice asked.
“I don’t know,” Hyacine lamented. “I was going to say no, obviously, but then I bit into one and it was so good that I got sad.”
Castorice allowed the tiniest smile.
“Actually - wait.” Hyacine spun the plate toward her. “I got you one. A brownie, I mean. I think it’s a fluffernutter. I think - I don’t remember which batch this one’s from.”
Castorice reached for it slowly, brushing fingers against the paper wrapping. “Thank you.”
Their eyes accidentally met. Something shy and charged passed between them before they both looked quickly away. Castorice focused very intently on her brownie.
Hyacine fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, teeth catching on her lower lip.
“So,” she said after a moment, softer now, “is your dorm okay?”
Castorice gave a small nod. “It’s not dangerous. Just… dark.”
Hyacine nodded along. “I would’ve freaked out for sure - like when the toaster stopped working one night. But that was just Cipher being Cipher.”
They ate in silence. The fluffernutter brownie was rich and a little messy - just enough to be a comforting distraction.
Then Hyacine gasped and nearly choked on a crumb.
“Oh! I forgot - there was something else I wanted to ask! I completely lost my train of thought.”
Castorice blinked again. “You did?”
“Yes! I mean - besides wanting to see you. Which I did. But also - have you heard about the Kindling Festival?”
“In passing,” Castorice said.
“Okay, well… apparently the planning committee is mostly me and Aglaea, if you know her. And maybe one other person, but I’m not sure if they’re real.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “I could really use help. Calm, smart, mysterious help. Which you definitely are.”
She cleared her throat. “And I thought maybe you’d be willing to… help me not completely crash and burn in front of the whole university?”
Castorice stared at her for a beat. “Why me?”
“You’re smart,” Hyacine said immediately. “And thoughtful. You see stuff. You don’t… blurt. And I always feel better when you’re around.”
That made Castorice turn a subtle shade of pink.
“I don’t know much about planning events,” she said softly.
“I do!” Hyacine said, smiling. “I know that I’m terrible at it. But I can start. And you… you have this, like, quiet boss energy. Which is very cool. And it would be nice to have.”
Castorice looked down at her muffin, then back up at her. “I can… try,” she said slowly.
Hyacine’s smile grew, lighting up her face like the sun breaking through clouds. “Yes! That’s all I needed to hear.”
And for a brief second, it felt like saying yes might not be so bad.
“So,” Hyacine said, leaning in a little, “one idea I had was a memory board.”
Castorice looked up.
“You know, like… a place where people can pin photos or write little memories or hopes or whatever. Stuff that matters. Stuff they want to hold onto. Or let go of.” She paused. “Does it seem too… cheesy?”
Castorice shook her head slowly. “No. I think it’s… nice.”
“Yeah?” Hyacine said, smiling.
“Yeah,” she said, quieter now. “I like that. Giving people space to… reflect.”
Hyacine grinned. “You’d be perfect to help run it.”
“Me?”
“You’ve got that thoughtful energy. Like…” she thought for a moment. “You’d understand what people leave.”
Castorice hesitated. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Exactly.” Hyacine’s smile softened. “Which means you’ll make it new. And it’ll make you new too.”
Castorice glanced down at her half-eaten brownie, picking at the edge of the paper. “…Okay. I’ll try.”
Hyacine lit up. “Thank you so much. Oh, there’s more!”
She leaned sideways over her bag, rummaging with a clatter of pens and paper until she pulled out a crumpled receipt with notes scribbled all over it. She smoothed it with her palms, then smiled sheepishly.
“I was kind of… brainstorming last night,” she said. “Stuff for Kindling Fest. I mean, the memory wall is still my favorite thing, but I was thinking… maybe there could be something a little more? Something people can take home with them?”
Castorice tilted her head slightly. “What kind of thing?”
Hyacine held up her hands. “It’s probably silly.”
“I don’t mind silly.”
That made Hyacine beam. “Okay, so. I thought… what if we gave people these little… charms? Or tokens? Tiny ones. And they could write something inside - a wish, or a memory, or even just… a feeling. Fold it up, tuck it inside, and hang it up during the festival. Then after, they could take it home.”
Castorice blinked. “That’s… actually very sweet.”
Hyacine let out a breath like she’d been holding it in. “Like… like a tiny spell-pouch. Or maybe muffin crumbs if someone sneaks snacks in. I’ve been kind of messing around with shapes and stuff. Paper stars, hearts, little… blob-things. Nothing official yet.” She scratched the back of her neck. “Honestly, it might be too much.”
Castorice’s gaze drifted to the edge of Hyacine’s bag, where a few crumpled, unidentifiable origami messes and tiny cutouts peeked out like secrets.
“Would you like help?” she asked.
Hyacine’s hands froze mid-fidget. “Really?”
“I have… a few folding tricks,” Castorice admitted. “I used to make cranes when I was little. For focus.”
Hyacine stared like Castorice had just offered her the moon. “That’s the nicest sentence anyone’s ever said to me.”
Castorice looked away, feeling her cheeks heat at the sight. “I’m a little out of practice.”
“That’s okay,” Hyacine said, beaming. “You’re already better than me. I folded a star and it came out looking like a potato.”
Castorice almost smiled.
Hyacine ducked her head, fiddling with the receipt again. “I was thinking I’d work on them a little more tomorrow, if you maybe wanted to… drop by?”
The door creaked open.
Castorice straightened just as Mydei stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the cozy yellow lamplight.
His hoodie was dusted with ash, sleeves pushed up, a faint electrical burn mark across the front pocket. He paused when he saw them, eyes flicking from Hyacine to Castorice.
“…Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
“You’re not!” Hyacine scrambled upright a little too quickly. “You’re - um - welcome here. Always.”
Mydei walked further in without comment, his steps tired and steady. He didn’t make for the table - just settled into the wall-adjacent corner, sliding down with a quiet exhale.
Hyacine glanced toward him again, and froze.
“Wait - hold on.” She leaned forward. “Are you bleeding?”
Mydei looked down to the strip of red running down his forearm. “It’s fine.”
Hyacine was already halfway out of her seat. “Okay - sit still. Don’t touch it. I need to - um - okay, do not move.”
The energy around her shifted so fast it was almost whiplash. Her hands, usually fidgeting, moved with surprising surety as she grabbed her bag and dug through it with practiced speed. Castorice watched, blinking. It was the first time she’d seen Hyacine not stammer, not stall.
Mydei shifted, pulling his arm slightly back as if to hide the scrape on his forearm, but Hyacine gently caught his wrist before he could tuck it away.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said.
“I know you think that,” she said, quieter. “But I’m not not treating it.”
Mydei sighed in defeat and let her lift his arm.
Hyacine’s touch was light but efficient, her brows furrowed in quiet focus as she examined the wound. “Debris, definitely. And the edges are kinda gunky already, so - okay, stay there. I have stuff.”
Mydei sighed. “This is really all -”
“Is it deep?” Hyacine cut him off, already pulling out a small first-aid kit, half-unzipped and clearly well-used. “Do you have dizziness, nausea, tingling in your fingers - anything like that?”
“No,” Mydei said, brows slightly raised. “It’s just a scratch.”
Hyacine gave him a look as she knelt down beside him. “Uh-huh. That’s what people always say until they pass out on the floor and traumatize everyone in a five-foot radius.”
Hyacine waited, and upon hearing no more objections, got to work. She dabbed at the scrape with practiced hands, her chatter softening as she focused. “Sorry. This’ll sting. But not as much as whatever you did to get this.”
“I just wasn’t paying attention,” he muttered.
She pulled out a small bottle of saline, her fingers fumbling just a tiny bit as she unscrewed the cap. “Not gonna lie,” she said, flashing a quick, nervous smile at Castorice, “this part’s the worst - kind of like when you accidentally bite into a lemon.”
Mydei made a noise that might’ve been a grunt or a chuckle; it was hard to tell.
Hyacine dipped a clean gauze pad into the saline and began dabbing at the wound with practiced care. Her voice softened as she spoke, almost as if soothing the injury itself. “Okay, debris looks like it’s coming off. No big bits stuck in there, so that’s good.”
She glanced up at Mydei. “Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?”
“It’s just a scratch.” He kept his gaze steady, arms resting on his knees now, a faint tension lingering in his jaw. Castorice winced in sympathy as she watched.
“Good.” Hyacine’s hands moved quickly but gently, treating each bit of the wound with delicate care.
Throughout, her familiar breathless enthusiasm was still there, just tempered by this new, calm focus. “You’re basically a walking disaster zone,” she said with a smile that made Mydei roll his eyes. “Lucky for you, I’m a medical major who’s way better at patching people up than… well, most other things.”
Castorice watched quietly from her seat, struck by how natural Hyacine was, like this was the real core of her, not the flustered girl who forgot what to say or do around others. There was something about the way Mydei sat still for her - how he let her touch the wound, how he didn’t pull away - that spoke of a trust she hadn’t expected. Not from him. Not with anyone.
Hyacine gave the wound one final wipe, then pressed a bandage gently over it. “There. One brave boy, properly patched.”
Mydei grunted. “You’re gonna bring that up forever, aren’t you?”
She grinned. “Absolutely. Want some water? Or, um, mystery tea? We have so many packets of unlabeled tea.”
He gave her a look that might’ve been grateful, if not exhausted. “Water’s fine.”
She glanced back toward Castorice with a small, hopeful smile. “Do you want anything? I can make a guess-tea for you too.”
“That’s alright,” Castorice said, biting back a laugh.
She shuffled away to fetch it, humming a little tune that didn’t quite have a melody. That left Castorice and Mydei in a strangely still bubble of silence.
She didn’t expect him to speak.
So she was surprised when he said, “you live in Dorm Two?”
“Yes,” Castorice replied, unsure of what else to say. Small talk had never been her specialty.
“Power come back on yet?”
She glanced over. “...I don’t know, I’ve been here ever since.”
A pause.
“Sorry,” he added, and hesitated. “That one was on us.”
“…Not your fault.” She hesitated. “Though I was in the middle of syncing a really large project file.”
He blinked. “Ah. So I ruined your night.”
She allowed the faintest upward twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Slightly.”
A pause.
“…Are you alright?” Castorice said, tilting her head toward his now-bandaged arm.
“I’m fine,” he said simply, with the quiet assurance of someone who didn’t see the point in saying more.
Another pause, longer this time. He didn’t fidget or look away - just rested his head back, lids half-lowered.
“Phainon tried a shortcut,” he said at last. “It didn’t go so well. Although I guess I could’ve talked better,” he added reluctantly.
Castorice nodded. She only knew the basics of their situation from conversations with Hyacine. “It sounds difficult.”
“Sometimes,” Mydei agreed.
That quiet honesty surprised her. She glanced down at her hands, then over at the spool of glitter wire still in Hyacine’s lap.
“…I get that,” she said after a moment.
She wasn’t used to saying that aloud either - usually, she wouldn’t have. But Mydei’s voice had that same self-protective quiet she knew too well.
He didn’t say anything, but he glanced at her - just briefly. Something softened in his expression. Maybe he got it, too.
His expression smoothed again, and he leaned his head against the wall, eyes half-closing. “Yeah,” he murmured.
Hyacine returned then, carefully balancing two mismatched mugs. “Okay, water for you, mystery tea for me. Unless you want mystery tea? It’s very pink.”
Mydei took the water. “Pink’s not my color.”
“You never know,” Hyacine said, grinning as she dropped back onto the mat between them; something in the air had shifted. Not warmer, exactly - but more open.
Castorice found herself stealing another glance toward the boy in the corner. He didn’t look like much. Tired. Quiet. Kind of like an empty hallway.
Maybe she could relate.
Hyacine lit up. “Oh my goodness. Is this what quiet bonding looks like? I’m witnessing a social miracle.”
Mydei exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t quite amusement, but maybe the ghost of it.
“We’re not bonding ,” Mydei muttered.
Castorice didn’t answer. But she didn’t deny it, either.
Hyacine leaned on her elbows, studying them like a wildlife researcher spotting mutual tolerance in the wild. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop talking. I’ll be so quiet. I’ll be - what’s it called - oh, ambient. Like café noise.”
“Please don’t compare yourself to café noise,” Castorice murmured.
“She is kind of like café noise,” Mydei said softly, as if just observing a fact.
Castorice paused to consider, then made the tiniest murmur of agreement.
The sun was dipping low, painting the auditorium in warm golds and shadows. The air smelled of dust and sawdust, heavy with the weight of unfinished work.
Footsteps echoed down the hall - light, confident.
Cyrene appeared in the doorway, her pink hair catching the last rays of daylight. She paused, eyes sweeping the room, a mischievous smile curving her lips.
“Well, well,” she murmured to herself, voice low but sharp. “Looks like the calm before the storm.”
She stepped inside, hands sliding into her jacket pockets, eyes already glimmering with anticipation.
“Tomorrow,” she said softly, “things are going to get very interesting.”
Notes:
Cyrene: Anyway, you're in the thick of it now huh -
Hyacine: [jumping to her feet] SAY THAT AGAIN?!
Chapter 18: Lit by Flickering Ember
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The room smelled faintly of warm plastic and dusted glass. Studio lights hung overhead, some off, others glowing at different color temperatures - amber, ice blue, harsh white - casting long, uneven shadows across the tables.
Mydei adjusted a spotlight with a quiet click, narrowing the beam until it hit the stack of material swatches he’d arranged on foam core: silk, painted drywall, brick, reflective metal. Each caught the light differently, shimmering or flattening out depending on the angle. He scribbled notes beside them:
2700K: silk → golden, warm. plaster → dull beige.
5000K: silk → washed out. brick → harsh contrast.
6500K: aluminum → near mirror. distracting.
He clicked his pen, leaned back, and squinted at the setup again. Something still felt off. The angles? The color absorption rates? Or maybe it was just his head - tight and buzzed from an hour of silent concentration under too many fluorescents. He hadn’t had a seizure in five years, but bright lights still bothered him on occasion.
His phone buzzed.
Cyrene: come meet me at the café
Cyrene: you know the one ~
Mydei blinked down at it. He hadn’t talked to Phainon’s sister for eight years, but from what he remembered of her, he wasn’t surprised she’d found his phone number somehow. She was something of a force of nature.
Mydei: I’m busy after school
Cyrene: not today!
Mydei: No
Mydei: Bye
Cyrene: what a shame…
Cyrene: i guess someone is retracting their generous service of convincing the teachers not to assign ‘faculty oversight’ after a certain blackout?
His thumb hovered.
Mydei: You did that?
Cyrene: i mean…
Cyrene: someone had to <3
He exhaled through his nose, one sharp sound. Typical. He hadn’t even realized there’d been fallout from the mistake. He thought they’d just gotten lucky - some miracle of institutional disinterest. But no. Of course not. Of course it was her.
He stared at the fabric swatches again, half-lit in a clean white glow. They looked clinical now. Lifeless. Like they were waiting on him to care.
His phone buzzed again.
Cyrene: it’s a really good café
Cyrene: the pastries have names i can’t pronounce
Cyrene: i promise not to psychoanalyze you unless you start sulking again :P
He dragged a hand down his face.
Mydei: I’m not changing out of work clothes.
Cyrene: wouldn’t dream of it~
Cyrene: brooding flannel is very in this year anyway
A long pause.
Mydei: One hour
Cyrene: you’re my favorite
Cyrene: don’t tell phainon <3
He shoved the phone back in his pocket, powered down the lighting rig, and started packing up his notes.
“…and remember, in turbulent flow, the pressure drop -”
“- is caused by your mom,” Phainon whispered, loud enough for the class to hear.
Two girls behind him laughed. Professor Periphas didn’t.
“I heard that, Mr. Elysiae.”
Phainon grinned and raised both hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to keep the flow fluid, Professor.”
The projector clicked off. Students began filing toward the exit, the steady chattering filling the lecture hall with sound.
As the crowd shuffled toward the exit, Phainon trailed behind, still mid-joke with a classmate. “Wait, you can’t eyeball a pressure drop across a pipe junction? Crazy. I’ve been guessing based on vibes.”
He stepped into the hallway, squinting slightly in the shift of light - and then froze.
Cyrene leaned against the tiled wall across from the lecture hall, iced drink in one hand, her other twirling her phone lazily. She looked perfectly out of place - sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors, pink gloss, way too much confidence for a campus corridor. She waved the cup at him like it was a white flag, attracting some glances.
“Hey, nerd.”
He blinked. “Either I hit my head in lecture or you’re actually standing there.”
“Good to see you too,” she said, pushing off the wall. “I heard about your little electricity disaster and had to come witness the emotional fallout firsthand. Hyacine explained about the auditorium.”
“You met Hyacine? What did you do to her?”
Cyrene gasped, offended. “Rude! I was nothing but charming. I even complimented her. She completely short-circuited. Adorable - I must say, you have a tendency to find lovely friends.”
“You can’t just go around terrorizing people like that,” Phainon said, head in his hands.
“Relax! She liked me. Probably. Eventually.” She gave him a long once-over. “Unlike you, who looks like he hasn’t slept since the incident. Tell me, are you haunted by the ghost of a fuse box, or just your own self-loathing?”
“It was a breaker,” he muttered. “And I’m haunted by the spirit of competence, thanks.”
“Well, you’re doing a terrible job of channeling it,” Cyrene said, grinning.
“Didn’t Mom tell you not to come visit if you were just going to annoy me?” Phainon grumbled under his breath.
“Pssh,” Cyrene said, mussing his hair. “You need me here. Come on, let’s go on a walk.”
“Don’t touch the coiffure!” He scrambled away and narrowed his eyes. “To where? Why?”
“To a café we both know very well, because I’m craving cinnamon muffins and the comforting company of someone with poor impulse control.”
“That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever accused me of,” Phainon said, adjusting his backpack. “But I’m busy. You know all about it, don’t you?”
“Oh.” Cyrene’s expression suddenly looked startlingly like a kicked puppy (an expression that never boded well for Phainon). “Well, that’s understandable. You’re welcome, by the way.”
He squinted. “For what?”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “Oh, nothing. Just casually reminding the professors that I’m a proud graduate of this very university, and they should cut you some slack.”
Phainon froze.
“Added a little sparkle, a little spin, and a few well-placed metaphors about resilience and learning through adversity - very touching. Now they’re calling it a teachable moment. Although, they’re still really on the fence about assigning faculty oversight… one word could push them either way. Decisions, decisions…”
He sighed, realizing she had blackmail material. “What do you want?”
“To spend time with my adorable baby brother,” she said, looping an arm around his shoulders.
He immediately tried to duck out of it. “You don’t do anything unless it benefits you or you’re setting me up.”
“No faith,” she sighed, tsk ing and steering him toward the plaza. “I’m paying.”
“...You never pay,” he muttered, falling into step beside her.
The warm hush of Nook settled around Castorice as she pushed open the door. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the windows, catching on strings of hanging paper lanterns and stacks of well-worn books.
She spotted Hyacine right away - tucked into the back corner beneath the ivy-covered wall, her jacket draped over the chair, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. A small pile of ribbons, buttons, and tangled thread spilled across the table.
Hyacine was biting her lip in concentration as she knotted a piece of string around a smooth river pebble, oblivious to the world. The charm-in-progress dangled awkwardly from her fingers.
Castorice hovered for a second.
Then she cleared her throat. “Hello.”
Hyacine startled so hard she nearly dropped the whole thing. “Oh! Castorice! I - I didn’t see you come in!”
“Are you sewing a rock?” Castorice said curiously, sliding into the seat across from her.
Hyacine puffed out a nervous laugh, brushing hair from her cheek. “I swear it’s not weird. Or, okay - it’s a little weird - but it’s for a reason.” She held the charm up sheepishly. “It’s for a charm. The rock is - symbolic. Y’know. Grounding? Endurance? It made sense in my head.”
Castorice glanced at the mess on the table, then the delicate loops of thread. “Are these for the Festival?”
Hyacine nodded sheepishly. “I started trying to make charms for everyone. Little ones that match their energy, y’know? I wanted to give them out as part of the memory wall - something to anchor the moment.”
Castorice looked down at the work-in-progress. “Everyone?”
Hyacine brightened, holding up one of them. “This one’s for Tribios. She’s dramatic but really sweet. So I used gold thread and a daffodil paper flower. Oh - and this blue bead because she’s super creative.”
Castorice studied it for a moment. “You think a lot about people.”
“I guess I do,” Hyacine said softly. “It felt right. Everyone’s a little piece of the Festival.”
A beat passed.
“…Can I help?” Castorice asked.
Hyacine looked up, visibly surprised, and smiled so wide it scrunched her nose. “I’d love that.”
Castorice pulled her chair in, ignoring the way her heart jumped at the sight, and picked up a piece of velvet ribbon.
They worked like that, hands brushing over soft fabrics and bits of buttons. Hyacine talked as they crafted, describing her friends one by one - Cipher’s tangled energy and sharp wit (represented by a chaotic knotted cord and a bright red bead), Mydei’s quiet steadiness (“deep green and copper - he’s gruff but kind once you know him”), and even Aglaea, whom Castorice didn’t know. “She’s hard to read, but she cares so much it leaks out around the edges. I used golden thread and a tiny mirror for her.”
Castorice mostly listened. That was easier. Watching how Hyacine’s hands moved. How her thoughts spilled so freely.
Somewhere in the middle of a charm with a tiny bell and a scrap of navy velvet, Hyacine glanced up.
“…Can we make each other’s last?”
Castorice looked up at her.
“…Sure.”
They both looked down, something unspoken passing between them. Castorice had an odd sense that their faces were both a little red.
They worked for a while longer. The pile of little charms grew, quietly alive with color and meaning.
“You’ve been thinking about the Festival a lot,” Castorice said quietly.
Hyacine looked up from where she was trying to knot a tiny bow. “I can’t stop. Every time I look at a new fabric scrap I can’t help but think - what if this means something? It’s… kind of consuming me, honestly.”
Castorice smiled faintly. “That sounds like you.”
“I just want it to matter,” Hyacine murmured. “I want everyone to feel like they belong to it.”
There was a pause.
Castorice brushed a bit of thread off the table. “…I’ve been thinking about the memory wall.”
Hyacine blinked. “You have?”
She nodded. “It might be hard. Asking people to share. Some won’t know how.”
“…Yeah.” Hyacine’s voice softened. “It’s a lot to ask.”
“What if there was a question?” Castorice said slowly. “A place to start. Or something to hold. Like a photo. Or an envelope.”
“Like an object?” Hyacine asked, lighting up. “Or a photo? Ooh! What if we had little picture cards they could decorate? Or mini envelopes where they could write memories and tuck them inside?”
“Envelopes,” Castorice said, nodding. “It’s private unless they want it to be.”
“A hundred tiny secrets,” Hyacine breathed. “That’s so perfect.”
Castorice flushed, ducking her head toward the charm she was tying. “You don’t have to sound that excited.”
“But it’s so you,” Hyacine said brightly. “Elegant and thoughtful. And kinda mysterious.”
Then after she realized what she’d said, her face bloomed red and she quickly ducked her head to continue working.
They kept crafting, their hands now moving with a little more purpose. Beside the slowly growing pile of charms, Hyacine scribbled out little notes on scrap paper between stitches - " Envelope wall with strings " and " optional prompts ?" and " quiet corner space ?"
“…We could use these,” she said, suddenly, holding up one of the charms.
Castorice tilted her head.
“For the memory wall,” Hyacine clarified. “We could hang some of them on it. Like… people can take one, or add their own.”
Castorice hesitated. “Wouldn’t that make it cluttered?”
“Not if we do it right,” Hyacine said, already reaching for more thread. “If they’re all made with care, it won’t look messy. It’ll look lived-in.”
Castorice glanced down at the charm she’d just finished.
It had a black button, a twist of copper thread, and a soft green scrap that reminded her of pine needles. She didn’t even know who it was meant for yet.
“…Maybe,” she murmured. “If we do it right.”
Hyacine smiled, already reaching for more thread.
They cut across the plaza, sun catching on the breeze, everything that golden-late-afternoon color that made the campus almost look romantic - if you ignored the scattered construction cones and the argument that was likely to devolve into a fistfight.
Cyrene sipped her iced drink with one hand tucked into her pocket. Phainon kept glancing over like she might pull a prank at any second.
“You’re being weirdly nice today,” he said.
“I’m always nice,” she replied angelically.
“False,” he said. “You’re nice like... a glitter bomb. Or a sugar cookie with explosives in it.”
“I’m deeply offended.”
“Good.”
Cyrene turned to face him mid-step, walking backwards now with an infuriating grace. “You’re just mad I have better hair and more emotional maturity.”
“Bold of you to say while wearing sunglasses in the shade.”
“Bold of you to think you’d survive college without me doing damage control.”
Phainon made a face. “Still don’t get why you’re even back on campus. I thought you graduated and ran off to become... what was it? A wine bar consultant?”
“That was one month,” Cyrene said, waving dismissively. “I got bored. Now I do many things. Mostly freelance emotional sabotage.”
“Perfect,” he muttered. “That’ll go great on your resumé.”
She grinned. “You say that, but I am the reason no one’s breathing down your neck about burning down an auditorium.”
“Hey, we didn’t -”
“- start the fire,” she finished. “Just blacked out an entire dormitory for half an hour.”
He kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. “I still think you’re hiding something.”
“I’m hiding lots of things,” she said cheerfully. “But right now I’m just walking you to a café. A very nice café. With unpronounceable pastries.”
He gave her a long look.
She smiled, unbothered, and linked her arm through his before he could escape.
“Relax,” she said. “Worst-case scenario, you eat something sweet and get emotionally compromised. You’ll live.”
Phainon sighed.
The café was as cozy as ever, its windows painted with curling vines. Inside, the air was warm and softly spiced - chai, orange peel, and old wood. A low hum of conversation blended with the clatter of cups and the gentle scratch of a vinyl track playing somewhere near the register.
Phainon pushed the door open and held it for Cyrene, only slightly suspicious she’d let him walk into some kind of trap.
She breezed past him, heading for the counter. “Now pick something. Something cute. Something whimsical. No tragic black coffee.”
He was still deciding between a rose latte and a hazelnut matcha when she waved at the barista with the easy confidence of someone who was either a regular or just unreasonably charming.
Figures , he thought. Of course she’d be flirting with the barista. Phainon wrinkled his nose at her.
They settled at a small round table near the front window, drinks in hand. Phainon stirred the foam in his cup skeptically.
“You know,” he said, eyeing her over the rim, “if this is a setup, it’s very elaborate. You’ve got aesthetics, flavor, mood lighting. What am I supposed to do, have a character breakthrough?”
Cyrene sipped her drink innocently. “I already told you. You’re supposed to relax.”
“That’s not in my curriculum.”
“ You’re worrying about the curriculum?”
He rolled his eyes and looked out the window. People passed by in groups, laughing, talking, dragging backpacks behind them. It was kind of peaceful here - if he ignored the slight sense that Cyrene was three steps ahead of him at all times.
The bell above the door jingled again.
Phainon glanced up from his drink - and nearly choked.
Mydei.
They locked eyes across the café. Mydei’s expression went blank, his shoulders visibly tightening. He scanned the room. Then, without hesitation, he turned on his heel and headed straight back toward the door.
“...Wait -” Phainon started, half-standing.
Cyrene didn’t move. She just raised one hand and made a small, deliberate bzzt motion - two fingers flicking like a shock.
Mydei froze mid-step, one hand still on the door.
A slow exhale left him. His head dropped just slightly.
Then, without turning around, he stepped back inside and shut the door behind him.
Phainon sank back into his chair.
“...Oh,” he muttered. “You blackmailed him too.”
Cyrene took a delicate sip of her drink. “I prefer ‘motivated,’ please and thank you.”
“Semantics,” Phainon rebutted, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Mydei made his way over stiffly, stopping at the edge of the table like it (or the terrifying pink-haired girl sitting there) might bite him.
“Nice to see you after eight years, Mydei. You’re so tall now,” Cyrene said, patting the empty chair between them. “Come, take a seat. Pretend we’re functional.”
Mydei looked like he’d rather sit on nails.
Phainon folded his arms, eyes flicking sideways but not quite meeting his.
“Well,” he said. “This isn’t weird at all.”
Mydei sat.
The silence that followed was… dense.
Phainon tapped his fingers once on the ceramic rim of his mug. Then stopped. Mydei didn’t look at him. Not directly.
Cyrene took a long sip from her drink and sighed dramatically. “Wow. You two are such a joy to be around. This energy? Immaculate. No notes.”
Neither of them responded.
She swirled her straw around, ice clinking like punctuation. “You know, I actually invited you both here because I thought it’d be nice. But clearly I should’ve brought a referee.”
Phainon shifted slightly, eyes still down.
“Wasn’t exactly expecting this,” he muttered, mostly to his cup.
Mydei didn’t blink. “Neither was I.”
“Well isn’t that adorable,” Cyrene said lightly. “You agree on something.”
Mydei’s hands were folded in his lap, posture too upright, too still. “Is this going somewhere, or are you just enjoying the view?”
“Ouch,” Phainon said under his breath.
Cyrene smiled, unbothered. “My pastry is quite delicious, thank you! You two can keep brooding and glaring, but just know - if I took time out of my very aesthetically demanding afternoon for this, you’re at least staying through the croissant.”
A beat passed.
Phainon picked up his mug. “Cool. Prison rules. Got it.”
The silence returned - but it had shifted, just slightly. Less sharp. Still uncomfortable, but not frozen.
Cyrene leaned back and reached for her phone, humming softly to herself. “I give it five minutes before someone breaks,” she said. “Winner gets my leftovers.”
Phainon poked at the foam on his drink with the wooden stirrer, drawing swirls and stabbing them through again.
“Still like yours bitter, huh?” he said eventually, without looking up.
Mydei didn’t answer right away. Then: “It’s not bitter. It’s just coffee.”
Phainon snorted softly. “Sure. Coffee that tastes like punishment.”
“I like it fine.”
“Yeah. That tracks.”
Silence again.
“Alright,” Cyrene said, slapping her hands lightly on the table. “That’s my cue. There’s a cute waitress I need to attend to.”
Mydei looked up, startled. “You’re leaving?”
“Yep!” She stood, collecting her drink and her phone in one smooth motion. “You two can either sit here in total silence and stew in your tragic backstory... or you can be grown-ups and speak in complete sentences. I’m not coming back until I see a good, firm handshake.”
Phainon blinked. “Wait - you’re just leaving us here?”
Cyrene beamed, already halfway to the counter. “Exactly! Proud of you for keeping up.”
“But -” he gestured vaguely at Mydei, who looked like he was already calculating escape routes again.
“You’ll live,” she said. “You both need to.”
Mydei opened his mouth, probably to protest, but she was already waving the waitress over with a smile. “Hey, gorgeous.”
The silence that followed wasn’t as heavy as before.
Just weird.
Phainon sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. “She’s so dramatic.”
Mydei didn’t look at him. “You’re related.”
“Unfortunately.”
They sat in silence again.
Outside, a breeze stirred the flower boxes under the window. Inside, the low hum of café chatter kept going like background noise to a scene no one wanted to watch.
Phainon cleared his throat. “So... how’s class?”
Mydei didn’t blink. “Fine.”
“Have you guys done the... color-whatever project?”
“Color temperature and material interaction,” Mydei corrected automatically. “We’re working on it now.”
Phainon nodded like he understood. He didn’t. “That sounds... uh. Like a real party.”
“It’s data analysis,” Mydei said flatly. “It’s not supposed to be a party.”
Phainon shifted in his chair. “Yeah, well. If you ever need help making it less fun, I’m a pro at ruining things.”
The joke landed awkwardly, and Mydei’s eyes flicked up, sharp, guarded.
Phainon rubbed the back of his neck. “That wasn’t... I didn’t mean -” He sighed. “Forget it.”
He reached for his drink, took a too-long sip, then muttered into the cup, “I just meant… I’ve been thinking about the other day.”
Mydei didn’t reply.
“I was trying,” Phainon said, still not looking at him. “Back then. At the auditorium. I really was. And I get it if you think I wasn’t, or that I pushed too hard, or - whatever. But I didn’t mean for it to -”
“You don’t have to explain,” Mydei said, voice low but clipped. “It’s fine.”
Phainon looked up. “No, it’s not.”
“I said it’s fine,” Mydei repeated.
It came out sharper than he probably meant it to. His jaw clenched, then relaxed again like he regretted it halfway through.
Phainon leaned back, lips pressed tight.
For a second, neither of them looked at the other.
Then Phainon let out a soft laugh - dry, self-mocking.
“Well,” he said, “we’re killing it.”
Mydei didn’t respond to the joke. But he didn’t get up either. He wasn’t allowed to, Phainon supposed. A little laugh bubbled up inside him at the thought of Mydei being kept here like a preschool student in detention, but he quashed it.
Mydei turned his mug once in his hands, cleared his throat awkwardly, and said, “That window’s crooked.”
Phainon blinked. “What?”
Mydei gestured faintly toward the far wall. “That big one. The frame leans left. It messes with the interior axis.”
Phainon squinted at it. “Huh. I thought it was just the building being old.”
“No,” Mydei said. “The building’s tilted too, but that window’s just installed badly.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then - surprisingly - Phainon grinned. “You always do that.”
Mydei lifted an eyebrow.
“Find something broken and quietly hate it until someone else notices,” Phainon answered the silent question.
Mydei’s mouth twitched like he might smile. Almost. “You’re the one who used to break things on purpose just to fix them.”
“Hey,” Phainon said, mock-wounded. “It was called curiosity. Educational sabotage.”
This time, Mydei actually exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but in the family.
Phainon nudged his mug in a slow circle on the table. “It’s weird, though. Being back in the same space. Talking.”
“Mm.”
“You ever think about -” He cut himself off, then tried again. “Back then. When it was easy.”
Mydei’s gaze dropped. His fingers tapped once against the ceramic.
“I think about it,” he said.
Quiet. Honest.
Phainon nodded, surprised by how much that landed. He didn’t press further.
The air between them felt different now. Still awkward. Still heavy. But something dark and burning was gone.
Phainon leaned back, stretching his arms overhead until his back cracked. He winced. “I swear, the auditorium’s cursed. Every nail I touch ends up stabbing me. The floorboards hate me.”
Mydei gave him a sidelong glance. “You were using a wrench on drywall.”
Phainon pointed a finger. “First of all, it worked. Second of all, maybe if you labeled your toolboxes better -”
“They’re labeled by function. Not my fault you think pliers go in ‘misc.’”
“They do go in ‘misc!’” Phainon insisted. “They’re little mystery tongs!”
That pulled something halfway to a real smile from Mydei. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re inflexible.”
“So how do we keep getting things done?” Mydei muttered.
That hung in the air for a second.
Phainon didn’t rush to fill it. He looked out the window - crooked, now that he saw it - and then back at Mydei.
He lowered his voice.
“I didn’t mean to mess everything up, you know.”
Mydei tensed. Just a flicker, but it was there.
Phainon rushed to soften the blow. “Back at the site. That day. I - should’ve handled it better.”
Mydei looked down at his hands. “I said some things too.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Neither seemed to know what to do with the unspoken apology hanging between them. It had landed on the table, fragile and unwrapped.
Phainon tapped his mug again. “Weird place for a ceasefire.”
“Weird week for anything normal,” Mydei replied, quiet.
But he hadn’t walked out.
And Phainon hadn’t made another joke to dodge it.
Cyrene had reappeared with the takeout, her sunglasses pushed back into her hair and a smug, knowing tilt to her grin.
“Well?” she prompted, drumming her fingers on the counter. “Are we shaking, or do I have to start listing every embarrassing middle school nickname right now?”
Mydei stood stiffly. “This is ridiculous.”
Phainon grunted. “You’re ridiculous.”
But he stood, too.
They stared at each other like two animals trying to decide whether the other was going to bite.
Then - fine . Phainon extended a hand.
Mydei hesitated a beat, then clasped it.
It was the least natural handshake in the history of handshakes. No eye contact. Slightly too firm. The exact duration of an uncomfortable pause on public transit. Mydei’s hand was much rougher and more calloused than eight years ago, but still just as warm.
Cyrene watched it like a hawk.
Then, satisfied, she turned with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “There. Now I can go back to being ravishingly charming without worrying about you two killing each other.”
She turned to the waitress at the counter, leaning just a bit too casually, her tone instantly brighter. “Sorry about the scene. My little brother’s learning conflict resolution, bless his heart.”
Mydei picked up his bag like a shield. Phainon exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.
Mydei hovered a second longer, fingers tightening around his bag strap.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he muttered.
Phainon blinked. “Huh?”
“To finish the wiring. Just - don’t move anything.”
Then he turned and walked out, the door bell jingling behind him.
Phainon watched him go, slow to sit back down.
Cyrene, now fully invested in charming the waitress, gave him a thumbs-up over her shoulder without turning around.
Progress.
The hallway was mostly empty - just the low hum of fluorescents and the distant thrum of rain against the windows.
Castorice stood still for a moment, fingers curled around a folded sheet of paper. Her backpack hung heavy off one shoulder, but she didn’t adjust it. She was listening. Voices, footsteps, anything.
Nothing.
She moved quickly. Crossed the hall in five quiet steps, peeled a strip of tape from the roll in her coat pocket, and pressed the paper to the corkboard just beside the stairwell door.
Do You Remember…
The title was printed in a neat, understated font. The rest of the page was blank, except for some basic information, and a very, very small, almost reluctant, Castorice Aidonia . Just a little pocket to put photos and slips of paper in.
She stared at it.
It looked small there. Almost forgettable. Like a whisper pinned to a wall full of louder thoughts. But that was the point.
The hallway buzzed with old air and fluorescent fatigue.
Castorice blinked once.
Twice.
She left.
The city beyond the university blinked with scattered lights, soft and yellow in the fog. Someone had left a blanket up here - half draped across the bench - and a half-melted cup of coffee sat abandoned on the ledge.
Phainon leaned over the railing, chin on folded arms, watching the cars weave in miniature. His hair fluttered in the breeze, messy and damp from a too-late shower.
Cyrene kicked the door open with her heel, holding two cans of peach soda.
“Should’ve known I’d find you up here being dramatic.” She tossed one to him.
He caught it. “Midnight rooftop brooding is a core part of the healing process.”
Cyrene smirked and flopped down on the bench, tucking one leg underneath her. “So is emotional honesty. Wanna give that a try?”
Phainon cracked the can open, blowing a raspberry at her. “Hard pass.”
A beat. The wind tugged at her curls.
“Still thinking about today?” she asked, voice soft now.
He didn’t answer right away. The hiss of cars filled the silence between them.
“I didn’t expect it to hurt that much,” he admitted, finally. “Seeing him. After everything. After trying to let it go.”
Cyrene was quiet. Let him keep going.
“I know I was annoying. I know I was pushy back then. But I just -” He paused, clutched the can tighter. “I wanted to help. And when it mattered, he didn’t -” His voice faltered. “He didn’t pick me.”
Cyrene exhaled slowly through her nose. “That’s not on you.”
“I keep thinking if I’d just kept my mouth shut, maybe -’
“Stop.” That older-sister tone again - not angry, just a voice with the familiarity of someone who’d seen him bawl over a goldfish. “You did what you thought was right. You wanted to help. You could've done better, but the fact that he didn’t know how to handle that isn’t a failure on your part.”
Phainon looked down at his hands. “Maybe. But it still feels like I lost him.”
“Maybe you did,” Cyrene said. “But he showed up today. And he didn’t walk away.”
“He tried to.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t. And you didn’t either.”
Phainon gave her a tired smile. “Why are you always this smug?”
“Because I’m always right.” She took a swig of soda. “Look. You’re not gonna fix this overnight. But you cracked the door. Now you just have to keep it open.”
Phainon stayed quiet for a moment, watching a cluster of streetlights flicker through the haze.
“I guess… it’s just hard to figure out what the door even means now,” he said softly. “Like, what do I even want from him now? Or from this whole mess?”
Cyrene shifted, smoothing her skirt. “Maybe you don’t need to figure it all out right now. Sometimes you just have to sit with the mess for a while.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Mess is pretty much my specialty.”
She smiled softly, reaching over to nudge his arm.
“You’re allowed to be tired,” she said. “Exhausted, even. It doesn’t make you weak. Just means you’ve been fighting for something important.”
Phainon’s eyes flicked up. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I want… I don’t know… maybe just a little peace.”
Cyrene’s gaze softened. “Peace is a good goal.”
“It feels so far away.” He exhaled heavily. “Like I’m walking through fog, and every step gets heavier.”
She let out a breath, then said, “Maybe it’s not about clearing the fog. Maybe it’s about learning to walk through it without losing yourself.”
He looked at her, really looked, for the first time in a while.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Cyrene shrugged, but her smile was real.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she said. “You’ve got people who care. Even if they don’t always show it the way you want.”
Phainon leaned back against the railing, letting the weight settle a little.
After a long pause, he asked, “Do you think Mydei feels the same?”
Cyrene’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “I think he’s scared. But yes. He’s lost, too.”
Phainon nodded slowly.
“And you know,” she added, a little quieter, “there’s a reason he clams up like that. That kind of fear - it starts somewhere.”
“You mean his family,” Phainon muttered, a deep anger beginning to boil in his gut.
Cyrene nodded. “I’ve met them before. Pie, you might think they’re cold, uncaring villains - and to think that wouldn’t be a sin - but let me tell you a secret I’m absolutely certain of. They were Mydei once, themselves.”
Phainon frowned. “What does that mean?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Cyrene said, with the familiar smirk of someone who knew more . “But one thing’s for sure - that fear is why you both keep circling the same silence. It’s not fear of a thing ; that came eight years ago. Now, it’s the ghost of that fear, circling you nonstop, and it feels just as real as the day it was alive.”
Phainon thought for a long moment, trying to decipher her riddle. Then, giving up, he gave a half-smile.
“Guess I just have to try harder.”
“Good,” Cyrene said firmly. “Because you’re both more stubborn than mules.”
Phainon chuckled softly, finally.
“…You flirt with that waitress every time we go there?” he asked after a moment, tone lighter.
Cyrene’s grin returned in full. “Only when it’s her shift. Also when I’m trying to emotionally manipulate the people I love.”
Phainon snorted, then winced. “Ew. Don’t call it that.”
“What? Love?”
“Yeah, gross. Disgusting. Illegal.”
Cyrene tossed a straw wrapper at him. “Go to bed, drama prince.”
He stayed a little while longer, watching the rush of cars go by.
Notes:
Phainon: I hate her so much. She looks like an ogre who brushes her hair with drywall. If concrete had opinions -
Cyrene (turning around mid-flirt): I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU LITTLE GARGOYLE
Mydei: This is entirely your own doing.
Chapter 19: Yet We Still Try
Notes:
NO, Castorice is NOT gonna show up during the Hyacine & Phainon scene, chill
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hyacine sat cross-legged, paintbrush poised with delicate precision as she outlined the K in Kindling in a warm, flickering orange. Phainon crouched beside her, holding a dripping blue brush like it might explode.
“You’re doing shading?” he asked, incredulous. “I thought we were just writing letters.”
Hyacine giggled without looking up. “ You’re just writing letters.”
He scowled at his section of the board - specifically, the L in Festival, which somehow looked both limp and… pathetically wet.
“Okay, rude,” he said. “Mine has character. Yours is trying too hard.”
“I think mine is legible,” she replied sweetly.
“It’s predictable,” he countered. “Where’s the mystery? The drama? The -” His brush slipped, and a thick glob of red paint splattered across the T and splashed the cuff of his sleeve.
He stared down at it like he’d been personally betrayed.
“…I meant to do that.”
Hyacine snorted and threw a paper towel at him. “Sure you did, Picasso.”
“I’m more of a Jackson Pollock anyway,” he said, dragging a blue line diagonally across the bottom of the board like it was a war crime.
Hyacine gave him a wide-eyed look. “That was the schedule section!”
Phainon glanced at her. Then at the blue line. Then back at her.
“I can fix it,” he said.
“You really can’t,” she said, openly laughing now.
He leaned back on his hands with a dramatic sigh, the sun catching the flecks of paint in his hair. “You know, I came out here to help lift spirits, not get publicly shamed by a five-foot glitter goblin.”
“Height has nothing to do with it,” she said defensively.
Phainon grinned at her. “It determines how far away I can be so that you can’t reach me for revenge.”
Hyacine tried to swat him with her brush. He ducked - awfully - and ended up with a perfect smear of orange across his forehead.
They both froze.
“…Does it look like fire?” he asked hopefully.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “No. It looks like you lost a fight with a popsicle.”
He pointed his brush at her. “Then you leave me no choice!”
“No -”
Too late. A streak of blue zipped down her arm.
“Oh my stars, Phainon!”
“It was self-defense,” Phainon said, haughtily checking (paint-covered) nails.
She lunged for him with her palette, he scrambled away, and for a full minute the courtyard echoed with shrieks, laughter, and the sound of paint bottles being knocked over.
Eventually, Hyacine collapsed on the grass, breathing hard, flecks of purple in her hair. Phainon flopped beside her, his jeans now tie-dyed beyond salvation.
The sign - now a riot of bright chaos - still somehow read Kindling Festival . Barely.
“…Y’know,” Phainon said, gazing up at the sky, “this is gonna make everyone really curious.”
Hyacine giggled, sitting up. “We might be setting the tone a little too well.”
A shadow fell across them.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
They both looked toward the sound.
Cipher stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed. Her gaze flicked from the massacre of colors to the two culprits, then back to the board.
Hyacine waved sheepishly. “Hi Cipher.”
“Hyacine,” Cipher nodded. “And… paint tornado.”
Phainon sat up slowly. “In our defense, we had a system.”
“ You had a system,” Hyacine corrected. “ I had sanity until you showed up.”
Cipher arched a brow. “Is the system ‘roll in paint until you no longer look human?’ Because that’s what I’m getting.”
There was a brief pause - just a flicker too long - before Phainon replied, “Still better than our last group project, huh?”
Cipher blinked.
Then: “Wow. Bold of you to bring up the catapult incident of all things.”
Hyacine looked between them. “Wait - you two built a catapult?”
“Allegedly,” Cipher said.
“It was for a project,” Phainon added, grinning. “It only broke two windows.”
“ Allegedly .”
Their back-and-forth was a little stilted - like they were still remembering how it worked. But it clicked faster than either of them probably expected.
Cipher walked closer, kneeling beside the sign with a look of theatrical horror. “Okay. No. This is a hate crime.”
“You’re just jealous,” Phainon said, flinging a little red paint toward her feet. “Art can’t be caged.”
“I’m definitely not jealous of the brush you clearly chewed on like a feral rat before starting.”
“I do not chew my brushes .”
Hyacine laughed. “You definitely chewed this one.” She held up a sad, frayed bristle tip like it was damning evidence in court.
Cipher reached down, scooped up a clean brush, and dipped it neatly into a pot of gold paint.
“No,” Phainon said immediately, eyes narrowing. “No way. You are not allowed to fix it.”
She smirked. “Says who?”
“Says the tortured genius who already bled for this. Hang on a second, you of all people are going to be the neat artist here?”
Cipher gave him a look. “I’m just filling the role of the sitcom straight man. You’ll have your turn, believe me.”
She crouched lower, gold brush poised.
Phainon threw himself across the sign like a bodyguard shielding the President. “Don’t touch it! You’ll ruin the chaos!”
Hyacine broke down laughing again. Cipher just rolled her eyes and tapped a single graceful swirl of gold onto the edge of the sign.
“There. Now it’s art.”
Phainon squinted at it. “…Okay, that does look kind of cool.”
“Told you.”
The tension had dissolved - paint still everywhere, sign still a disaster, but suddenly the air felt a little easier. Hyacine watched the two of them as they bickered, noticing the way their smiles were still cautious, but genuine.
Maybe things weren’t fixed. But they were painting over old messes, slowly, in their own ridiculous way.
Cipher leaned back on her heels, brush twirling between her fingers. “Well. This is definitely going to make the event memorable.”
“Oh yeah,” Phainon said, flopping onto his side dramatically. “People will show up just to see what kind of unhinged monsters made the sign.”
“Hyacine’s the only one even on the committee here,” she pointed out, snickering.
“Lucky we were here then,” he muttered. “She would’ve made everything out of glitter.”
Hyacine perked up. “Ooh, I do have glitter pens!”
“No.” Phainon sat bolt upright. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re just afraid it’ll clash with your whole ‘tomato explosion’ aesthetic,” Cipher said, gesturing to the orange streak across his forehead.
“Actually, I was going for ‘wounded war hero.’”
Hyacine carefully painted a tiny gold star above the I in ‘Festival’ while the two argued.
“…There,” she said. “For bravery.”
Cipher tilted her head. “That’s weirdly sweet.”
Phainon beamed. “Thank you! Finally, someone appreciates my sacrifices.”
“I was talking to her,” Cipher said.
He flopped back onto the grass. “Rude.”
Another minute passed with the three of them scattered loosely around the board - Cipher lazily fixing a crooked line here or there, Hyacine adding tiny swirls in between letters, Phainon flicking paint at an ant and missing entirely.
“Y’know,” Cipher said casually, not looking up, “this whole thing might actually work.”
Hyacine blinked. “The sign?”
“No, the festival.” She waved a hand vaguely. “People showing up. Laughing. Forgetting about the fire for a bit.”
There was a pause.
Phainon glanced at her. “Yeah. That’s the point, right?”
Cipher gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Kinda weird to see everyone pulling together for once.”
“…Weird, but good,” Hyacine added softly, brushing a final dot of orange onto the corner.
A quiet settled between them.
Then -
RRRRRIIIINNNNGGG.
The courtyard bell split the peace with a screech of overzealous metal. Phainon flinched so hard he knocked over the gold paint.
Cipher instinctively lunged and caught it mid-spill, only slightly tipping more of it onto her hand. Hyacine yelped and almost dropped her palette again.
Phainon groaned. “Why do we even have a bell? It’s the twenty-first century.”
Cipher wiped her hand on his shirt.
“Hey!”
“War hero,” she reminded him. “Suck it up.”
Hyacine was giggling again, scrambling to scoop up brushes and paints before they fully dried on the grass.
Phainon stretched with a theatrical sigh. “Alright. Duty calls. Or class. Or whatever punishment the universe has for art crimes.”
“You mean your crimes,” Cipher said, nudging his shoulder as they stood.
Hyacine hesitated, fingers fiddling with something in her pocket.
“Wait! Before we go -” She pulled out two little objects: a bright red charm strung with chaotically knotted thread, and a sparkly blue one with a tiny bell.
“I made these,” she said, cheeks going pink. “Well, Castorice helped me, but - they’re for good luck.”
Cipher blinked as Hyacine handed her the knotted charm.
“…Huh,” Cipher said, turning it over. “That’s… kinda cute.”
“I figured you’d pretend you hated it, but keep it anyway,” Hyacine said, grinning.
Cipher smirked. “You know me too well.”
Then Hyacine turned to Phainon, holding out the glittery blue one. “And this is yours. For boldness. Or maybe recklessness... I couldn’t decide which sounded nicer.”
Phainon took it and examined it like it was ancient treasure. “Is this glitter glue?”
Hyacine gave him a Look. “Castorice asked the same. It adds dimension.”
Phainon raised an eyebrow, then grinned slowly. “Sooo… how much of the charm was Castorice, and how much was you?”
Hyacine flushed immediately. “Wha - excuse me - I helped! A lot!”
“Ohh,” Cipher said, eyes gleaming. “So it’s a collaborative project.”
Phainon immediately jumped in. “Joint effort, huh? Bet Castorice tied all the neat knots while you got glue on your nose.”
Hyacine flushed deeper. “I did not - you two - I’m revoking both of your charms.”
“You can’t!” Phainon said, already tying his to his belt loop. “This one’s for boldness. Or recklessness. You said so. Impulsive decision-making is all I have left!”
Cipher dangled her charm by the string. “I’m just saying, sounds like a real bonding moment. You and Castorice. Glitter. Thread. Slow music playing in the background...”
Hyacine made a strangled noise and pointed aggressively at the sign. “Let’s go before I glue you to that board.”
Cipher and Phainon high-fived.
Still red-faced, Hyacine turned on her heel and marched ahead, her charm-pouch bouncing gently in her bag.
The sign sat in the sun, messy and bold and full of life. Not perfect. But kindling something, maybe.
Hyacine slipped into her seat beside Castorice, her bag thudding against the floor harder than she meant it to. A little puff of dust rose from the corner, and she winced.
“Shoot,” she mumbled, already diving into her bag. Her fingers brushed notebooks, wrappers, but - no pen. Of course.
Before she could start panicking, a pen slid into view across the desk. Castorice’s sleeve brushed her arm in the process - soft, warm for just that split second.
Hyacine blinked up at her. “Thanks,” she said quickly.
“Third time,” Castorice murmured without looking at her.
Heat crept up Hyacine’s neck. “I swear they vanish. It’s like a vendetta.”
Castorice’s expression didn’t move, but her voice was soft. “Maybe keep it in your bag next time.”
Hyacine made a quiet, wounded noise. Her ears were already pink.
Suddenly, she noticed someone hovering near the aisle.
A small figure - shoulders drawn in tight, backpack straps clutched in both hands. She had soft curls that frizzed around her face and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, sleeves almost covering her fingers.
She glanced nervously between the rows, then stepped closer.
“Um - excuse me,” the girl said, barely above a whisper. “Are you… the one who did the memory wall?”
Castorice blinked and looked at her. “Yes.”
Hyacine bit back a laugh - she knew Castorice was internally shy, but it really did seem like she was purposefully trying to be intimidating sometimes.
The girl looked like she might bolt. But instead she took a deep breath, fumbled with her backpack zipper, pulled something out - a neatly folded scrap of pale yellow paper. A photo.
“I wasn’t sure if it was okay, but I… I had something I wanted to add. If that’s alright.”
Castorice paused, then reached out carefully, her expression unreadable as she took the warm slip of paper.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “Thank you. I’ll… make sure it gets added.”
The girl nodded fast, like she’d been holding her breath. “It’s just - about the music recitals they used to do in the auditorium. My older brother played violin there.”
Something in her voice cracked. She bit her lip.
Castorice nodded. “That’s a good memory.”
Behind her, Hyacine beamed. She didn’t say anything - just curled her hands together on the desk and gave the girl a sunshine-bright look of approval that seemed to ease her nerves immediately.
The girl offered a small, grateful smile.
Then, with a shy little “thank you,” she scurried off to a seat somewhere else.
Castorice looked down at the photo in her hands. For a second, she just held it - silent, thoughtful.
Then she smiled - small, barely there. The kind that Hyacine now knew meant a lot more than it showed.
“Phones away,” said Anaxa, striding into the room like a blade drawn from a sheath. “Books closed. Eyes forward.”
The room obeyed with the twitching stillness of hunted prey.
Hyacine straightened reflexively, notebook in place, pen poised. She kept her focus on the board and very deliberately did not look at Castorice for a solid thirty seconds.
“Anyone here not ready to distinguish necessary from sufficient conditions?” Anaxa said crisply, taking his place at the front of the room. “The door is open. Flee while dignity remains an option.”
No one moved. Phainon cleared his throat, legs on his desk.
“Sir, I’d like to exercise my right to remain insufficient,” he called.
Someone snorted. Anaxa continued, unbothered.
“Let’s begin from where we left off yesterday. Suppose we say: ‘If it rains, the street gets wet.’ Which is the sufficient condition?”
A voice from the second row offered, “Rain is sufficient.”
“Correct. Wet street is necessary. So far, you are all still allowed to breathe.”
At the front of the room, Phainon added under his breath, “Permission to exhale: granted.”
Hyacine bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to giggle. Castorice’s pen didn’t pause, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Let’s up the stakes,” Anaxa said. “New example: ‘If I oversleep, I miss the exam.’ What happens if I miss the exam?”
Phainon raised his hand. “You had a fulfilling dream life?”
A ripple of laughter. Anaxa gave him a single, withering glance.
“Mr. Aedes, kindly distinguish between philosophy and napping.”
“I try, professor. But it’s so hard with a full stomach.”
“You snored during the quiz last week,” someone from two rows over called. “That was at ten in the morning.”
“I was brainstorming,” Phainon replied seriously. “You can’t rush the creative process.”
“Back to business,” Anaxa cut in. “Sufficiency is not reversibility. Oversleeping causes the failure. But failing does not imply sleep. Understood?”
He raised his chalk again.
“Now. Predicate logic. Suppose ∀x(Px → Qx). That is: for all x, if x has property P, then x has property Q.”
A long silence.
“Translation?”
Hyacine scribbled madly. Her elbow accidentally brushed Castorice’s desk - then flinched back, flustered.
Castorice didn’t move.
But after a beat, she adjusted her notebook - just slightly closer to the shared boundary between their desks.
Hyacine tried not to think about it.
She failed miserably.
“Anyone?” Anaxa prompted again.
Phainon called, “If all raccoons have tiny hands, then all tiny hands belong to raccoons?”
“That,” Anaxa said, “is extraordinarily incorrect - and yet somehow also the start of a valid argument. Write it down.”
Even Castorice let out a tiny breath. It might’ve been a laugh.
Hyacine smiled at her notebook, heart fluttery and full.
Anaxa pivoted, chalk rapping the board. “You can have a valid argument with absurd premises. Logic is cruel that way. It cares about structure, not sympathy -”
RINGGGGG!
An awful, electronic jingle exploded from the back row. It was loud. It was peppy. It sounded like a children’s dance remix of “Greensleeves.”
Everyone froze.
Anaxa paused mid-pace, chalk held aloft like a dagger. Hyacine could feel the poor student in the back fumble for their phone. It thudded against the floor. The music continued.
“Delightful,” Anaxa said flatly. “Let us all now contemplate a hypothetical: If a student forgets to silence their phone and the entire class suffers, is it a shared consequence or personal failure?”
The ringtone stopped.
No one moved.
Hyacine pressed her fist against her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Beside her, Castorice exhaled once. It might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve just been breathing.
“Right,” he said crisply, turning back to the board. “Let’s continue. Validity versus soundness. You may have a valid inference from a false premise. Logic is indifferent. It does not care about suffering. It is the bursar’s office, in symbolic form.”
“Also doesn't return emails,” Phainon said.
“Correct. And therefore valid. Let’s test your stamina. Predicate syllogism: ‘All students attend lectures. Miss Dawncloud is a student.’”
Hyacine flinched.
“Therefore?”
Phainon said, solemn: “Therefore, Hyacine is a lecture.”
She squeaked.
Anaxa didn’t miss a beat. “Therefore, she should be studied.”
A wave of giggling. Hyacine went red -
RINGGGGG!
The ringtone returned. Louder. Somehow happier.
The ringtone stopped.
Again.
This time, silence hit harder - even the chalk didn’t dare squeak.
Anaxa stared at the back row for a moment longer, then set the chalk down slowly, deliberately. His hands folded behind his back like a disappointed commander.
“No hypothetical this time,” he said. “You may simply imagine the consequences.”
Someone in the third row coughed in horror.
Hyacine had both hands clamped over her mouth now. Her shoulders trembled with restrained laughter.
Next to her, Castorice turned a page with monk-like serenity. But her eyes flicked up - briefly - and Hyacine caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.
Anaxa resumed pacing, as if nothing had happened. “Let’s try soundness,” he continued. “A valid structure with a false premise. For example: ‘All cats are philosophers. All philosophers are logical. Therefore, all cats are logical.’”
Hyacine hesitated. Then raised her hand.
“Syllogism, but not sound?”
“Correct,” Anaxa said. “You may reason your way into garbage conclusions and still do it beautifully.”
“Sounds like me trying to justify eating leftover fries for breakfast,” Phainon muttered.
“One would hope they are at least logical fries,” Anaxa said dryly, without missing a beat.
“Only if you dip them in syllogism sauce.”
Hyacine was scribbling again, half-notes, half-doodles. She glanced sideways. Castorice’s page was neat, as always - straight margins, clean headings.
Castorice, still writing, pointed - gently - with the end of her pen toward one of Hyacine’s lines.
Hyacine blinked. The sentence was smudged into oblivion.
“Oh,” she whispered. “That one says ‘valid but unsound.’”
The rest of the lecture unraveled in a blur of chalk, tangled quantifiers, and Phainon’s increasingly desperate efforts to derail the lesson with metaphors about fast food (Anaxa, to his credit, barely flinched).
By the time the hour drew to a close, half the room looked shell-shocked, and Hyacine’s notes had devolved into arrows and panic stars. Castorice’s were still perfectly neat and orderly.
Anaxa clapped his hands once, startling everyone. “Modal logic next. Prepare to abandon certainty.”
He dismissed them with a flick of the chalk.
Phainon caught up with Hyacine by the door. “Off to our sacred ruins,” he sighed, slinging his bag over one shoulder.
She gave him a tired smile. “Try not to fall off anything.”
He shot her finger guns on the way out. “No promises!”
By the time Phainon had showered and reached the auditorium, the sun had shifted high enough to glare through the shattered roof beams, spilling fractured shadows across the construction floor. He dropped his backpack by a heap of tarp and lumber, squinting upward. It still smelled like ash and plywood and sweat.
No Mydei yet. Just creaking boards and silence.
He exhaled through his nose, rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed a bucket of screws.
He was early again.
It wasn’t a big deal. People arrived early to things all the time. Normal, responsible, emotionally-stable people showed up half an hour early to auditorium rebuild shifts. So what if the sun hadn’t fully committed to setting yet? So what if no one else was there yet - including a certain six foot emotionally constipated thundercloud?
He wasn’t avoiding anyone. He just liked the peace.
Which was why he was currently standing in the skeleton of the old backstage room, throwing screws into the bucket like basketballs and humming aggressively loud to drown out the silence.
Plink .
Plink .
Plink. Pinkplinkplink.
“Three-pointer!” he called aloud.
His voice echoed and came back to him, telling him exactly how ridiculous he was being.
He sighed. I should’ve brought music. Or a social circle.
Behind him, the auditorium doors creaked open.
He froze.
Mydei? No - too early. Mydei was never this early -
“Boo~” came a voice like velvet-draped laughter.
Phainon spun just in time for a blur of soft pink curls and clear blue eyes to lean into view, upside down over the top of the scaffold railing.
“Oh great,” he muttered. “You’re not done.”
“Hello to you too,” Cyrene said, flipping herself over the railing with theatrical flair and landing in a crouch.
“Why,” he asked the universe, “do you have such good cardio?”
Cyrene brushed imaginary dust off her sweater. “To supervise your emotional growth,” she said cheerfully, “and check if you had food to steal. Also, because you’re clearly floundering and I didn’t raise you to bottle up feelings like some kind of Victorian chimney ghost.”
“You didn’t raise me.”
“I raised your social instincts. You’d still be climbing trees for fun and eating sugar packets raw if not for me. So uncivilized.”
“Okay, one time -”
“You were thirteen.”
He threw up his hands. “Can we not do the Family Embarrassment Tour right now?”
“This tour will go on until you confront your feelings,” Cyrene said, singsong.
He slumped against the half-rebuilt wall, arms crossed.
Cyrene tapped her chin. “Oh right, remember that one time in third grade when -”
“Alright, alright!” Phainon interrupted. “Didn’t I open up to you enough yesterday? Remember, the very touching rooftop scene?”
Cyrene nodded, mock-serious. “Right, right. You mean the part where you said ‘I’m fine, totally fine, maybe a little not fine, but it’s probably nothing’?”
“I was being vulnerable ,” he grumbled.
“Sweetie, that was emotional breadcrumbing at best.”
He hit his head against the nearest wall. “You’re a menace.”
“Pie, you have two options,” Cyrene said, her voice shifting into something more serious. “Keep pretending it doesn’t bother you. Or…” She paused, eyes glinting. “Scare him into feeling things.”
Phainon raised both brows. “You can’t just emotionally terrorize people into opening up.”
“Of course you can. I do it all the time.”
“Cy.”
She winked. “With love.”
“ Ew .”
As Mydei made his way toward the auditorium, a terrifyingly pink figure came into view - Cyrene, perched on a metal beam like she owned the place, scrolling her phone.
He stopped.
Considered turning back.
Wondered, briefly, what kind of person chose to sit five feet off the ground on a construction beam to check their messages.
Ultimately, he sighed and kept walking.
As he approached, Cyrene looked up. “Oh hey, it’s stormcloud!”
“Great,” he muttered. “You’re not done.”
“Funny enough, your boyfriend said the exact same thing,” she said with a grin. “Remember when you used to actually laugh? Or has that been banned along with your social life?”
Mydei rolled his eyes. “You always did have a weird way of remembering things.”
Cyrene hopped down, landing lightly beside him. “I remember the good, the bad, and the ‘why-would-you-ever-do-that?’” She glanced around, then softened. “Back then, you were… less locked up. More human, if you ask me.”
Mydei shifted uncomfortably. “That was a long time ago.”
“It was. But some things don’t change as much as we think.” She studied him, voice dropping a notch. “But since I’m here, let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Phainon’s got a front-row seat to your silent treatment show. How’s that working out?”
He scowled. “He’s stubborn. I’m stubborn. That’s that.”
Cyrene snorted. “That is not that. Let me tell you what is ‘that’- You’re both pretending to be rocks, but everyone knows rocks crack eventually.”
Mydei looked away.
“Let me guess. You think showing weakness means losing control.”
He narrowed his eyes, unwilling to answer.
Cyrene’s expression softened, almost tender. “You’re wrong, Mydei. Real strength is knowing when to let go. When to ask for help.”
He scoffed. “As if.”
“Look, I’m not here to fix you. I’m here to remind you that no one expects you to carry this alone. Not me. Not any of your wonderful friends. And certainly not my idiot of a brother.”
Mydei’s gaze faltered, vulnerability flickering for a moment before steel returned.
“Don’t expect a thank you,” he muttered.
“I don’t want one.” She smirked. “But when you’re ready, I’ll be here. To prod, to annoy, to kick you in the pants, to take you shopping for a bikini - whatever it takes.”
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then Cyrene’s grin returned, bright and teasing.
“So, stormcloud, how about you stop hiding and start talking?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Mydei said, walking past her.
“Oh honey, that would mean faith in a higher power,” Cyrene sighed after him. “I lost faith in divine intervention the moment I met you clowns. I'm handling it myself."
Phainon heard a sudden sharp click of heels on concrete, right on cue for Mydei to come in. He looked up, very confused - Mydei was standing there, and close behind him was Cyrene.
…That made more sense. He banished the idea of Mydei in a dress and ballet shoes to the forbidden section of his mind.
“She followed me in,” Mydei said. “Not my fault.”
Cyrene paused just inside, surveying the scene with a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
“Well, well,” she said, voice smooth and teasing as she stepped further in, “looks like I’ve stumbled upon the calm before the storm.” Her eyes danced between the two, clearly amused. She approached them both, clipboard in hand.
“Gentlemen,” she announced, voice crisp yet playful, “I have official business.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “Official business?”
Cyrene gave a knowing smile. “Yep. The kind that involves a little teamwork.” She tapped her clipboard. “There’s an inspection team coming in at six tomorrow. A full electrical systems check. And you know, if there’s any problems at all when they get here…”
Mydei’s jaw tightened subtly. Phainon’s lips twitched in a half-smile, half-grimace.
“Of course,” Cyrene added, spreading her hands, “I’ll be your supervisor! I hope you enjoy our time together.”
She dropped the clipboard onto a nearby table with a theatrical flourish.
“Now, I know you’re thinking, ‘How did this happen?’ Well - let’s just say the board was getting antsy. I pulled a few strings, maybe ruffled a few feathers, and apparently, this was the only way to get them to settle down.”
Phainon exchanged a glance with Mydei, eyes wary but resigned.
Cyrene winked. “Now get to work. The clock’s ticking, and I expect sparks - both kinds.”
She rested her hands on her hips like she’d just issued a divine decree, and gave the boys a sugary-sweet smile.
“This,” she declared, “is character development, boys. Get ready.”
“You really have too much time on your hands,” Phainon grumbled.
Cyrene’s eyes sparkled. “No, I just use mine better than you. Now -” she plucked a pen from behind her ear and clicked it - “you two get the wiring checklist. I’ll get a front-row seat to the fireworks.”
Mydei picked up the clipboard like it might explode in his hands. “This is unnecessary.”
Cyrene raised a brow. “So is a peacock’s tail, but it sure gets attention.” She waved toward the fuse box in the corner. “Start there. Phainon, you’re on panel readings. Mydei, you’re on relay checks. And remember -” she gestured between them with her pen, “- teamwork! Which means no mysterious silences from you -” she poked the air at Mydei, “- and no comedy routines from you.” The pen swiveled toward Phainon.
“Rude,” Phainon said, grinning. “You’re cutting out my only marketable skill.”
“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly, “if you behave, I might let you have one joke break.”
Mydei shot Phainon a look - the kind that wasn’t angry, just tight, like he was bracing for impact.
The work started stiffly. Mydei knelt at the fuse box, scanning the diagram, while Phainon read out numbers from the meter. Phainon got the distinct feeling of being a kid in school, teacher breathing down his neck and all.
“Voltage reading?” Mydei asked, without looking up.
“Uh… six-nine-zero-ohh wait, that’s upside down.”
Cyrene snorted from her seat on a nearby crate. “Oh no, I’ve made a mistake. I’ve given you free will.”
“My worst fear,” Mydei muttered.
Cyrene clapped her hands together. “There we go! Banter! See, boys, we’re already warming up.”
“Pretty sure that’s just the fuse box,” Phainon pointed out.
“Don’t care,” Cyrene said, patting his shoulder. “I’m taking credit.”
They made it through two panels before Cyrene let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Okay, problem,” she said, hopping off her crate and walking over with her clipboard. “The main breaker’s in the crawl space.”
Phainon glanced toward the low, narrow metal hatch at the back of the room. “Oh. The human coffin.”
“Charming name,” Mydei said flatly.
Cyrene flashed them an angelic smile. “Don’t worry - it only feels like a coffin if you go in alone.”
Both boys turned toward her with matching suspicion.
“No,” they said at the same time.
“Yes,” Cyrene replied sweetly. “It’s a two-person job. One of you reads the breakers, the other traces the wiring. And, since I wasn’t appointed by the ever-wise board of directors, that means you two get the honor!”
“I volunteer as supervisor,” Phainon said, leaning back against the wall.
“Mm, already filled,” Cyrene said cheerfully, crouching to unlatch the panel. “Now, in you go, before I start charging rent for standing around.”
Both boys exchanged a look, their unease suddenly much more palpable.
“Oh, also,” Cyrene continued, tapping her nails on the hatch, “I have to tend to some other urgent supervisory business elsewhere. So, I’m officially delegating full control to you two down there. I’ll keep the hatch propped open but don’t expect me to hover.”
She stepped back with a theatrical bow. “Good luck, boys. I’ll be watching from a - safe - distance!”
Phainon rolled his eyes. “She’s basically dared us to survive.”
The space was barely wide enough for two sets of shoulders. Mydei ducked in first, awkwardly maneuvering past tangled cables. Phainon followed, crouching low, the top of his head bumping the metal ceiling with a loud clunk.
“Ow -”
From outside, Cyrene’s voice floated in, syrupy-sweet. “Careful in there! Wouldn’t want a head injury to ruin your bonding experience.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Mydei muttered.
They crawled in deeper.
Phainon broke the silence, voice low. “So, uh… guess this is how the board wants us to get along.”
Mydei didn’t answer immediately, just shifted his weight awkwardly. “Yeah.”
Another pause stretched out, charged with everything neither of them said.
Cyrene’s voice drifted faintly from the doorway, a teasing whisper. “Remember, boys - character development!”
And then, she was gone.
Phainon broke the silence. “So… you think this’ll actually help?”
Mydei didn’t look up at first. “Help what?”
Phainon shifted, wincing as his elbow brushed against a sharp edge. “You and me. The whole… thing.”
Another pause, heavier this time. Mydei finally met his gaze, his voice low but steady. “I don’t know. But I don’t want it to get worse.”
Phainon gave a small nod. “Yeah. Me neither.”
They worked side by side, each movement careful, as if testing the water.
Screw it, Phainon told himself. “Remember that time we tried to fix the old speaker system back in middle school? Then it blew a fuse and made the whole cafeteria go silent?”
Mydei’s lips twitched, the faintest crack in his usual guarded expression. “Yeah. You blamed me for yanking the wrong wire.”
Phainon shrugged, grinning despite himself, as he scanned the next row of wires. “Well, you did look pretty guilty.”
“Try not to blow this breaker,” Mydei muttered as he returned to the panel.
“No promises,” Phainon said with a grin.
For a moment, the past didn’t feel so distant, and the future a little less daunting.
After a few more careful checks and some careful maneuvering, Mydei finally reached the latch. With a grunt, he pushed it open just enough for both of them to squeeze out.
Cyrene was lounging nearby, clipboard balanced on her knee, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, look who survived the torture chamber.”
Phainon stretched, cracking his neck. “Barely.”
Mydei wiped sweat from his brow, trying to keep his expression neutral but failing to hide a small smirk. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Cyrene raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I’ll take that as progress.”
Phainon exchanged a tortured glance with Mydei. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Cyrene leaned forward, voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “Now, for the next phase of your character development… time to head over to the west wing! Closer quarters, less ventilation.”
Mydei groaned, but Phainon laughed. “Great, can’t wait.”
Cyrene stood, giving them a playful shove toward the exit. “Off you go. Try not to cause a blackout, boys.”
As they headed out, Phainon glanced back at Cyrene. “You really do have too much time on your hands.”
Cyrene winked. “I don't waste a second.”
The west wing passed by in a flash; Phainon threw some quips, Mydei mumbled under his breath. They barely had time to catch their breath before Cyrene was back, clipboard in hand and that same teasing spark in her eyes. “Next stop,” she declared, “the west panel. And don’t even think about taking a break.”
Phainon shot Mydei a tired grin as they trudged over. “She’s definitely trying to kill us.”
Mydei snorted, shoving a stray cable out of the way. “Or just trap us in close quarters until one of us cracks.”
They worked in near silence, the only sounds the clinks of tools and occasional frustrated groans. Cyrene’s voice echoed intermittently, reminding them of deadlines or making sly remarks about “team spirit.”
At one point, Phainon glanced over and caught Mydei smirking at a sarcastic comment she’d just made. It was small, but it felt like a breakthrough to something. He wasn’t sure what.
Later, as they bent over the relay board, Phainon’s hand brushed against Mydei’s. Both froze for a moment before pulling back, eyes flicking to each other with something unspoken.
Cyrene’s whistle from across the room cut through the tension. “Keep moving, boys! The clock’s ticking!”
Time flew by and Cyrene sent them task after task. By the time the sun dipped low, their shoulders ached and their jokes were sharper, the silences less heavy. Cyrene finally relented, folding her clipboard with a satisfied grin.
“Not bad! I was keeping count - you exchanged exactly fifty-seven full sentences, not including one-word answers!”
Phainon exchanged an exhausted look with Mydei. “Is that it, then?” he asked.
Cyrene stretched, clipboard finally closed. “Alright, last stop - the control room. The relay checks will be your grand finale.”
Phainon groaned, rubbing his temples. “Seriously? After all that?”
They followed her down the hall, the tension between them softer now, like a slowly fading static charge.
As they reached the control room, Cyrene paused at the door, turning with that teasing glint. “Remember, boys - this is where character really shows. Don’t disappoint me.”
Phainon caught Mydei’s eye. “No pressure.”
Mydei’s smile was more of a pained grimace. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The door clicked shut behind them, the hum of machinery wrapping around them like an invitation - and a challenge.
The control room was cramped and buzzing, a low mechanical hum filling the air. Rows of panels lined the walls, switches and lights blinking in uneven patterns.
Phainon stepped inside, giving the nearest console an exaggerated once-over. “This one’s definitely haunted.”
“Stop stalling,” Mydei muttered, crouching to pull the inspection cover off the lower relay panel.
They’d barely started when there was a sharp pop! followed by the faint smell of something burning.
Phainon jumped back. “Uh. That wasn’t me.”
“Pretty sure it was you,” Mydei said flatly, though his eyes were already scanning for the source. “Did you get where it came from?”
Phainon pointed vaguely at the panel. “Something in there went bang. That’s all I’ve got.”
Mydei shoved his hands into a pair of thick rubber gloves from the supply shelf. “It’s the voltage regulator. We’ve got a short somewhere.”
“Can we still run the checks?” Phainon asked.
“Not unless you like sparks in your face,” Mydei replied. He pulled the schematic off the wall and flattened it on the floor. “We need to reroute the line before we fry the whole system.”
“ Oooh , crisis, my favorite,” came Cyrene’s voice from just outside the room.
“Your idea of supervision is a little warped!” Phainon shouted back.
“Less talking,” Mydei cut in. “More holding this.” He shoved the schematic into Phainon’s hands and ducked under the panel again. “Read me the wiring sequence for Section B.”
Phainon glanced at the mess of lines and numbers. “Uh… yellow to 14, blue to 9, red to - wait, this diagram’s ancient. Half these numbers are smudged.”
“Then figure it out,” Mydei said. “You’ve got good instincts. Use them.”
Phainon blinked. “Did you just - was that - compliment-adjacent?”
“Don’t push it,” Mydei warned.
They shuffled around each other in the cramped space, tools clinking, their movements slowly syncing up. Phainon began to slowly give instructions, and Mydei followed without hesitation. At one point, Phainon had to steady a wire junction while Mydei fastened it; his gloved hand brushed Mydei’s wrist, and neither pulled back right away this time.
Phainon cleared his throat, wanting to break the silence. “So, we haven’t exactly been… team players. Top green to 12.”
“For clear reasons,” Mydei said flatly, connecting the wire.
Phainon coughed. “That’s fair.”
Mydei tightened the wire in silence.
Phainon shifted again. “You could’ve told me to shut up, you know. That day. If you really wanted me to. Bottom green to 1.”
Mydei didn’t look up. Didn’t blink. Just continued working.
“You didn’t listen when I asked,” he said at last.
“…Right.”
The quiet rang sharp in the high ceiling. Somewhere outside, the wind rattled a window frame.
Then Mydei exhaled, slow and heavy.
“I didn’t defend you,” he said.
Phainon looked at him.
Mydei still wasn’t looking up, but his voice was quieter now. “I didn’t say anything. When they came. I should have.”
Phainon’s throat tightened. He looked down at the scuffed tile.
He hadn’t expected to hear that. Not now. Not like this. Not while crouched beside a fuse box with fluorescent lights humming overhead like a bad omen.
“Yellow to 3,” Phainon mumbled.
“…You were scared,” he added eventually. “I was, too.”
Mydei’s fingers stilled.
Then, in the softest voice yet, without looking at Phainon: “Still am.”
The words barely reached across the space between them.
Phainon didn’t reply for a long moment. The words felt like a confession of some sort, but he wasn’t sure what.
“I’ll do the next wire,” he suddenly offered. “You take a break.”
Mydei nodded silently and passed the tools over.
Phainon busied himself with the wiring, glad it could hide the strange burning in his face.
Mydei leaned back against the wall, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. “Done,” he muttered, as if saying it too loud might jinx it.
Phainon straightened from where he’d been crouched by the last set of wiring, stretching his arms overhead with an exaggerated groan. “Done, done, or done-until-it-breaks-again?”
Mydei shot him a look, but there was less bite to it now. “If it breaks again, it’s your turn to crawl under that panel.”
“Hey, I did my share,” Phainon protested, but it was half-hearted. He glanced at the patched-up controls, then back at Mydei, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Not bad. Guess teamwork isn’t completely out of your skill set.”
Mydei’s lips twitched - too quick to be called a smile. “Guess not.”
They stood there for a beat too long, before Phainon clapped his hands together and stepped toward the door. “Alright. Let’s get out of here before something else decides to explode.”
The auditorium was dark now, the sun having long set. Cyrene was nowhere to be seen.
“I think I can still smell burnt wiring in my hair,” Phainon muttered, giving his messy curls a dramatic shake as they made their way out of the building into the cool night air, the hum of generators fading behind them. “Or maybe that’s just my natural aura of heroism.”
“That’s not what heroism smells like,” Mydei said dryly.
“Wow. Hurtful. I bet you smelled like this when we were kids, too.”
Mydei’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t -” he suddenly swore. “Nikador. We’re missing the blueprints for the east wing!”
Phainon thought for a moment. “I’ll visit Aglaea tomorrow to see if she’s got anything. She’s with the theater department, right?”
“I think so.”
“Cool. I’ll miss out on some beauty sleep, but you know, that’s the life of a sacrificial hero.”
Mydei snorted. “Yeah, okay.”
Then, out of nowhere:
“You still play?” Mydei asked.
Phainon blinked. “Trumpet, you mean?”
Mydei’s eyes stayed forward, but his tone carried a strange carefulness. “You used to haul that beat-up silver one everywhere. The one you used to play the ‘womp womp’ sound in class and drive every teacher insane.”
Phainon snorted, though there was a flicker of surprise under it. “Wow. You remember that?”
“I remember you wouldn’t shut up about starting ‘The Sky Explodes’.” Mydei almost smiled. “Still have no idea what that was supposed to mean.”
“Hey, it was a good name,” Phainon protested. He glanced over at Mydei. “What about you? You still hammer away at buckets in random peoples’ garages?”
Mydei huffed. “They weren’t buckets .”
“They were totally buckets,” Phainon said. “Big orange ones. I remember, ‘cause my neighbors were ready to file noise complaints before you even hit puberty.”
Mydei’s jaw shifted, a muscle ticking. “…I stopped.”
Something in his tone made Phainon’s grin falter, but he tried to keep it light. “Shame. You were good. Even if you thought 7/4 was a personality trait.”
That got Mydei to finally look over, just for a moment, like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused.
“Soooo…” Phainon tucked his arms behind his head as they kept walking. “What’s with the music talk?”
Mydei shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno. Just… remembered.”
Phainon let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Still loud?”
“Even louder without your trumpet somehow.”
And for the first time all day - for the first time in eight years - Phainon grinned at Mydei without thinking. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“I’m good,” Mydei said dryly, but the corner of his mouth was suspiciously upward-pointed.
They didn’t talk after that. But they didn’t split up, either.
They just kept walking - side by side - beneath the coolness of the sky, as stars began to twinkle.
Castorice stood in front of the memory wall, pin in hand, feeling a bit ridiculous. In her hands were two photos - the photo the shy girl had given to her earlier, and one of the photos taken at the arcade. The wall was completely empty.
But she pressed them to the corkboard anyway and pinned them in place, neat and straight, right in the middle of the space. The first memories.
They looked almost comical, sitting there alone.
A faint breeze stirred from the open window beside her. A pair of birds fluttered past outside - small sparrows, skimming the air and then settling onto the railing of the next dorm balcony over.
Castorice watched them land, light and easy. One pecked at the other’s feathers excitedly. The other didn’t mind.
She stared a little longer than she meant to.
Her first thought, absurdly, was: maybe they’ll fall in love .
It was such a ridiculous thing to think that she almost laughed out loud. That wasn’t the kind of thing she usually told herself. Usually, she’d think something practical. Something cynical, maybe. That they’d fly off. That they’d get eaten by a hawk. That they’d move on.
But instead - love .
The word hung in her mind, unfamiliar and soft.
She blinked, then frowned faintly at herself. Maybe she was tired. Or maybe she was spending too much time with Hyacine’s relentless optimism.
Castorice glanced at the photo again.
She didn’t usually keep things like this. She didn’t like clutter. She didn’t like reminders of how easily things could change, or disappear.
But now…
Now, here was a part of her, small and unfamiliar, that wanted to remember the moment. Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t perfect. And that made it feel… real.
She stepped back from the wall.
The sunlight caught the edge of the photos, making the glossy paper glint just a little. Around her, the hallway was empty except for the low hum of the fridge and the distant clatter of someone’s laughter from upstairs.
Still, for a second, she felt seen. Like the act of pinning it there had made something permanent. Or at least, visible.
She folded her arms, tilted her head, and looked at the picture again. Her smile in it didn’t feel so unfamiliar now.
A voice broke the silence behind her.
“Whoa, okay, now I see what Hyacine meant.”
Castorice blinked, startling at the sound, and turned her head.
A stranger stood by the doorway - one hand braced casually on the doorframe, the other twirling a lollipop. Curled hair, pink jacket, smirk set like it had never once been nervous.
Castorice didn’t recognize her. But the confidence was unmistakable. This person knew exactly where she was, and exactly who she was looking at.
The girl grinned wider. “Wow. Yeah. Definitely the ‘quiet but devastating’ type. You must be Castorice.”
Castorice didn’t answer right away. She blinked once, posture straightening almost imperceptibly.
The girl wandered into the room like it belonged to her, eyes flicking to the photo on the wall, then back to Castorice. “She was so right, by the way. You’ve got mystery vibes. Like you secretly run a spy ring. Or maybe you’ve just got the best grades in every class ever.”
A beat.
“...Maybe both,” she added with a wink.
Castorice stood very still.
She wasn’t trying to be rude. She just hadn’t figured out what this was yet. Why this stranger knew her name. Why she was looking at her like they were already mid-conversation.
The girl, unfazed, popped the lollipop into her mouth and wandered a little closer. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to haze you or whatever. I’m just doing recon.”
Castorice frowned - barely. “Recon.”
“Mmhmm,” she said cheerfully. “See, I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately, from a certain pink ray of sunshine who apparently thinks you’re the coolest person alive. So naturally, I had to come investigate.” She gave a light, exaggerated bow. “Cyrene Elysiae. Sister, alumna, part-time. And unofficial therapist to one emotionally repressed construction major.”
Castorice’s brain caught on one word. “Hyacine?”
“Bingo! You’re all she could talk about.” Cyrene twirled her lollipop again, then pointed it toward the wall. “That one yours?”
Castorice nodded once.
“Cute photo. You’re kind of hiding behind the tall one, though.”
“That’s on purpose,” Castorice said before she could stop herself.
That earned a laugh from Cyrene, a friendly, warm sound. “Fair.”
Another pause. Castorice’s hands stayed loosely folded, her gaze drifting toward the photo like she was using it as a grounding point. But her shoulders were slowly unwinding.
Cyrene took that as permission to lean lightly against the windowsill, watching her. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“I talk when I have something to say.” Castorice internally winced at how hostile that sounded.
Cyrene didn’t seem to mind. “Well, that’s already more restraint than most people on this campus.” She grinned. “You’ll be fine.”
She popped the lollipop back in her mouth and glanced at the wall again. “Y’know… Hyacine thinks you’re magic.”
Castorice looked down, ears just starting to go pink.
“I think,” Cyrene added lightly, “that anyone who makes her look like that is probably dangerous in a good way.”
Castorice’s fingers curled a little at her sides. She didn’t respond.
Cyrene straightened. “Anyway. Just thought I’d say hi. And confirm you’re real. Mission accomplished.” She started toward the door - but paused.
“Oh. And for what it’s worth?” She glanced over her shoulder. “The way you looked at those birds? That was new.”
Castorice blinked. “You were watching me?”
Cyrene smiled. Not her teasing smirk this time - softer. Knowing. “Most people don’t notice when their thoughts start changing. But I think you’re noticing.”
She tossed a wink over her shoulder. “Careful. It’s a slippery slope. One day it’s ‘maybe they’ll find love’ - next day you’re helping your crush hang paper lanterns at a campus festival.”
Just before stepping fully out the door, Cyrene paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
“Oh - one more thing,” she said, like it had only just crossed her mind. “Have you met Phainon?”
She said the name like it should mean something. Castorice hesitated. “I haven’t really… talked to him.”
“Mm.” Cyrene tilted her head, thoughtful. “My little brother is a complete mess. But sometimes messes notice things the rest of us don’t. Funny how that works.”
Castorice blinked. “Notice what?”
“People. Patterns.” She shrugged one shoulder, like it wasn’t important. “Anyway, just a thought - you’ve got a steady way about you. He could use a little of that.”
The compliment landed awkwardly. Castorice straightened a bit, unsure how to respond.
Cyrene grinned. “I’m just saying, I think you two would get along better than you think.”
“…Why?”
“No reason~” Her tone was sing-song.
She turned fully then, striding toward the hall - then paused again, just briefly, and called over her shoulder, “People like Phainon usually don’t realize they’re circling something important until someone else points it out.”
Before Castorice could ask what that meant, she was gone, slipping out the door with a swish of pink and the faint scent of peach perfume, leaving her alone with the memory wall, the birds, and a brain full of static.
Castorice stared at the door for a long moment.
Then back at the photo.
The sunlight had shifted. Her smile in it hadn’t.
But for the first time, she looked at it and thought:
I look happy.
The dorm was still. Only the soft glow from Mydei’s laptop screen lit the room, its light catching on the cluttered diagrams spread across his desk.
When his phone buzzed, Mydei didn’t move at first.
Mother – Kremnos (Home) is calling…
He answered on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Mydeimos,” came the crisp, familiar voice. “You missed our call last week.”
“I’ve been working,” he said. “They assigned me to the… rebuild committee for the auditorium.”
“I see. That’s extracurricular, I assume.”
“It is.”
A pause.
“Your father says your schedule is already full.”
“I’m managing.”
Another pause, slightly longer this time. “You always have.”
It wasn’t quite praise. But it wasn’t nothing.
“Your health?”
“Stable.”
“And the coursework?”
“Unchallenging.”
Another pause. He could hear the measured inhale on the other end of the line, like she was preparing a speech she’d rewritten a dozen times.
Then, unexpectedly:
“…Your father’s been restless.”
He blinked, taken aback.
“I believe he’s afraid. Though he’d never say it.”
He didn’t respond.
“He watches you closely, you know. He always has.”
She hesitated.
“He’s been trying to raise you right,” she continued after a moment. But… he’s always mistaken fear for strength.”
“…Fear?” Mydei echoed.
A quiet beat.
“He never told you about his father, did he?”
Mydei sat up straighter.
“No,” she agreed. “He wouldn’t. It’s not a story he likes to carry.”
Her voice stayed even, but there was something worn in the words now - an old fatigue, finally cracking through composure.
“Your grandfather was a hard man,” she said. “Harsher than your father ever became. Discipline without compassion. Failure wasn’t allowed. Emotion was a weakness. He raised your father to believe that control was survival.”
Mydei froze. It sounded… familiar.
“When I met your father,” she went on, “he had already buried most of himself. He believed that if he could be strong enough - measured enough - he’d never become his father. And when you were born, he thought if he could pass down structure, rules, expectations… maybe you’d be safe from the pain he knew. We left the Kremnos family, but… in the end, he never quite outran his past.”
The words landed in Mydei’s chest like a weight he hadn’t braced for.
“That’s… where he came from?” he said, barely above a whisper.
“Yes.”
And suddenly, the walls Mydei had spent his whole life obeying felt like they were tilting. Cracks racing through the foundation, glass shattering like the dream that felt like a year ago.
All the lectures. The rules.
All of it - not some divine standard of masculinity. Just… damage.
“He thought he was protecting you,” she said quietly. “We both did.”
Mydei closed his eyes, emotions roiling in his chest.
“It wasn’t protection,” was all he could think to say.
“No,” she admitted, and for once, there was no careful buffer between the truth and the words. “It wasn’t.”
The air in the room felt thinner now.
“You are not him, Mydeimos.”
Her voice was soft in a way that only stirred a vague memory - a memory of crawling into her bed after a nightmare.
“You don’t have to carry this forward.”
He pressed his palm hard against his temple.
Then, in a voice smaller than he meant it to be: “I don’t know how to let go.”
“I know,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” she added, almost inaudibly. “That you had to unlearn it all on your own.”
He didn’t reply. Not right away.
“We made mistakes,” she said. “But you have a chance to… to do differently. For yourself. For the people around you.”
His throat locked around the lump rising in it. His breath came shallower.
He sat back, staring at the ceiling. His voice, when it came, was rough. “You could’ve said something. When it mattered.”
“I know.”
A beat. Two.
“I don’t expect you to forgive that overnight. But I wanted you to hear it from me. You’re not weak , Mydeimos, no matter what your father believes. You never were, and you never will be.”
He blinked hard. Swallowed.
“We’ll send the mentorship materials next week,” she added, tone softening even further. “Take your time with them.”
“…Okay,” he managed.
She paused.
“Goodnight, Mydeimos.”
He swallowed hard. “Goodnight.”
“For the record,” she added, “I always liked that boy. Phainon.”
The call ended.
Mydei stayed sitting there, the phone still in his hand.
The silence afterward didn’t feel clean. It felt sore - like something had been pulled loose that had been stuck in place for years.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and pressed both hands over his face.
His father had been through it. He hadn’t escaped it. He’d passed it on.
And now Mydei was staring it in the face - finally seeing it - and trying to decide if he could do what his father never could.
Break it.
Not for his parents.
Not for tradition.
Not for the lessons drilled into him nonstop for eighteen years.
But for himself.
The silence pressed in again - quiet, unfamiliar.
In the darkness of his room, Mydei closed his eyes and began to think.
Notes:
Things are looking up!
Chapter 20: Held Up With Shaking Hands
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Hyacine got to the common room early in the morning, Mydei was inside, alone, hunched over the table near the window with blueprints unfurled on his lap. His hands were still. Not working. Just holding something like it might slip away.
As Hyacine approached, she saw that he was staring at an old, worn compass like he was looking for something that wasn’t there.
She stepped lightly inside and hesitated before speaking. “Hey.”
He looked up. Not startled. Just quiet.
“…Hey,” he said.
“I brought tea,” she offered. “You don’t have to drink it, but you looked like maybe you could use some. Cipher’s still snoozing.”
He accepted the mug with a small nod. No thanks, no protest. Just the tiniest crease softening at the corner of his eyes.
Hyacine sat beside him, not too close, but not far either. Her legs swung gently where they didn’t quite touch the floor.
She didn’t ask if he was okay. It didn’t seem like the right question to ask right now.
“What’s that?” she asked instead, gesturing at the compass.
Mydei glanced down. His thumb traced over it like he’d done the action a million times.
“…A gift,” he said finally. “From my father.”
Hyacine nodded, quiet. She didn’t press. Just waited.
“It’s for precision,” he added after a beat. “Drafting. Perfect circles. Clean lines.”
He turned it slowly between his fingers, the lid opening slightly before he let it fall closed again. Click .
“It was… supposed to mean something.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “Does it?”
He hesitated. The light from the window caught the edge of the compass, casting a curved shadow across the blueprint in his lap.
“...I’m not sure,” he said.
And that was all.
They sat in silence after that. A gentle silence this time, not the kind that closed in, but the kind that let those within breathe.
Finally, Mydei said, “Do you ever feel like you were built from someone else’s blueprint?”
Hyacine blinked. “…Yeah. I think everyone does, a little.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just stared down at the schematics again, tracing a single line with his thumb.
After a moment, Hyacine nudged his elbow lightly with hers. “You know, blueprints can be changed. Even if they look like they’re all set.”
“Not always.”
“Not easily,” she agreed. “But sometimes you just need… someone to remind you that you’re allowed to.”
That earned her a small glance. Not a smile. Not yet. But something shifted in his posture.
“Thanks,” he said.
They sat there a while, steam rising gently from their mugs. The sunlight crept further in, touching the blueprints between them like it was trying to trace the lines too.
She glanced down at her phone, which had just buzzed, and unlocked it with a fumble.
CASTORICEEEEEE FSJFKLSF (๑ > ᴗ < ๑): is it ok if phainon sits with us in anaxa’s class?
Hyacine blinked. “Huh,” she said aloud.
Hyacine: Of course!!! I’ll ask him right now ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
Mydei raised a brow.
Hyacine held the phone up a little, showing the text to him.
Mydei’s brow furrowed slightly as he read it. “Did he ask?”
“I think he’s just been… orbiting,” Hyacine said with a laugh. “You know, like a funny little moon. He doesn’t have a real seat because he registered late, so he crash-lands around the room.”
Mydei let out a short breath, almost a chuckle. “Sounds about right.”
She tucked her phone away again, then added thoughtfully, “I think Castorice is fine. Actually… maybe she’s even a little curious. About him, I mean.”
He didn’t respond, just nodded.
Then Hyacine brightened. “Oh! Wait, I have something for you.”
She dug into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a tiny bundle of thread and beads, woven clumsily but carefully into a small charm. It dangled from a loop of twine, the kind of thing that could be tied around a wrist or hung on a bag.
“I, um… Castorice helped me with it,” she said, cheeks already going pink. “We were trying to make one for everyone before the festival, but I thought maybe - well - maybe you could have this one early.”
Mydei blinked at it. It was simple: a little green bead, a small wooden disk with a hand-drawn spiral on it, and a knot that didn’t match on either side.
“It’s supposed to be lucky,” she added quickly. “Not, like, magic lucky. Just… festival lucky. You know.”
He didn’t take it at first. Just stared at it in her palm, the way someone might stare at a thing they didn’t quite know they deserved.
Finally, he reached out and took it, slow and careful. His fingers brushed hers.
“…You made this?”
Hyacine nodded, still flustered. “Kind of. Castorice did the nice part. I did the messy knot.”
Mydei studied the knot for a long time. Then, softly: “It’s good.”
Hyacine smiled.
He turned the charm over in his hand, then quietly looped the twine around one of the strap buckles on his toolbag. It dangled there, crooked and a little too bright for his monochrome leather gear - but it stayed.
Hyacine’s eyes lit up. “You’re keeping it there?”
He shrugged. “It’s supposed to be lucky, right?”
She beamed.
Another long pause. Mydei looked back down at the compass.
“…Thanks,” he said again.
This time, quieter. But more certain.
And Hyacine just sat beside him, sipping her tea, like she hadn’t just moved a mountain with a piece of string and two beads.
Phainon knocked. The sound felt too loud in the early light seeping through the dorm’s narrow hallway windows. Somewhere down the corridor, someone’s tinny phone alarm was going off, overlapping with the faint scent of instant noodles drifting from a not-fully-closed door.
He knocked again, a bit louder this time, and, when there was no answer, checked the text thread from last night again.
Phainon: Hey! Theater department’s blueprints for the East wing - would you happen to have a copy?
Aglaea Shmaglaea: Maybe. Dorm 2, third door left.
Phainon: Perfect, I’ll drop by tomorrow!
Aglaea Shmaglaea: Not too early, please
Aglaea Shmaglaea: Phainon?
Phainon: [ancient_greek_tragedy_cat_meme.jpg]
The “maybe” wasn’t exactly promising, but if there was even a chance she had something from the old auditorium, he figured it was worth the trip. Especially if it meant the possibility of avoiding digging through another closet full of ash and ceiling debris.
His thoughts were interrupted by the ping of his notification sound (which he’d forgotten to change from Cyrene shouting “Boo!”).
Strawberry Shorty: Phainon!!!
Strawberry Shorty: Castorice wants you to sit with us in Anaxa’s class :D
Just as he was about to reply, the door cracked open a sliver.
Then a voice: “You smell like burnt wires and a tragic backstory.”
“…Hi?” Phainon blinked.
A girl with messy red curls and three pairs of sunglasses on her head leaned halfway out of the doorframe like she’d been summoned by ritual. She had a paint-streaked spoon in one hand, mismatched socks, and a look of deep suspicion in her eyes.
“Morning,” Phainon said, unsure what else to say.
She stared up at him, blinking owlishly. “Speak your name, traveler.”
“I - uh - Phainon? From Civil Engineering?”
She gasped. “ The Phainon? From Civil Engineering?”
“…What other one would there be?”
“Exactly,” she whispered, as if that proved her point.
He cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Aglaea?”
She narrowed her eyes. “She’s napping. Like a beautiful, tormented swan. Well, goat, really.” A dramatic pause. “I’ll wake her.”
Then, without warning, she spun around and shouted into the room: “AGY! HOT BOY!”
Phainon staggered back a step.
A muffled groan. The sound of a pillow being thrown.
The girl turned back to Phainon, beaming. “She loves visitors. Especially when they knock like tax collectors.”
“Hang on, I knocked normally!” Phainon protested.
“Exactly,” she whispered again.
Aglaea emerged a moment later, pinning up her hair with the bleary eyes of someone who had almost reached REM sleep before being yanked from it by her chaotic gremlin of a roommate. “I told you not too early.”
Phainon grinned unapologetically.
Aglaea shook her head. “Anyway, I apologize for the mess. That’s my roommate. She’s -”
“Divine,” the red-haired girl interjected. “Hi, I’m Tribios, music major. You may enter.”
Phainon held up both hands, still grinning. “Not trying to intrude. I’m just trying to find the blueprints for east wing of the auditorium. You know, so we don’t accidentally black out a dorm. Again.”
Tribios gasped. “So noble. So self-sacrificing. Do you always risk your life for the greater good, or only when cute girls ask?”
Phainon blinked. “Are you calling Mydei a cute girl?”
“I call it as I see it,” Tribios said, twirling her spoon like it was a wand. “But you, sir, have a hero’s glint in your eye. The kind that says, ‘I’ll crawl into a ventilation shaft if it means fulfilling my tragic backstory.’”
“…I have done that,” Phainon admitted. “Once. But mostly because the key was inside and I was already wearing knee pads.”
“Mnestia, you two should never have met,” Aglaea said to no one in particular. She motioned him inside. “There might be something in the bottom drawer.”
Phainon stepped in. Immediately, he was assaulted by color. Paint tubes. Fabric swatches. Glitter. So much glitter. “So this is where the theater kids live, huh? No haunted portraits? No hidden trapdoors?”
Tribios gave him a look of mock betrayal. “Are you implying we’re not theatrically dangerous?”
“I’m implying you’ve got more beanbags than furniture.”
“Beanbags are emotionally supportive!” Tribios leapt onto one and sank halfway in. “Unlike society.”
Phainon chuckled. “Okay, fair.”
Aglaea stiffly made her way to a row of filing cabinets on her side of the room. “Can we please find what he came for before you adopt him like a lost puppy?”
Phainon wiggled his fingers. “Too late. Already wagging my tail.”
“Do not enable her,” Aglaea hissed, kneeling by the cabinets. “We have a very delicate roommate balance.”
“We keep our organizational system alphabetically by vibe,” Tribios added.
“Which one is it.”
“Oh! Blueprints should be in ‘Tragedy/Ancient Birds.’”
Aglaea stared at her for a moment. “I’m going to lie down in traffic.”
She yanked open a drawer labeled “Bird Tragedies (TBD).” With practiced efficiency, she pulled out a roll of papers and handed them to Phainon.
“These should be what you need.”
“Wow.” Phainon looked down at it, impressed. “This is the good one. Color-coded and everything.”
“Of course it is,” Aglaea agreed. “Tribios spilled tea on the others.”
“It was metaphorical tea,” Tribios said primly.
“It was chai.”
Tribios leaned over Phainon’s shoulder like a squirrel about to swipe something. “So you’re the one rebuilding the stage? With the brick wall on fire?”
“…Mydei? Yeah. You know, I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before.”
She flapped her hand dismissively. “Oh, of course you have. A story tends to enjoy repeating its elements. They call it ‘narrative quality.’ I call it lacking creativity.”
Aglaea groaned into her sleeve.
Tribios stepped in closer, eyeing him with fascination. “Have you ever considered performance art? Or juggling? You have juggle-hands.”
He gave her a weirdly sincere nod. “Fascinating. I’m learning a lot about myself today.”
Aglaea sat down on the bed and stared into the distance. “This is my life now. This is who I am.”
Phainon grinned at her. “I’m not gonna lie. This is the most fun I’ve had in a week.”
Tribios slapped a star sticker onto his shoulder. “You’re welcome!”
Aglaea was lying fully horizontal now. “Please leave before she casts you in something and makes me direct it.”
Phainon tucked the blueprint under one arm and flashed his usual, easy grin. “Well, it’s been an… experience.”
“I aim for life-changing,” Tribios said sweetly.
“I aim for plausible deniability,” Aglaea muttered.
Tribios wiggled her fingers in farewell. “Fly free, Snowy! Bring snacks next time.”
Aglaea gave him a tired nod. “Ignore everything she says.”
He pointed to the sticker on his shoulder. “Too late.”
The morning had slipped away while Castorice kept her head down in books and notes. Class after class, she took careful notes and organized information into each neat compartment of her mind. It was familiar. Comforting.
Before she’d realized it, afternoon sun was filtering through the tall windows of Anaxa’s classroom.
Hyacine sat beside her, happily swinging her legs under the desk and humming a tune under her breath as she scribbled hearts into the margins of her notebook. As always, the sound made her heart feel light for some strange reason.
And then the seat on Hyacine’s other side scraped loudly against the tile.
“Ladies,” came a voice like a grin with a mouth attached.
Phainon.
Of course.
Castorice didn’t look up right away. She tightened her grip on her pen, throat suddenly feeling dry for reasons she couldn’t name.
“Oh! Phainon!” Hyacine beamed. “You got my text!”
Castorice looked up then, slowly. Phainon met her eyes and grinned like they were already mid-conversation.
“Hey. You’re Castorice, right?” he asked, eyes bright and friendly. “Nice to meet you. Big fan of your posture.”
Castorice blinked. “...Excuse me?”
“Like, the spine thing. Straight as a soldier. Ten out of ten. I slouch too much. I’m trying to learn from the greats.”
Castorice blinked again. That wasn’t a compliment, was it? It didn’t make much sense as a compliment. She dipped her chin slightly and turned back to her notes, forcing a calm she didn’t feel.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hyacine smiled so brightly Castorice’s stomach did something annoying.
She pretended to fix her pen.
Anaxa swept into the room just then, robes billowing like he was being followed by a dramatic wind machine. He flicked a piece of chalk onto the board with the flair of a sorcerer casting a spell.
“Today,” he declared, “we confront the horror of uniqueness quantifiers. Consider: ∃!x(Px), which asserts not only that some x exists such that Px, but that only one such x exists.”
Someone in the front row whimpered audibly.
He turned, dramatically scribbling a long series of identity-based implications across the board.
“Now,” he said, gesturing to a sentence, “if we know that ∃!x(Student(x) ∧ StudiesLogic(x)), what follows if both Socrates and Plato study logic?”
A pause.
Then Phainon raised his hand. “Clearly they have to fight to the death.”
The room chuckled. Hyacine pressed her fists onto her mouth, trying not to laugh. Castorice willed her mouth not to move. That wasn’t even close to the right answer. It wasn’t even a category of answer.
And yet - her mouth twitched. Just slightly.
“Incorrect,” Anaxa replied, not even looking up. “But philosophically creative.”
Phainon leaned back, stage-whispering, “That’s code for ‘I hate you.’”
“Only when it’s Socratic code,” Hyacine whispered back.
Castorice stared ahead, but her focus was fraying.
Phainon leaned back in satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he sat down.
He was ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Anaxa launched into a breakdown of how uniqueness interacts with identity logic:
“You cannot claim ∃!x(Fx) without also asserting that for any y, if Fy holds, then y must be x. This is equivalent to:
∃x(Fx ∧ ∀y(Fy → y = x))
Which means, yes, Plato and Socrates can both study logic - but not if you want your claim of uniqueness to hold. Choose your fighter, students.”
He spun around, rapping the board with his knuckles. “Can anyone tell us - if ∃!x(Crown(x) ∧ BelongsTo(x, King)), what happens if the king has a collection?”
Castorice’s brain was caught somewhere between ∀y(Fy → y = x) and the peripheral view of Phainon drawing a literal pool noodle duel in the margins of his notebook (It had “PLATO vs. SOCRATES” written in huge bubble letters).
“Then the expression is false,” someone said, snapping Castorice back to the class. “The predicate fails under uniqueness.”
“Excellent,” Anaxa said. “Now imagine if that king had to file taxes. The horror.”
As he launched into a tangent about Descartes and tax fraud, Castorice’s gaze drifted sideways. Phainon had now written “∃!x(Sandwich(x) ∧ x=Mine)” in massive letters across his page.
“Is that... part of the notes?” she asked, in spite of herself.
“Manifesting dinner,” he whispered back solemnly.
She almost - almost - laughed. But bit it back at the last second. Her smile didn’t go unnoticed, though.
Phainon leaned in slightly. “See? It is possible to crack the enigma.”
“I’m not an enigma,” she muttered.
“You are, and I say that with great respect.”
“Respectfully stop talking,” Castorice said before she could stop herself.
He gave a mock-solemn nod. “Respectfully rejected.”
As they turned back to the front of the classroom, Castorice blinked, surprised at herself. She wasn’t sure why she was so bold today. Something about Phainon’s presence was making her chest tight in a way that only harsh words could loosen, but she didn’t understand what.
Anaxa, blessedly, turned toward a new topic: formalizing non-unique identity claims, and when ∃x(Px) ∧ ∃y(Py) ∧ x ≠ y becomes meaningful.
"Take two students in love with logic,” he said, “but only one seat near the heater. Do they fight, share, or formalize their misery in symbolic form?”
Castorice kept her eyes forward.
But her eyes drifted.
Just a bit.
Phainon caught her looking and wiggled his eyebrows.
She immediately looked away.
Class moved forward - Anaxa diving into chained uniqueness, the use of identity in formal translations, and the proper way to assert ∀x∀y((Px ∧ Py ∧ x≠y) → false). Hyacine’s notes were peppered with curly arrows and doodles. Phainon wrote absolutely nothing else except “SOCRATES ≠ PLATO? 😱” and the end result of the pool noodle fight - Socrates had won, and was now strapping Plato to a rocket, ready to send him to space.
And Castorice… tried very hard not to smile.
When the bell finally rang, Anaxa sighed theatrically. “Go forth, unique snowflakes of logic. Try not to fall into fallacies on your way out.”
Chairs scraped back. Paper rustled. Someone in the back dropped a pen loud enough to echo. Hyacine squeaked something about forgetting her eraser and darted back to the front row.
Phainon leaned back in his seat, stretching like a cat and cracking his knuckles with excessive flair. “You hear that, Castorice? We’re free thinkers now. Snowflakes. Intellectual rebels. Want to go commit a minor logical rebellion?”
She rolled her eyes. “Like what, contradict a tautology?”
“Scandalous! Love it.”
He slung his bag over one shoulder and offered a sloppy little bow to Hyacine, who was still frantically gathering her stationery like it was a timed event.
“Until next time, milady,” he declared, dramatically backing toward the door. “And Miss Stoneface, your sarcasm has been deeply moving. I feel personally transformed.”
Castorice raised an eyebrow. “Do you always talk like this?”
“Only when I'm nervous, or really impressed.”
“That’s not better.”
Phainon grinned and held the door open for her as she passed through. Hyacine waved goodbye behind them, already deep in conversation with Anaxa about some logic pun involving frogs and hypothetical lily pads.
Outside, the late afternoon light hit them square in the face. Phainon let the door swing shut behind them and fell into step beside her.
“So,” he said. “You also live in Dorm Two, right?”
Castorice gave him a side glance. “You already know that.”
“Sure, but I wanted to pretend to be polite.”
“…That was you being polite?”
He gave her a look of mock offense. “I opened a door for you and everything. Chivalry’s dead, huh.”
She didn’t answer - just stepped off the walkway.
He followed.
They didn’t talk for a moment. Just walked, the sound of campus fading behind them as they headed down the slope toward the cluster of dormitories.
Then Phainon said, a little more casually, “Last class of the day?”
She nodded.
“Cool. Mind if I walk with you?”
She shrugged, not quite looking at him. “You’re already doing it.”
Phainon chuckled. “True.”
Neither of them spoke for a while after that. Their footfalls were mismatched - hers quiet, measured; his a little too casual, like he didn’t mind kicking pebbles just to see where they went.
For all the noise he made in class, Phainon was surprisingly quiet now.
Castorice glanced up once. He was walking with his hands in his pockets, face tilted toward the breeze.
Then he looked over. “You always walk this fast?”
Castorice blinked. She hadn’t noticed. “I’m not walking fast.”
“You are. This is a power walk. A fleeing-the-scene-of-a-crime walk.”
She paused. “Maybe I was trying to lose you.”
Phainon grinned. “Oof. Wounded! I was gonna say it was impressive.”
She looked away, adjusting the strap of her bag. “You’re… different outside of class.”
“Yeah? Good different or serial-killer different?”
“…Quieter.”
“She pays attention to me!” Phainon gasped.
Castorice didn’t respond, but her pace slowed half a step.
After a while, Phainon kicked at a loose acorn and let it roll down the pavement.
“She’s pretty great, huh?” he said, not looking at her.
Castorice blinked. “…Who?”
“Hyacine.”
Something in her stomach curled uncomfortably. “I guess.”
Phainon turned slightly toward her, walking backward now like it was nothing. “You two close?”
Castorice narrowed her eyes. “We’re friends.”
“You sure? It feels like more.”
Her feet stopped. “Are you - do you like her?”
The question slipped out sharper than she intended. She instantly regretted it.
Phainon stopped walking too, blinking. Then gave her a long, unreadable look.
“Ohhh,” he said. “Wait. You think I -? That’s why - Holy Kephale .”
Castorice’s entire soul threatened to crawl out of her body.
Phainon rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, wow. Wow , this is crazy. No. No no. Not even close. I mean, she’s adorable, yeah, but like… little sister adorable. Pixie-stick-on-legs adorable. I’m just trying to make her smile because it’s fun. And really easy.”
He paused, then added gently, “I’m not interested. Not in that way.”
Castorice didn’t know what to do with the relief that hit her. She stared at a crack in the sidewalk like it might answer for her.
“…Oh,” she mumbled.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Phainon laughed to himself. “Wow. That explains a lot. You’ve been giving me laser eyes.”
“I haven’t -”
“Laser glances?”
She huffed. “You’re misreading things.”
“I’m really not,” he said, still grinning.
Castorice crossed her arms, unsure what part of her expression to control first.
“…She talks about you a lot,” Phainon added after a minute. “Like, a lot a lot.”
That startled her. “What?”
“In a good way,” he said quickly. “She thinks you’re, like… brilliant. And terrifying. And also the nicest person on earth but only she’s allowed to know it.”
Castorice looked away. Her steps slowed just slightly.
“It’s weird,” she murmured. “People act like I’m cold just because I’m quiet. It’s not like I mean to be.”
Phainon was quiet for a beat.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Mydei’s the same.”
Castorice didn’t respond right away.
Then, after a few steps: “Mydei isn’t cold either.”
“No,” Phainon said. “But he’s good at pretending.”
More quiet.
Phainon glanced sideways at her. “You ever meet someone who’s so afraid of being weak that they just… forget how to let people in?”
Something in her chest squeezed.
“…Yes,” she said quietly. “I have.”
He nodded, once. “That’s him.”
Castorice’s gaze drifted to the cracked pavement beneath their feet as they kept walking. She suddenly felt the strange urge to help, to say something that might push Phainon in the right direction… but she didn't understand any better than he did.
“Some people,” she started slowly, “they grow up in a place where feelings aren’t the point. You get praised for control. For being smart. For not making things messy.”
Phainon glanced at her. She wasn’t looking at him - just straight ahead, eyes distant.
“You learn not to say what you feel. Or want. You learn not to want things, period. Wanting things is dangerous.”
The words weren’t bitter. Just matter-of-fact. Like she was listing symptoms.
Phainon exhaled. His steps slowed.
“That sounds… exhausting.”
She gave a faint, almost humorless smile. “You get used to it.”
“…Yeah.” His voice was quieter now. “I guess you have to.”
They walked the rest of the way in near-silence; Phainon didn’t make any more jokes, seemingly deep in thought. The building came into view - a squat rectangle of sun-bleached brick and scuffed stairwells.
“Thanks for the impromptu psychology session,” Phainon joked as they approached the door.
Castorice raised a brow. “That’s what that was?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Surprisingly effective. Gonna go reexamine my childhood now.”
As Castorice turned away, Phainon paused with one foot on the bottom stair. “Hey! For the record - I like sitting near you. You keep me on my toes.”
Castorice gave him a look.
“…In a good way,” he amended.
She sighed. “Fine. But no pool noodle duels tomorrow.”
He gasped. “You saw?”
“Plato didn’t deserve to be sent to space.”
Phainon laughed, and this time it reached his eyes.
“Evening, Castorice.”
“...Evening.”
She turned away, toward the stairs.
And only then - when she was alone - did she realize the corner of her mouth was curled upward.
After they reached the dorms, Castorice peeled off toward the stairs without a word, her steps light and unreadable. Phainon watched her go, resisting the urge to call something stupid after her just to see if she’d look back.
He huffed a laugh under his breath and ducked inside.
One quick shower later, his hair still damp and shirt clinging a little from steam, Phainon stepped back outside into the autumn air, Aglaea’s blueprints tucked under his arm. The air was cool and fresh, and he took a massive breath in, reveling at the crispness.
He adjusted the strap of his tool bag and started downhill, toward the auditorium.
It wasn’t far, but the walk always felt longer than it should. Like his legs remembered what had burned and cracked here. Like they were still bracing for collapse.
Phainon entered with a little more care than usual, blueprint tube under one arm, the other hand stuffed in his pocket. The auditorium felt colder today, less echo and more hush. He spotted Mydei already crouched by the stage, fiddling with a toolset, silent as always.
“Got the blueprints,” Phainon called, holding them up. “Straight from Aglaea’s stash. Looks like we’re stuck with this nightmare of tunnels under the stage.”
Mydei’s eyes flicked up, meeting Phainon’s for a moment before drifting back down. “Good.”
Phainon spread the paper out on a nearby crate, the yellowed lines of faded ink mapping the cramped backstage tunnels beneath the auditorium. “Seems like a maze down there. Narrow corridors, tight corners, and some of these areas haven’t been touched in years.”
Mydei looked up, but didn’t reply. Just nodded once, straightened, and took the blueprint tube when Phainon offered it. His fingers were steady, but his eyes flickered once - almost uncertain - before he unrolled the paper across a low table.
They bent over it together. The map creaked as it flattened, the blue lines catching the weak light from above. Phainon resisted the urge to make a dumb joke.
“So,” Phainon started, eyes darting across the tunnels etched into the blueprint, “I thought we could trace out tomorrow’s path. Maybe flag areas we don’t wanna, y’know, fall into and die.”
Mydei gave a quiet grunt and uncapped a pen. He began circling tunnel intersections in smooth, practiced motions.
Phainon crouched beside the blueprint, his finger landing near a collapsed stairwell. “Think we’ll need ropes?”
“Mm,” Mydei murmured. “We should prep for them. Just in case.”
Phainon blinked. It was the first full sentence Mydei had said all afternoon. And his tone - even, thoughtful - was weirdly un-Mydei.
“You’re being freakily quiet,” Phainon said before he could stop himself, half-teasing. “It’s throwing off my rhythm. Usually by now you’ve insulted my handwriting or told me to stop improvising.”
Mydei didn’t look up. “I’ll make up for it tomorrow.”
Phainon hesitated. The reply wasn’t snappy. It wasn’t even dry. It was… distant.
“Everything okay?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
Mydei’s pen paused mid-stroke. “I’m fine. Can we just -”
He caught himself. His shoulders stiffened, then fell. “Sorry,” he said quickly, eyes on the blueprint.
Phainon blinked. “Wow. Did you just -” he cleared his throat. “It’s okay. Uh, I didn’t eat lunch either.”
He meant it as a joke, light, but there was a crackle of something real in the silence that followed.
Mydei didn’t laugh. He just exhaled through his nose, faintly.
“Bad night?” Phainon asked.
Mydei didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached for a different colored pen and started mapping a route through the tunnels, the scratching of ink replacing words. Phainon glanced at him, then shifted his own marker closer.
They bent over the paper again, shoulder to shoulder now. Not quite close. But closer.
Mydei had started to draw a thin dotted line through the west entrance, weaving it through the maintenance corridor.
Phainon watched the ink flow, then hesitated before pointing to a tunnel split. “Uh - this one leads under the orchestra pit, right? I think last time I was down there, the ground felt kinda… squishy. Not, like, ominous squishy. Just a little too spongy.”
Mydei gave a small grunt. “Old insulation. It absorbs moisture. Probably has mold.”
“Oh.” Phainon paused. “Cool. So we die from fungus instead of falling.” He nodded solemnly. “That’s… poetic, at least?”
He glanced sideways, just long enough to catch the faint twitch at the corner of Mydei’s mouth. Barely there. But real.
Phainon drew a dramatic skull and crossbones over the tunnel junction. “Done. Clearly labeled 'Fungus Death Zone.'”
“You are the worst,” Mydei said under his breath, but it came with a quietness that wasn’t sharp.
“Aw,” Phainon said. “You are warming up to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Phainon grinned but didn’t press. He pointed to a different corridor - narrow, zigzagging under the dressing rooms.
“This one’s gotta be a crawlspace,” he said. “We’ll need lights, and probably a shrink ray to fit.”
Mydei raised a brow. “I’ve done worse. Back home, my cousin locked herself in a duct. I had to haul her out backwards.”
Phainon blinked. “That’s… horrifyingly specific.”
Mydei nodded. “She’d hidden snacks in there. Refused to come out until someone brought juice.”
“Honestly, I respect it.” Phainon drew a little juice box on the map beside the corridor.
Mydei looked down at the doodle. “That’s not structurally accurate.”
“No, but it sparks joy.” Phainon leaned back on his hands, exhaling softly. “Y’know, this’s probably the calmest we’ve ever been working on something.”
A beat.
“Weird,” he added, quieter this time.
Mydei didn’t answer right away. He capped his pen slowly, fingers fidgeting with the lid.
“It doesn’t have to be weird,” he said eventually, hesitantly, eyes still on the blueprint.
Phainon blinked, surprised again - partially by the words, but more by the openness.
He swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”
They worked for a while longer - Phainon offered a few quips about cave goblins and tunnel hauntings, and Mydei drew mostly silently.
“We could start from the northern entrance. Cut through here, so we only have to backtrack here and here.” Phainon traced the path with his finger, trying to sound casual.
Mydei leaned over. His hand hovered for a second too long - like he was somewhere else entirely - before he pressed the tip down with a quiet click.
“These doors,” he said, circling two narrow lines, “they don’t open from the north side.”
Phainon blinked. “Wait, seriously?” He leaned in. Sure enough, tiny arrows marked the direction of the locks. “Huh. Didn’t even see that.” He glanced at Mydei, who still looked a little distracted. “So… we go left here instead?”
Mydei nodded, a beat late. “Yeah. That lets us sweep the east wing first without backtracking.”
Phainon frowned, dragging a thumb across his jaw in thought. “Yeah, but then we’d have to detour west after just to get this gate open. I’d rather not wander around an entire section with just flashlights.”
“We’ll just turn it back on,” Mydei pointed out.
“No can do,” Phainon sighed. “The system doesn’t let us reboot a wing without faculty clearance.”
Mydei’s brow furrowed - more at himself, maybe. “Right. I forgot.”
There was a pause. Phainon waited for the snarky follow-up that never came.
Instead, Mydei just adjusted the pen in his grip and said, quieter, “That’s a dumb system.”
Phainon blinked. “Okay, harsh. What would you do, design your own?”
Mydei gave him a look. “That’s what I’m studying for.”
Phainon raised both hands, grinning. “Fair enough.”
Their hands met briefly over the paper again - not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of each other’s presence. No words filled the space between them, only the scrape of pen tips, the soft scuff of boots against dusty concrete.
Phainon’s jaw loosened as he stared at the lines that now looked like veins - fragile, necessary. Mydei’s eyes flicked away, catching the flicker of a faulty light above, the faint hum in the background.
Phainon found himself breaking the quiet with practical questions, trying to ease the tension. “Flashlights good? Gloves? Boots are waterproof? We don’t know what’s going to happen down there.”
Mydei gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Phainon nodded, resisting the urge to say something dumb like ‘who are you and what have you done with my emotionally repressed brick wall?’ “That’s a start.”
Mydei leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he stared down at the blueprints. “We’ve got most of it figured out.”
Phainon nodded, still hunched over the table. “Yeah. I think we’re ready for whatever haunted hallway crawl they’ve got planned for us.”
He meant it as a joke, but it landed a little flat. Mydei didn’t laugh - just made a quiet sound in his throat and reached to roll up the blueprint.
“You wanna… call it for today?” Phainon asked, fiddling with the edge of the table. “I mean - we’ll need to get our rest in for tomorrow. And the inspection team’s coming soon. I really don’t want to deal with them breathing down our necks when we’re working.”
Mydei paused, then nodded. “Sure.”
Phainon stood, brushing off his knees a little too thoroughly. “Cool. Yeah. I’ll - uh. I’ll bring snacks or something tomorrow. For the tunnels.”
That earned him a surprised glance.
“You don’t have to,” Mydei said.
“I know. I just thought…” Phainon scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Protein bars feel like appropriate spelunking food?”
Mydei didn’t answer, but he didn’t reject the idea either. He just began rolling the blueprint up with swift movements.
Phainon noticed a tiny pastel charm swaying lightly from Mydei’s toolbelt. Green. Lopsided. Glittery.
He blinked. “…Wait. Is that from Hyacine?”
Mydei glanced down, then gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. “Yeah.”
“She gave me a bell.” Phainon fished in his bag and tugged his pencil case halfway out, the sparkly blue charm glinting where it was looped through the zipper. “Said they were for good luck.”
“Looks like she made one for all of us,” Mydei said, voice low but not annoyed.
Phainon turned the charm between his fingers, smiling. “She’s such a dork.”
“Mm.”
A pause.
“…But, like, the good kind,” Phainon added.
Mydei didn’t comment. But he clipped the blueprints with a soft snap, then adjusted the charm on his toolbelt so it hung forward again.
“Let’s head back,” Phainon said, stretching. “I want to take a nap before I start regretting this entire major.”
Mydei snorted, barely, and followed.
They didn’t talk much on the way out - just the shuffle of shoes, the faint creak of old doors, the soft click as the lights behind them dimmed.
Outside, the evening was turning orange and purple, with clouds smudging out the last of the sun. There was a stillness to it. Not quite peaceful. But maybe waiting.
Halfway to the dorms, Phainon shifted the strap of his bag awkwardly. “You don’t… have to think about it all tonight, you know.”
Mydei glanced sideways. “Think about what?”
Phainon faltered. “Just… everything. The tunnels. Tomorrow. I mean. There’s time.”
A quiet stretched between them.
Then, almost too low to hear, Mydei said, “…Yeah.”
They reached the steps in silence. Phainon hesitated at the base, glancing up, then looked over at him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. His voice sounded a little stiff to his own ears, like he didn’t quite know what tone he wanted.
Mydei nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Phainon lingered a second longer, then turned and headed up.
He didn’t know what had changed exactly - but whatever change it was, it made his step a little lighter and the air in his lungs a little sweeter.
The campus was half-empty, the air carrying the faint scent of printer toner and poster glue. Castorice stood at the memory wall, hands loosely curled at her sides. The early mockup was taped across one panel: a carefully organized timeline of campus photos, space left for captions, sticky notes in pale colors marking spots for contributions.
She stepped back to squint at it again, smiling at the amount of donated photos that were now littering the walls.
As she turned to leave, she heard a voice.
“Yo, is this it?”
It wasn’t directed at her - it wasn’t even aware she was there.
Two students had wandered in - both third-years, she thought. Loud, the kind that made themselves comfortable anywhere. One pointed at the wall, tilting his head.
“Looks like a science fair project. No offense,” he added, to no one in particular.
“Yeah, I thought the Kindling thing was gonna be, like… a party. Fire theme? Lights? Not… this.”
They didn’t laugh, just moved on, distracted by the snack table across the room.
Castorice stood still. Her jaw hadn’t moved, but her hands had - curling, thumb pressing into her palm.
Maybe it did look boring. Maybe it was too neat. She’d planned it like a reflective installation - meant to gather pieces from everyone, build slowly, create weight. But now, the empty spaces looked clinical. Awkward.
She could already see how anyone else would have made it better.
Her shoulders tensed. She turned back toward the wall. Her eyes skipped over the post-it squares and layout margins.
One corner was slightly peeling.
She pressed the corner down gently, as if the whole thing might tear if she touched it too hard.
It stuck for a second.
Then peeled back up again.
Her mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite anything. Just the sense of something slipping. Something about the wall felt... overthought. Too clean. Too intentional. Like she’d tried so hard to make it meaningful that she’d wrung all the feeling out of it.
She took a step back.
The photos looked too symmetrical. The header font too professional. Even the paper color felt wrong now - soft ivory instead of bright white or orange or red or something alive.
Castorice’s eyes flicked toward the exit.
No one was watching.
She could tear it down right now. Start from scratch. Or maybe ask Hyacine to help - not that she wanted to ask, but Hyacine would know how to make it approachable. Friendly. Something people actually wanted to touch.
Or Tribios. She had flair. People would listen to her.
She swallowed.
Her hand hovered near the wall again. Not reaching. Not quite retreating either.
Stuck.
The air outside was cooler now, the last scraps of pink bleeding out of the sky. Phainon walked with his hands in his pockets, kicking a pebble ahead of him every few steps. His shoulders felt looser. Like maybe, somehow, today hadn’t sucked.
He didn’t even know where he was going. He just wanted to explore.
His phone buzzed.
Cyr*ne is calling…
He sighed - fondly - and accepted.
“Hi,” he said, drawing the word out suspiciously as he gave the pebble another kick, sending it flying up ahead. “Why do I feel like you’re about to mess with me?”
“You’re always so paranoid,” Cyrene’s voice chimed, too casual. “Can’t a sister call just to say hi?”
“After what you pulled yesterday? Not when you’re smiling like that.”
“You can’t even see me.”
“I can feel it. You’re smiling. Like a demon.”
She laughed, unbothered. “Okay, okay. Maybe I am curious about something.”
“I knew it.”
“So?” she asked sweetly. “Did you meet Castorice yet?”
Phainon blinked, caught off-guard, and almost missed the pebble on his next swing. “What, today?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah, actually. In class. And then… we talked a little after.”
Cyrene made a pleased humming noise. “And?”
“And… nothing. She’s - she’s really quiet.”
“Mm. And?”
Phainon squinted at the sidewalk. “And smart. And she gives off scary honors student energy. And - I don’t know. She’s not as scary as I thought.”
“I’m shocked,” Cyrene deadpanned. “You mean the girl that Hyacine has a massive, massive crush on isn’t terrifying when you don’t treat her like a statue?”
“Hyacine’s completely down bad,” Phainon agreed, grinning. “But I don’t treat Castorice like a statue.”
“Really?” Cyrene asked doubtfully.
Phainon huffed. “Okay, well, now I know she’s just… shy.”
“Good. Keep figuring her out. It’ll help you.”
He hesitated. “…You trying to set us up or something? I don’t think she -”
Cyrene snorted. “Pie, if I wanted to set you up, you’d know. I’d have gift baskets involved.”
“...I feel like that’s not a joke.”
“It’s not,” she said sweetly. “Anyway. I was just curious. You’ll thank me later.”
“For… what, exactly?”
But she had already hung up.
Phainon stared at his phone. Then shook his head and kept walking along the path, smiling to himself despite everything.
Notes:
Phainon & Castorice agenda is REAL! One of my favorite friendships in this fic, along with Hyacine & Phainon, Mydei & Cipher, and Tribios & Anyone. Probably forgetting some XD
Chapter 21: Together, Into the Roaring Fire
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Castorice sat alone at the edge of the courtyard steps, a plastic lunchbox perched neatly on her knees. She wasn’t eating. Just staring down at it, fingers curled lightly under the lid as if she might open it. Or might not.
Hyacine spotted her before she called out. Her pace slowed.
Castorice looked… undecided. Not upset exactly, but still. Her posture was too still, her tray untouched. The bright light caught in her hair and cast a soft shadow over her lap, and something about the quiet focus of it tugged gently at Hyacine’s chest.
She crept up from the side, her own lunch balanced in both hands.
“Is there a debate going on in there?” Hyacine said softly, nodding toward the box.
Castorice blinked, then very slightly smiled. “Just a little one.”
“...What are the sides arguing?”
A pause. Then, dryly: “That it’s food. Versus the possibility that it’s not.”
Hyacine giggled and sat beside her.
She took a careful bite of her sandwich, watching Castorice from the corner of her eye.
“…You seem a little scrunched,” she said around a mouthful. “Like a cat who saw something it didn’t like, but now it’s pretending it didn’t.”
Castorice looked at her. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I saw a cat earlier,” Hyacine said sheepishly. “So are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”
There was a long silence. Castorice lowered her gaze to the box again, her fingers tapping lightly at its side.
“…It’s nothing.”
“Okay,” Hyacine said brightly, like a game had started. “Is it nothing like, ‘I didn’t sleep much,’ or nothing like, ‘I’m secretly the villain in a gothic drama’?”
Castorice gave a very small huff of breath that might’ve been a laugh.
Hyacine leaned over, tilting her head to catch her eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to. I promise I won’t make it weird.”
That made Castorice go still again.
She was quiet for a few seconds longer. Then, in a very small voice:
“I heard some students talking about the wall. The setup for the festival.”
Hyacine blinked. “What, the memory wall?”
Castorice nodded once. “They thought it was… boring. Not ‘hype’ enough.”
A pause. Then: “They didn’t know I was the one doing it.”
Hyacine chewed her lip. “Oh.”
“Then,” Castorice continued, even quieter, “I… looked at it. And all I could see where… the gaps. The places it went wrong.”
“…It’s not a big deal,” she said quickly. “I just overheard something dumb. I’m sure they’ll like it more when it’s finished.”
But her tone was too carefully neutral. Too tightly held.
Hyacine set her lunchbox down and scooched a little closer.
“I think it’s sweet,” she said gently. “It’s not supposed to be perfect, right? Or even hype. It’s about memories. About being here together. That’s what matters.”
Castorice gave her a sideways glance, but didn’t answer.
Hyacine smiled. “If you can make someone remember something beautiful, even a little thing, don’t you think that makes everything worth it?”
“You believe that?”
Hyacine flushed slightly, but nodded. “I really do.”
A pause.
“…You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“I don’t have to.”
That got a small, tiny smile from Castorice. Just barely. But it stayed.
Hyacine leaned back on the steps. “You know,” she said, “if you ever need help with the wall, I could come by. I’m not, like… great at design stuff. But I’m good at taping things to other things. And I’ve got good pens.”
Castorice didn’t answer at first. Her eyes were still on the box, fingers resting lightly against the lid.
“I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Maybe it’s not the right direction after all.”
Hyacine’s smile faded a little. “Do you still like the idea?”
“I… did.” Her voice was soft. “I thought it might mean something. Giving people space to remember. To… share.”
She trailed off.
Hyacine nodded. “Then I think you should keep going. Or - well, you can change it if you want. But not just because of some peoples’ words. They’ll change their minds when it’s done.”
That earned her a small smile.
“I’ll think about it,” Castorice said.
They sat together for a while longer - Hyacine humming a little tune, Castorice still holding the box, her expression unreadable.
But she hadn’t put it down yet.
By the time the sun started dipping, the campus had gone soft at the edges - warm light filtering through old windows, long shadows curling over the courtyard bricks. Phainon barely noticed.
His mind was still stuck somewhere between Cyrene’s annoyingly accurate smirk and the odd mixture of dread and anticipation he felt at being stuck in close proximity to a certain brick wall for hours.
So he didn’t think about it. He'd filled the rest of the day with noise. Helped Tribios hang glittering fabric across the common room ceiling. Delivered three fruit tarts to Aglaea before she could even say “I don’t want a fruit tart, let alone three.” Teased Hyacine and made her turn the color of a strawberry. Poked fun at Castorice’s perfect posture. Laughed too loudly. Kept moving.
Now, though, there was nowhere left to move to. No one left to deflect with.
Just Mydei, a hatch in the ground, and the growing certainty that this was going to be either very boring or very cursed.
Phainon whistled low under his breath. “Gotta say, this is way less dramatic than I pictured. No creaking doors. No ancient runes. Not even a warning sign.”
Beside him, Mydei adjusted the strap of his tool bag without answering.
The entry hatch groaned slightly as Phainon tugged it open. Beyond it, a steep, narrow ladder vanished into shadow.
“After you,” Phainon said cheerfully.
Mydei shot him a look. “You’ve got the flashlight.”
“…So I do.” He clicked it on, the beam cutting a cone through the dust, and hoisted his toolbox up. “This definitely feels like how horror movies start.”
“Then stop talking.”
“Oh? Scared?”
Mydei didn’t dignify that with a response. He gestured toward the ladder.
Phainon began climbing down, still muttering under his breath. “Good. Because I’m not scared. Just alert. Also very sensibly aware of the risk of haunted plumbing systems.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mydei said, following him down. “Climb faster.”
The hatch closed above them with a final clang.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
The metal groaned beneath Phainon’s weight, a hollow echo bouncing off concrete as he climbed down. One step, then another. His flashlight beam danced across old pipes and dusty wiring, glinting off rust.
By the time his boots hit the floor, the air had shifted - cooler, staler, with the weight of silence pressing in. He swept the light ahead: a narrow service corridor stretched forward, walls stained with age, cables snaking along the ceiling like vines.
A few seconds later, Mydei landed beside him with a quiet thud.
They stood there for a beat, both pretending not to notice how close the tunnel forced them to stand.
“Well,” Phainon said, “it’s very… murder-y. You sure this is the right spot?”
Mydei grunted and pulled a folded schematic from his jacket. “These lead to the east mechanical wing. Supposed to check for foundational cracking.”
“That’s the most attractive sentence you’ve ever said to me.”
No answer. Mydei started walking.
Phainon sighed and followed, flashlight beam wobbling a bit as he fell into step. The ceiling dipped low - low enough they had to duck slightly. Footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, dull and hollow.
The silence started growing teeth.
“…So,” Phainon said after a while. “Tunnels. Real interesting.”
Mydei nodded in silence.
They rounded a corner - pipes dripping faintly, one of the walls buckling slightly with moisture. Phainon paused to scan the crack with his light, but his eyes kept drifting sideways.
“I’m just saying,” he said, quieter now, “if we’re gonna be locked in a haunted concrete hallway for the next few hours, maybe we need to… I don’t know. Acknowledge each others’ existence.”
Mydei didn’t stop walking. “I know you exist.”
“Yeah,” Phainon said quickly. “I know. I mean, shouldn’t we… I don’t know. Talk?”
“...What do you want to talk about?”
Phainon closed his mouth, stumped.
Mydei let out a tiny huff of what might’ve been amusement.
They kept walking.
“First stop,” Mydei said as they approached a cracked panel.
Phainon crouched low, tracing the edge with his gloved fingers. The dull hum of old wiring thrummed in the air, mingling with the faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the tunnel.
Mydei knelt beside him, eyes narrowed on a tangle of cables. His hands moved with precision - steady, practiced. Phainon handed him a flashlight without a word, and Mydei’s fingers closed around it as if it was an extension of himself.
They worked in companionable silence, the beam of Phainon’s light bouncing across rusted pipes and faded markings on the concrete walls.
“Here,” Phainon murmured, pointing to a corroded junction box. “This one’s loose. Could be why the sensors keep flickering.”
Mydei nodded and began unscrewing the panel, careful not to disturb the fragile wiring inside.
Phainon watched him for a moment - quiet, thoughtful.
After a long moment, Mydei’s voice cut through the quiet, low and hesitant. “My dad… has his own way of doing things.”
Phainon looked up but said nothing, giving space.
Mydei swallowed, not looking away from the panel. “It’s… complicated.”
Phainon nodded slowly, sensing the weight behind the words.
There was a pause - Mydei’s gaze remained fixed ahead, searching for the right words.
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “To figure things out. But… it’s not simple.”
Phainon offered a small, encouraging smile without pressing, heart pounding at how open Mydei was being.
Minutes of silence passed by, with Phainon not daring to breathe to disturb the delicate peace.
Then, finally - barely - Mydei said, “You shouldn’t’ve had to fix it.”
Phainon blinked.
That… wasn’t what he’d expected.
“…What?”
Mydei didn’t look at him. “You always fix things. Even when you’re the one bleeding.”
“…That's a compliment?”
“It’s an exhausted observation.”
Phainon didn’t answer right away. The tunnel seemed to still around them - pipes hissing faintly, somewhere far off a drop of water falling with a plink.
“…We’re both tired,” Phainon said.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then Phainon smiled, small and crooked. “If you say sorry I’ll say it back.”
Mydei huffed, barely audible. “Not here.”
“Fine. I’ll just write it on a brick and frame it.”
“I’ll throw it at you.”
A faint crack echoed somewhere deeper in the tunnel, making them both jump. Mydei gave a short, humorless laugh.
“See? Haunted plumbing.” Phainon smiled crookedly, trying to break the tension.
Mydei shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward just a little as he returned to the panel.
As he finished, they moved forward again, the beam from Phainon’s flashlight cutting through the darkness as they reached a bend in the corridor. The faint drip of water grew louder, a steady rhythm that seemed to mark their slow progress.
Suddenly, the tunnel shook - deep and guttural, like the earth itself had growled. The vibration rattled the pipes overhead, sending a thin rain of dust and grit into their hair.
Phainon froze mid-breath, the flashlight beam jolting across the damp wall. Somewhere far down the passage, the sound swelled, then faded, leaving only the hiss of steam and the fast, uneven rhythm of his pulse.
“What in Kephale was that?” Phainon hissed, tightening his grip on the flashlight.
Mydei’s eyes darted ahead. “Probably a minor shift. This place isn’t exactly stable.”
Phainon’s breath hitched as a small chunk of debris fell just a few feet from where they stood.
“Let’s backtrack,” Mydei said, voice sharper now. “It came from behind.”
Phainon nodded, heart pounding - not just from the rumble, but because for the first time in a while, they were facing something together.
He’d almost forgotten the way it felt. The rush of adrenaline felt a hundred times more potent with Mydei’s presence by him. All the times he’d chased the thrill - looked for the most dangerous rollercoasters, the craziest amusement park rides, the breaking of rules wherever he could - suddenly, the feeling didn’t feel so potent anymore, compared to what was coursing through his veins right now.
Phainon’s beam flickered as he swept it across the corridor walls, searching for the source of the tremor.
“There,” Mydei said, voice tight. “Look at that.”
A section of the tunnel wall had shifted - a deep crack spiderwebbing outward, bits of concrete crumbling loose. A rusty pipe hung precariously, dripping water onto the floor.
Phainon’s eyes darted to the floor - then froze.
Near their feet, a small, jagged piece of metal lay half-buried in the dust.
“That’s from the panel we were just poking at,” Phainon muttered.
Mydei’s face tightened. “You think we loosened something?”
Phainon swallowed hard. “Yeah. And it’s probably making the whole place unstable.”
A tense silence fell between them.
“Well, we better fix it. Fast,” Mydei said, already kneeling by the cracked wall, pulling out his toolkit.
Phainon took a deep breath, trying to steady the thrum of panic in his chest.
“We’re going to have to trust each other on this,” he said quietly.
Mydei looked up to meet his, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “No more running from it.”
Phainon exhaled and crouched beside the fracture, shining his light over the damaged pipe. “Okay, so we can’t exactly replace that on the spot.”
Mydei rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. “No. But if we don’t support it, it’ll collapse for sure.”
Phainon glanced around the cramped tunnel, then at the toolkit. “Do we have rods? Wedge them in to hold the wall?”
Mydei shook his head. “No.”
“We could use the tools,” Phainon suggested reluctantly.
Mydei tilted his head. “Could work. We’ll need something to keep the pipe from swinging loose.”
Phainon pulled a coil of wire from the kit. “This? We can wrap it tight around the pipe and the rods. Kind of like a makeshift splint.”
Mydei took the wire, pulling on both ends to test its strength. “Not exactly elegant.”
Phainon shot him a mock glare. “Hey, elegant doesn’t keep tunnels from collapsing.”
Mydei nodded. “To work.”
Phainon’s hands trembled slightly as he lined up two spare crowbars, wedging the first one firmly under a low beam. The tunnel groaned again - louder this time - dust raining down.
“We don’t have much time,” Mydei said urgently as he tightened a wire around the pipe. “If that pipe breaks, it could flood this whole corridor, or worse.”
Sweat prickled at Phainon’s brow despite the chill. The metal hissed under tension as he jammed the second crowbar under the beam.
The crowbar immediately began sliding backward on the rough concrete ground, and Phainon resisted, muscles straining. “Mydei! Can you get something heavy to jam this up?”
Mydei glanced over from his work. “Hang on.”
A sudden creak echoed above, and the whole tunnel shivered. Phainon froze, breath caught.
“Almost there…” Mydei said, steady despite the shaking.
With one final twist, the wire held. The pipe settled, no longer swaying. Without hesitation, Mydei ripped a particularly loose chunk of concrete out of the floor. “Move your hand on three.”
“I swear, if you crush my fingers - Kephale!” Phainon yanked his hand backward just as Mydei forced the chunk of concrete firmly into the crowbar. It groaned but stayed firm, supporting the cracked wall enough for now.
Phainon exhaled slowly. “That’s a good sound.”
“Should hold for now,” Mydei said, but didn’t sound convinced. “Don’t forget to write this in the report.”
The tunnel settled into an uneasy quiet, the dust slowly drifting down like exhausted confetti.
Phainon lowered the flashlight, wiping a streak of sweat from his brow. “So,” he said, voice lighter, “does this make us partners in crime?”
Mydei exhaled, the tension loosening just a little.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the tunnel’s machinery and the distant drip of water echoing through the passages.
“Look,” Mydei said suddenly, quickly, like he wanted to get it over with. “I know I’ve been distant. It’s not that I don’t care. I just -”
Phainon shook his head gently. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” Mydei said quietly, looking oddly vulnerable. “Not fully. But I’m trying. And maybe… you might need to have… patience. With me.”
Phainon suddenly couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat.
“Of course,” he finally managed. “I’ll wait. As long as you need.”
For once, Mydei let himself meet Phainon’s gaze, unguarded.
“Thanks,” he said.
They’d made it a full six yards away when a faint hiss reached their ears. At first Phainon thought it was the settling concrete - then Mydei’s head snapped toward the sound.
“That’s pressure,” he said sharply.
Phainon’s stomach tightened. “From where?”
They turned in unison. Down the corridor, just past the cracked wall, a junction box was leaking steam from a hairline gap in its casing. The hiss grew sharper by the second.
“That’s the heating line,” Mydei said grimly. “If it blows -”
“- we’re cooked,” Phainon finished.
They ran toward it, boots splashing in shallow puddles, the air already warm against their faces. Mydei dropped to one knee, flipping open the panel efficiently. Inside, a valve wheel wobbled in its housing, steam forcing its way through the seals.
“We can’t shut it off from here,” Mydei said quickly, scanning the cramped tangle of pipes. “We’ll have to pinch the pressure before it reaches the main line.”
Phainon leaned over his shoulder. “Two points of pressure. At the same time.”
Mydei’s eyes met his, the unspoken can I trust you? loud in the charged air.
“I’ll take the left,” Phainon said before the doubt could fester.
“Count it,” Mydei ordered, moving to the right-side valve.
Phainon crouched into position, hands on the rusted handle. Steam licked at his gloves. He nodded once. “Three… two… one -”
The metal screamed under the force as they turned together. Steam shot sideways, nearly scalding Phainon’s cheek, but the wheel groaned into place.
“Hold - don’t stop,” Mydei said through clenched teeth. “Give it five seconds.”
They counted in their heads. Phainon’s muscles burned, and for a moment he feared his grip would slip - then he felt the pressure ease, the hiss fading.
“Now!” Mydei shouted.
They released the valves at the same time. The silence that followed was so sudden it rang in Phainon’s ears.
They looked at each other, both breathing hard.
“That,” Phainon said, “was dangerously close to boiling us alive.”
“Mm,” Mydei replied, breath still heavy. “This is more dangerous than I expected.”
The patch job held, for now. The groaning of the wall faded to a sullen silence, but the air still felt heavy with threat.
Phainon straightened, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. “We could… y’know… turn back. Report the problems, get them to send in a full crew with proper support. No one would blame us.”
Mydei nodded, looking around. “Would probably be smarter.”
“Way smarter,” Phainon echoed, glancing down the shadowed tunnel. “Less chance of us getting crushed.”
Mydei stood, brushing dust from his gloves. “Also eliminates the risk of getting exploded or drowned.”
They locked eyes for a moment, both of them already knowing where this was headed.
Phainon’s mouth curved into a crooked grin. “Would be really stupid if we kept going, wouldn’t it.”
“Really dangerous,” Mydei agreed. “The walk back isn’t that long, either.”
Without another word, they both turned toward the darkness ahead, flashlights cutting narrow beams through the dust.
Phainon laughed under his breath. “Kephale help us.”
As their boots clunked over cement and metal grates, Phainon found himself thinking about the first time they’d worked together - how cold it was, how easily they’d blamed each other for mistakes. Now, they’d just done two fixes back-to-back without a single fight.
It shouldn’t have felt like such a big deal. But it did.
He cleared his throat. “Guess I forgot how it feels when we’re… not trying to kill each other.”
Mydei didn’t look at him, but Phainon caught the flicker of a smile in his voice. “Don’t get used to it.”
The darkness ahead seemed to breathe with them, each step echoing sharply.
Suddenly Phainon froze.
“Do you hear that?”
A low hiss rolled through the tunnel, rising fast to a roar. Mydei’s head snapped toward the sound just as a violent gush of water burst from the pipe ahead, tearing loose a curtain of dust and debris.
“Back!” Mydei shouted - then swore. “Nikador, we can’t. The patch job!”
Phainon’s flashlight darted to the rear. The crack they’d braced was already shaking, thin dust streaming over the crowbars. One hard shake, and the whole thing might collapse behind them.
“We go forward,” Phainon said, already moving.
The water surged toward them, ankle-deep in seconds. The cold bit through his boots, numbing his legs. Mydei was right on his heels, toolkit thudding against his hip with every stride.
They vaulted over a fallen beam, water slamming into their shins. The tunnel ahead sloped down, making the current stronger.
Phainon grabbed Mydei’s arm before he could slip. “Left - up there!” He pointed to a narrow maintenance alcove halfway up the wall.
The two scrambled for the ledge, boots skidding on wet concrete. Mydei shoved the toolkit up first, then hauled Phainon by the wrist until they both collapsed into the cramped recess, chests heaving.
Below them, the flood churned past, carrying away dust, bits of metal, and - Phainon realized with a shiver - anything too slow to move. The roar of rushing water filled the tunnel, vibrating through the concrete under their boots.
Mydei wiped the spray from his face. “This isn’t just a leak. That’s a full burst line.”
Phainon peered into the current, jaw tight. “If we leave it, it’ll hit the fracture behind us and bring the whole corridor down.”
“We have to plug it.” Mydei paused. “…or find a way to make it go somewhere else.”
Phainon’s gaze darted to the toolkit. “We’ve got more wire, ropes, a patch plate, and -” He yanked out a folded sheet of industrial plastic. “This. Could wrap it around the pipe and bind it?”
Mydei shook his head. “Not with that pressure. It’ll tear straight through.”
The water climbed higher below their alcove. Phainon’s pulse kicked harder. “Then we need to give it another way out. Maybe -” He scanned the tunnel, eyes landing on a corroded drainage grate embedded in the floor downstream. “There!”
Mydei followed his gaze, lips thinning. “It’s clogged solid. We’d have to clear it.”
Phainon’s grin was sharp and breathless. “Better than drowning.”
Mydei smirked despite the chaos. “I’ll keep the water off you. You clear the grate.”
“And if I get swept away?”
“You won’t,” Mydei said simply.
That flicker of trust burned in Phainon’s chest again - melting through any fear he might’ve had. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
Phainon grabbed a heavy wrench from the toolkit and slipped down from the alcove, boots hitting the slick floor with a splash. The cold water seeped into his socks, but adrenaline kept him steady.
“Watch your step,” Mydei called from above, fingers tight around Phainon’s arm. “Don’t let the current catch you.”
Phainon nodded, inching toward the clogged grate. Rusted metal bars stuck out like broken teeth, tangled with debris and sludge.
Grunting, he wedged the wrench between the bars, levering against the worst clogs - rotten leaves, scraps of old cloth, chunks of concrete.
The water surged faster, slapping his legs and making it harder to breathe. One careless step would send him sprawling.
Above, Mydei shifted his weight anxiously, ready to pull Phainon back if the water’s strength won out.
A stubborn piece of debris popped free, slamming into the water with a splash. The current slowed, rippling differently around the grate.
Phainon’s breath caught in his throat. “It’s working… but not fast enough!”
Mydei’s voice cut through the roar. “Keep at it! I’ve got your back!”
With renewed effort, Phainon pried and pulled, fingers slick and trembling. The grate began to clear, water draining faster, receding slightly.
Then, with a final heave, a large, tangled mass broke free, swirling away in the flood.
Phainon staggered back toward the alcove, heart hammering.
Mydei caught his arm, steady and sure. “You did it.”
Phainon grinned, exhausted but alive. “ We did it.”
The water level stopped rising, even dipping a little.
Phainon frowned. “Wait, why is it stopping?”
Mydei looked pensive. “We turned off the section. It must’ve shut the water supply too.”
They exchanged a long look - equal parts relief and something deeper.
Phainon leaned back against the damp wall, feeling the ache in his shoulders catch up with him. The quiet felt strange after the roar of the water.
“…You didn’t let go,” he murmured.
Mydei’s expression shifted, the barest flicker. “Why would I?”
The sound of the water beneath them felt a world away.
“I don’t know.” Phainon’s voice cracked; he cleared it quickly. “Guess I’m just… not used to it.”
Mydei’s grip tightened just slightly, thumb brushing once over the damp fabric at Phainon’s sleeve before letting go - steady, deliberate. “Get used to it.”
For a moment, neither of them moved - just the faint echo of water and the slow, steady rhythm of breath.
Phainon cleared his throat again, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. “The, uh. The water’s all gone now. We can… keep going.”
Mydei blinked, as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Oh. Uh, yeah.”
He dropped from the alcove, his boots thudding against the concrete. Phainon followed suit, and they shifted back into motion, boots splashing through the shallow water as the tunnel stretched ahead, dark and endless.
For hours, Phainon and Mydei navigated the tangled veins of the underground service tunnels, their footsteps echoing steadily against concrete and stone. The initial adrenaline had faded, replaced by the steady drone of routine checks and careful observation. They methodically inspected pipe joints, tested sensor calibrations, and monitored pressure gauges blinking faintly in the dim light. The cold, damp air clung to their jackets, carrying the faint scent of earth, metal, and something else - a sulfurous tang that neither mentioned aloud.
Phainon paused at one panel, flicking a flashlight beam over its cracked surface. “This section’s been holding better since the valve shut off the water flow. But the pressure readings are still... weird.” He tapped the gauge, brows furrowed.
Mydei joined him, scanning the nearby wall. His light caught something - tiny, glittering flecks embedded just beneath the chipped concrete surface. “Amethyst, maybe?” he guessed. “Seems like there are little mineral veins running under some of these walls.”
Phainon nodded slowly, intrigued. “Cyrene used to be obsessed with crystals. Once she bought an aventurine stone because it was supposed to be lucky.”
Mydei snorted. “I remember that. How’d that turn out for her?”
Phainon grinned. “I think she got rained on the very next day.”
They moved on, the tunnel narrowing as it wound deeper underground. Occasionally, the faintest hum vibrated through the floor beneath their boots, making them jump.
Near a sealed-off maintenance hatch, Phainon ran a hand over the cool metal. The surface shimmered faintly in the flashlight’s beam, reflections bending oddly.
The walls ahead were unusually thick, reinforced heavily with concrete and steel. The tunnel’s path curved sharply here, disappearing behind an imposing, reinforced barrier.
Phainon glanced at the barrier, then back. “Huh.”
Phainon and Mydei’s footsteps echoed softly as they pressed onward, deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. The hum of machinery and distant dripping water filled the silence, and Phainon got the sudden feeling they were in the belly of some sort of mechanical beast.
“Last stop,” Mydei said, pushing open a rusty bulkhead door.
Ahead, the corridor opened into a wider chamber, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and metal. Panels lined the walls, flickering faintly as sensors scanned tirelessly.
Phainon adjusted the flashlight, eyes scanning the control panel’s steady readouts. “Well, nothing here’s about to explode or flood us. You’re welcome.”
Mydei didn’t look up. “Congrats. I was worried for a second.”
Phainon grinned. “Hey, I’m full of surprises. I didn’t even press the big red button today.”
Mydei snorted. “That’s a low bar, even for you.”
“Low bar, high stakes,” Phainon said, waving a hand like he’d just dropped some wisdom.
Mydei shook his head, approaching the panels. “You should consider a career in motivational speaking.”
“I get that a lot,” Phainon agreed. “Mostly from people who want me to shut up. Okay, I’ll take pressure gauges - make sure the water flow is steady and nothing’s creeping up past normal levels.”
Mydei sighed, glancing briefly at a digital readout. “I’ll handle the sensor calibrations and check the alarm systems. These are so old they should’ve issued replacements a decade ago.”
Phainon crouched by a row of dials, tapping one lightly. “This one’s only a little past the red zone. That’s fine, right?”
“That’s not fine,” Mydei said flatly, moving over to squint at it.
“Fine-adjacent, then.”
“Stop inventing categories for danger.”
Phainon grinned. “If we don’t categorize our impending doom, how will we know what mood to panic in?”
Mydei muttered something under his breath, fingers flying over the calibration panel. “Sometimes I wonder if you came down here specifically to be a distraction.”
“You’re just jealous of my smoldering personality,” Phainon joked.
“ Jealous would imply I wanted it.”
They moved into their tasks, the quiet hum of the control room wrapping around them as they worked.
Mydei adjusted a dial, his fingers lingering longer than usual.
After a breath, he said quietly, “You know… it’s not just me. My dad - he went through a lot, too. Stuff he never talked about.”
Phainon didn’t say anything right away, just listened.
Mydei’s voice dropped lower, almost to himself. “I think that’s part of why he was so… distant. Like he was carrying something he couldn’t put down.”
Phainon nodded slowly.
Mydei’s hands clenched slightly around the tool he held. “It’s like… it’s not just about me breaking the cycle. I think he’s stuck in it, too. Trying to hold it together, but… yeah.”
Phainon swallowed, the usual silence filling the space between them. He wasn’t stupid enough to miss the obvious plea in Mydei’s words.
You need help, he tried to ask through his eyes.
Mydei’s eyes flickered back. Please , they seemed to say.
But you won’t say it aloud, Phainon continued. You can’t.
No.
So what do you need?
Mydei faltered. I don’t know. I… I need to know I’m strong. Even when I need help.
Phainon stared intently into his eyes, trying to get the message across. You are strong. You are the strongest person I know. I can’t imagine a person more capable after going through so much.
Mydei’s cheeks turned faintly red, and he quickly turned away.
Thanks, he said with a quick glance.
Phainon fixed him with a stare. Mydei.
What? He looked defensive.
I mean it.
…I know?
Phainon glared. No, Mydei. I mean it.
I know. Mydei turned back to his work.
“Mydei!” Phainon snapped.
“What?!”
Phainon met his eyes again. I mean it.
“I know!” Mydei barked, turning away.
But Phainon could see the suspiciously shiny gleam in his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of the machinery filled the space between them, warm and low, like it was holding the moment in place. Mydei’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking down to the panel as if the neat rows of numbers could anchor him.
He took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back - trying, maybe, to tuck whatever Phainon had just cracked open somewhere safe.
Then, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “So. Uh. Sensors are all good.”
Phainon nodded, too quickly. “Pressure’s good too.”
They powered down separate panels, the switches clicking softly in near unison. The sound seemed louder in the quiet hum of the room.
Phainon glanced up at the same time Mydei did, their eyes meeting over the dim glow of the controls. Just a faint acknowledgment, a quiet we’re good .
Phainon leaned against the panel for a beat longer than necessary, letting his eyes sweep over the place - the rows of gauges, the faint tang of machine oil, the steady green glow from the indicators. All so ordinary. All so familiar.
Mydei closed his toolkit with a muted snap, but didn’t make for the door. His gaze drifted along the walls, as if memorizing the pattern of pipes.
“I wonder when the next people to come down here will be,” Phainon mused.
“Good luck to them,” Mydei muttered. “Let’s hope they don’t get blasted with water like we did.”
They briefly made eye contact, and Phainon’s gaze said what he’d tried to say before, what he wanted to say for so many years. I see you.
And this time, Mydei didn’t deflect. Didn’t look away.
His mouth quirked into a small smile. He gave the smallest nod - not just an answer, but a quiet I believe you .
It sat between them like a promise.
Mydei finally moved toward the door, and Phainon fell in step beside him. Their footsteps echoed against the narrow corridor, just a fraction slower than usual, like neither of them was in a hurry to reach the stairs.
At the threshold, Phainon looked back once - at the neat rows of panels, at the dim room they’d leave behind. Mydei followed his gaze.
Then, without a word, they stepped out together.
The heavy door swung shut behind them with a slow, final clunk, sealing the room - and everything they’d left in it - away.
Cold air met them as they climbed out of the hatch, boots scraping against the metal rungs. The sudden openness of the night sky felt almost jarring after hours in the tunnels.
Phainon pulled himself out first, stretching exaggeratedly. “Ahhh, fresh air. You know, they should really pump this stuff underground.”
Mydei emerged a moment later, brushing dust from his sleeves. “I’m sure that’s exactly how air circulation works.”
Phainon grinned, leaning on the hatch. “Could be. I’m an idea guy, not a science guy.”
“You’re barely a guy,” Mydei muttered, but it lacked bite.
Phainon smirked. “You’re just jealous of my -”
“Don’t say 'smoldering personality’ again,” Mydei cut in, locking the hatch.
“…I was gonna say rugged charm, actually.”
Mydei gave him a side glance. “Let’s go before you run out of bad lines.”
“Impossible,” Phainon said, falling into step beside him.
“Ramen?” He offered after a moment. “On me.”
Mydei huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I could eat right now.”
And as they walked on, side by side, the night didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.
The memory wall filled nearly an entire wall, an uneven mosaic of paper, photographs, and faded ribbons. Castorice stood a few feet back from it, hands folded loosely in front of her, eyes tracing the patchwork without really seeing any of it. In the soft afternoon light, each pin and crease seemed bigger than usual, each little flaw ten times its size.
Over the past few days, her pile of memories had grown and grown.
A day ago, she would’ve felt proud.
But now, she didn’t know whether she should return them to their owners.
…They never belonged to her, after all.
The door creaked open behind her.
Two volunteers stepped in, talking quietly as they carried a half-full cardboard box between them. They set it down with a muted thud on the table near the wall.
“Oh, wow,” one of them murmured, looking up at the display. “This thing’s… bigger than I expected.”
Her friend crouched beside the box and started rifling through the contents. “Guess we’re supposed to help sort through these? Might as well make it look nice for the festival.”
Castorice stayed still, her gaze fixed on a crooked photograph near the center of the wall.
The standing volunteer plucked a wrinkled flyer from the box and frowned. “This one’s kind of depressing.” She gave a half-shrug toward her friend. “Maybe we should just put up the happy ones. Good vibes only, right?”
The other nodded in agreement, pulling out a creased note with smudged ink. “Yeah. Some of this stuff is just… sad. People don’t want to see that.”
Castorice’s fingers curled slightly against her leg. She felt the words rising before she could stop them - her chest tightening with the unfamiliar desire to speak, tied to a certain small, bright presence who had a habit of filling quiet spaces without realizing.
“No.”
Both volunteers froze, looking over at her for the first time. She hadn’t moved from her spot, but the word hung there, firmer than she’d intended.
“Uh - sorry,” one of them said, glancing between her and the wall. “Are you…?”
“I’m the one putting this together.” Her voice was quiet, but steady now, even with her pulse pounding in her ears. “It’s not about happy or sad. It’s about remembering. All of it. If we start picking and choosing, we’re not really telling the story.”
The volunteers exchanged a glance - uncertain, but respectful. Without another word, they began setting the pieces they’d pulled aside back into the box.
When the door clicked shut behind them, the silence returned, deeper now. Castorice stepped forward, pulling the box closer. Piece by piece, she began pinning items to the wall - careful, deliberate, making sure each one stayed where it belonged.
She’d made up her mind.
Near the top, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small strip of paper she’d been carrying for days. The handwriting was hers, neat but deliberate:
Every feeling belongs here.
She pinned it in the center, above everything else, and stepped back. The wall didn’t look perfect.
But it looked honest.
A little step forward.
And she turned to leave, Hyacine’s voice echoed in her head. Don’t you think that makes everything worth it?
As Castorice slipped out, Cipher stepped into the room unnoticed, her footsteps careful, almost hesitant. Her eyes settled on the memory wall - the chaotic collage of photos, notes, and ribbons that somehow felt less like clutter and more like a quiet declaration.
She moved closer, breathing in the faint scent of paper and something else - something softer, like the smell of memories. Her gaze caught on a small strip of paper near the top, its neat handwriting almost whispering to her.
Every feeling belongs here.
Her throat tightened. The words felt like a balm and a challenge all at once. Cipher’s fingers twitched, reaching out but stopping just short of touching the paper.
She wasn’t stupid. No, she knew how repressed she was. How many feelings she bottled up, carefully tucked away in a corner just beyond the soft spot of her heart - where she wouldn’t let anyone see, let alone herself.
She was afraid.
Afraid of what would happen if she let them loose.
Who wasn’t?
But here, in this room, with the quiet strength Castorice had left behind, she felt something shift inside her. A small, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to hide so much.
Her gaze dropped to the pocket of her jacket. Fingers brushed against something small and familiar - a crumpled ticket stub from a concert long ago, shared with Aglaea before… everything that happened.
Without giving herself a chance to overthink, she pulled it free and smoothed it carefully, then pinned it near the bottom of the wall, among the scattered memories.
She stepped back and watched the flickering shadows stretch across the wall. The quiet in the room felt heavier now, filled with things unspoken but not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
For a long moment, Cipher stood still, caught between the weight of what was and the fragile hope of what could be.
And then, without a sound, she let herself breathe.
Somewhere beyond the doorway, unbeknownst to Cipher, a pink shadow shifted and stilled again.
Cyrene paused just outside the campus gates, the soft glow of the twinkling stars washing over the familiar grounds. The air was calm, carrying the quiet promise of a night untouched by worry.
She smiled to herself, feeling a quiet lightness in her chest. Cipher had finally let some walls down today, something Cyrene had hoped for but never pushed. Mydei and Phainon were finding their way back to each other, just as she knew they would. And Aglaea… that was a story to be read another day.
Her visit had done its work. Now it was time to step back.
“Good luck,” she murmured, voice warm and edged with her usual teasing lilt. “Phainon, Mydei, Cipher, Aglaea. Time to run your own race.”
With a contented sigh, she slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and started walking down the road. No hesitation, no looking back - just steady steps forward, leaving the campus bathed in starlight behind her, knowing that the people she cared about were exactly where they needed to be.
The night stretched wide and open, full of possibilities. Everything she had seen tonight - the walls that had been lowered, the hearts finding their way - would remain, quietly waiting for the next chapter.
And, stronger than ever, Cyrene felt that unwavering certainty: the world was moving forward, and so would they.
A quiet promise that everything was going to be just fine.
Notes:
Fun fact, of all the chapter names I've had the absolute pleasure of coming up with, this one's my favorite so far! I'd HIGHLY recommend making overly poetic chapter titles for your longform fics; it's unbelievably fun. I took a lot of inspiration from Star Rail's version names. They're so over-the-top but so beautiful.
Chapter 22: Before the Climb
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
ONE MONTH LATER
Hyacine hummed softly, crouched by the low bookshelf, a small pile of mismatched mugs at her side. Saturday sunlight spilled lazily through the tall windows, dust motes drifting in the warm glow.
The Nook had gotten… a little chaotic. Between late-night study sessions, casual hangouts, and the occasional impromptu nap, clutter had quietly accumulated. Not that anyone cared. That was part of the Nook’s charm.
She lifted a notebook from the floor, its cover smudged with fingerprints and doodles. Scribbled notes in a familiar, looping hand peeked out - Castorice’s, no doubt, left behind after one of her silent bursts of study. Hyacine smiled and set it neatly on the shelf, right next to a stack of music scores Tribios had abandoned after a marathon guitar session.
A stray jacket caught her eye, draped over the back of a chair like it had simply grown there. She tucked it into the corner with gentle care, noting the burn marks Phainon had left on the chair leg from losing his grip on his cool new lighter.
A pile of half-finished sandwiches and mugs with remnants of tea or coffee formed a small, organized chaos on the coffee table. Hyacine carefully wiped the crumbs into a paper towel, giggling at the memory of Mydei sneaking in and nearly toppling the pile while trying to reach for a stray pen.
Somewhere along the way, she found a tiny figurine, perhaps a token someone had forgotten, standing atop a stack of textbooks like it had been guarding knowledge. She placed it on the shelf, right beside a photograph of her, Tribios, and Aglaea laughing together during a late-night planning session.
Each item, each misplaced bit of paper, scarf, or mug, told a little story.
Hyacine leaned back, surveying her tidy-but-still-lively work. The room hummed with quiet familiarity. Here were the remnants of laughter, study, music, and tiny, invisible acts of care.
She perched on the arm of the sofa, letting her fingers brush the spine of a forgotten book, and sighed. “Cozy chaos,” she whispered to herself, smiling.
The door flung open with zero ceremony.
“- and then the duck looks at me - looks at me - and goes, ‘Your existential dread is valid but irrelevant to the revolution.’ What does that mean ?”
Cipher stomped into the room, hands gesturing wildly, still mid-debate with the unionized poultry of her dreams. Her hoodie was slipping off one shoulder, and she had mismatched socks on - one striped, one possibly stolen from Tribios.
Castorice followed a few paces behind, unbothered and holding two mugs. “Maybe they’re anarcho-socialist ducks,” she offered mildly, as if this were the most obvious conclusion in the world.
Hyacine blinked, half-crouched beside the bookshelf with a stack of cleaned mugs in her hands.
“Oh - um - good morning?”
Cipher pointed dramatically. “No, no, you don’t understand. These ducks were organized. They had a Zoom call . In my brain.”
Hyacine giggled. “That sounds messy.”
She didn’t say the rest of her words - didn’t say how good it felt to see Cipher like this again. Loud, theatrical, unashamed. Fully herself. The sparkle in her eyes wasn’t hiding something sharp underneath anymore. It was just… sparkle.
The change had been slow and quiet, slower and quieter than Cipher ever liked to be - but Hyacine had seen it in all the small ways. In how she lingered longer in the room now. In the way she rolled her eyes with affection instead of defensiveness. In how she sometimes let herself take up space without using it as a shield.
Cipher flopped onto the couch like gravity owed her something. “I wish this was normal. Castorice gave me that weird tea again - don't deny it, I saw you humming while you steeped it. That means it’s cursed.”
“I hummed because I was trying not to laugh,” Castorice replied, setting a mug in front of her and settling gracefully onto the floor. “You were talking to your spoon.”
“Because it winked at me!”
Hyacine pressed her sleeves to her face, trying to muffle her laughter.
Cipher narrowed her eyes. “Are you all conspiring to gaslight me into the duck uprising?”
“Of course,” Castorice replied, perfectly straight-faced.
“Unbelievable,” Cipher muttered, taking a sip of the very tea she’d just accused of being a potion. “Delicious.”
Hyacine set her mug down, then immediately forgot about it and started rearranging the couch pillows with great urgency. “What if the ducks are already here,” she suggested, “but in disguise?”
Castorice nodded. “That one,” she said, pointing to the lamp, “has been staring at us all morning.”
Cipher followed her finger, narrowed her eyes at the lamp, and made a slicing motion across her neck. “We take it out at dawn.”
Hyacine giggled so hard she fell sideways onto the couch, bumping into Cipher.
“I’m fine,” she said from somewhere under a pillow.
“No one asked,” Cipher replied, making no effort to move as Hyacine’s arm flopped over her like a blanket.
Castorice tucked her legs underneath her and took a slow sip of tea. “This feels like a sleepover,” she said absently. “A very cursed one.”
“The best kind,” Cipher pointed out.
Hyacine popped up, smiling.
Cipher was healing.
She didn’t need to announce it. No one did.
But Hyacine could feel it - the difference between who Cipher had been when she first arrived… and who she was now.
Still Cipher. But lighter.
And that, more than anything, made Hyacine’s heart feel full.
Cipher leaned farther back, legs sprawled across the cushions like she owned the place. “Anyway, the ducks were pacing. Real organized.”
Hyacine laughed. “The bread rations weren’t enough?”
Castorice didn’t look up from her mug. “They’ll want dental next.”
Cipher pointed at her, impressed. “See? That’s real-world thinking. That’s why you’re on the strategy team.”
Hyacine giggled again, setting her mug down a little too fast. It clinked against the table, just slightly off-balance. She winced and brought her hand to her temple for the briefest moment, two fingers pressing gently, like trying to smooth out a wrinkle behind her eyes.
Castorice caught it.
Her brow furrowed - just barely - but her gaze lingered, concerned. She opened her mouth.
“Hyacine -”
“Oooh!” Hyacine said cheerfully, completely missing the intent. “If the ducks are unionizing, do they have strike songs? Do they march around the pond singing ‘Bread and Quackers’?”
Cipher let out a wheeze. “She’s weaponized puns before breakfast.”
Hyacine laughed and let the rhythm of the conversation sweep her back in. It was so much easier - to keep moving, to laugh along, to throw herself at the moment. She settled on the arm of the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest and ignoring the ache behind her eyes. Nothing dramatic. Just… a long week. A long month.
“Did you sleep?” Castorice asked suddenly, her voice quiet - not concerned exactly, but edged with that soft dryness she used when she already knew the answer.
“Technically!” Hyacine chirped. “I closed my eyes while thinking about everything I needed to do, and I dreamed about to-do lists’ wardrobes.”
Castorice gave her a look.
Cipher flopped farther down the couch like gravity owed her a favor. “I’m going back to bed if no one gives me a sandwich. I will die here. I’m warning everyone now.”
“I’ll make you one in a minute,” Hyacine said, standing up and stretching her arms over her head with a small hum. “But only if you promise not to unionize in the kitchen.”
“No promises,” Cipher said, dead serious. “I have grievances. You put the mustard next to the jam. That’s a war crime.”
“Those were different shelves!”
“They were inches apart, Hyacine. Do you want me to start refrigerating the peanut butter? Because that’s how anarchy starts.”
“I’d leave,” Castorice said simply.
Cipher smirked. “You’d miss me.”
“You’d wake up and I’d be gone.”
“Haunting…”
Hyacine giggled, padding toward the corner she’d deemed a kitchen (but was really just a table with ingredients for PB&J sandwiches piled on top). “You’re both impossible.”
“You say that,” Cipher called after her, “but if I ever bite into a peanut butter sandwich and find out it’s crunchy, I will transcend this mortal plane in a puff of spite and rage.”
“That wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen in here this month,” Castorice pointed out.
“Oh?” Cipher perked up. “Do tell.”
Castorice sipped her tea. “Tribios.”
Cipher nodded like that explained everything. “Ohhhhh. Gotcha.”
Hyacine peeked back around the corner. “Which part?”
“All of it,” Castorice said.
“Do you mean the time she convinced a professor to let her submit a sound collage as an exam?”
“Or when she taped forks to her shoes for ‘music-based locomotion,” Castorice added. “For maximum floor resonation.”
Cipher looked appropriately horrified and impressed. “Did it work?”
“No,” they both said simultaneously.
“But she did scrape a B,” Hyacine added, returning with a sandwich balanced on a floral plate. “So technically, yes?”
Cipher accepted the plate like it was holy. “To Tribios: patron saint of unearned success.”
“I think she’d be honored,” Castorice murmured.
Hyacine just laughed, soft and easy, and for a moment the room felt like the center of the universe - warm, ridiculous, and exactly enough.
Aglaea sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a neat semi-circle of highlighters, notes, and precisely labeled folders. Her laptop screen glowed with rows of stage plots and blocking cues, the cursor blinking patiently beside a half-finished lighting note.
She barely noticed the sun shifting on the carpet or the quiet hum of the hallway. Her pen moved with mechanical precision. There was still so much to do before the festival - so many pieces that hadn’t locked into place yet. She could almost feel the pressure breathing down her neck, coiled and expectant.
She didn’t look up when the door creaked open.
Didn’t look up when footsteps padded closer.
Didn’t look up when someone cleared their throat with dramatic flair.
But she did look up when a socked foot nudged a jellybean across the floor toward her, slow and baiting.
“Tribios,” she said flatly.
Tribios grinned from where she crouched across the room, chin on her knees like some kind of oversized gremlin. “Hello, General.”
Aglaea didn’t answer. She turned back to her laptop.
Tribios rolled forward, boneless and slow, until she lay flat on her stomach beside her. “I bring tribute from the sacred pantry. A peace bean, if you will.”
Aglaea sighed through her nose. “I’m working.”
“Mmhm,” Tribios said, popping another jellybean into her mouth. “You’ve been ‘I’m working’-ing since sunrise. That’s at least three hours of continuous scheduling. You’re going to sprain your posture.”
“I don’t have time for a break.”
“I’m not suggesting a break. I’m suggesting a reboot. Like when a phone gets hot and starts making weird noises.”
“I am not a phone.”
Tribios nodded solemnly. “That’s exactly what a hot phone would say.”
Aglaea sighed, giving up. “Fine. Five more minutes.”
“Perfect! I’ll use four and a half.” Tribios sprawled out fully on the carpet now, legs kicking idly behind her like she was posing for a calendar.
“I meant that I’ll stop in five minutes, not that -”
“Did you know if you stare at the lighting plot long enough, it starts to look like the outline of a screaming man?”
Aglaea stared at her.
“Or maybe a goat,” Tribios said thoughtfully. “Unclear.”
Aglaea shook her head, but her mouth twitched.
They fell into a rhythm of near-silence: the occasional rustle of papers, the soft chewing of jellybeans, and Aglaea trying very hard not to engage.
“You know,” Tribios said eventually, voice muffled by the carpet, “you’re good at this.”
“At ignoring you?”
“At running things.”
Aglaea rolled her eyes.
“No, really,” Tribios continued, now lying halfway on top of one of Aglaea’s folders like it was a mattress. “You show up with your clipboard and your very judgey hair bun and everyone just… folds. Like origami. One guy apologized to a paint can after you walked past.”
Aglaea stared at her.
Tribios twirled the pen. “He said, ‘Sorry, I’ll fix it, ma’am,’ and the light laughed at him.”
Aglaea pressed her lips together. “You’re making this up.”
Tribios just wiggled her eyebrows.
Then, softer: “You’re also into it.”
Aglaea blinked. “Into what?”
“The whole thing.” Tribios gestured vaguely. “Running the show. Bossing us around. Having answers. It’s weirdly satisfying, right? Like when a puzzle piece finally fits, but the puzzle is made of humans and everyone’s glued to each other for some reason.”
Aglaea looked back at her notes.
Tribios tilted her head. “Not in a bad way. You’re good at it. You get stuff done. And the rest of us? We’re like… houseplants. We grow better when someone’s breathing down our necks and regularly watering us.”
Aglaea almost laughed - but didn’t.
Instead, she traced the edge of a folder with one finger. “...I didn’t think I’d like it.”
“Leading?”
“Working with people.”
Tribios nodded like she’d already known that. “What changed?”
“I don’t know.” Aglaea paused. “I expected it to be messy. And it is. But… it’s good mess.”
Tribios’s eyes closed in bliss. “Ahhh, there it is. Beautiful. ‘Good mess.’ You see the shapes now? How all the chaos just… creates ? Why else would a human be different from the rocks they’re standing on? Life is a good mess.”
Aglaea didn’t respond right away. She just nodded, slowly, still turning the words over. Sometimes Tribios seemed to be wise beyond her years.
Tribios stretched luxuriously, still half-crushing a folder. “Next thing you know, you’ll be color-coding us.”
…And sometimes she was just wise within her years. “I already am.”
Tribios cracked one eye open. “Wait, seriously?”
Aglaea lifted her clipboard. “You’re orange.”
Tribios beamed. “I knew I was citrus-coded!”
The auditorium was quiet in the way only early mornings could be - sunlight angling in through the high windows, catching on dust and woodgrain, everything golden and still.
To Mydei, it didn’t used to look like this.
A month ago, it had been a wreck. Scorched walls, melted wiring, half the floor unusable. The skeleton of a building. He remembered standing in the middle of it next to Phainon, surrounded by ash and smoke-stained concrete, wondering how the hell he’d survive the month.
The fact that it was nearly over now felt like a joke he hadn’t caught the punchline to yet.
They’d done it. Somehow.
Through a thousand setbacks. Through missing deliveries and three separate near-catastrophic measurement errors. Through rain seeping into half-set insulation. Through arguments, late nights, and a particularly cursed week when the stairway had been rebuilt three different times due to “design miscommunication” (read: Phainon ad-libbing blueprints and pretending it was on purpose).
But also: through shared thermoses and chocolate bars. Through impromptu repairs in the dark with headlamps and cheap jokes. Through long silences that turned into long conversations. Through teamwork - real, messy, ridiculous teamwork.
And now they were here.
One day left.
The structure was done. The lights were in. The scaffolding was mostly cleared. The bulk of the auditorium was whole again - not just rebuilt, but reshaped, refined. Theirs.
Mydei stood near the base of the north scaffolding, pencil tucked behind one ear, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He’d already been working for an hour - maybe two - the kind of steady, grounded labor that didn’t ask for words. Just rhythm. Just hands and structure and time.
He adjusted a brace, tightened a bolt, stepped back to double-check the angle. His breath came out in a slow exhale, fogging slightly in the morning air.
Then he noticed it.
Taped to the side of a corner brace - just below eye level, like it wanted to be noticed - was a sticky note.
In all caps:
“I FIXED THIS ONE. YOU’RE WELCOME. DO NOT CHECK MY MATH.”
Mydei exhaled through his nose and peeled the note off the bracket. Flipped it over.
On the back, smaller handwriting: “( check my math please. I may have used ‘vibes’ instead of degrees )”
He stared at it for a beat longer than he meant to. Then, without smiling - not really - he shook his head, folded the note, and tucked it into the edge of his sketchpad.
This had been happening all week.
Little notes. One-liners. Dumb inside jokes scribbled on masking tape or paper scraps or the back of outdated printouts. Always left in odd places - tucked behind beams, wedged in toolboxes, once carefully balanced on top of a pillar.
Phainon never mentioned them. Not directly. Not even when Mydei caught him glancing over like a dog waiting to see if a trick had landed.
But they’d become a pattern. And somehow - Mydei didn’t even remember when - he’d started responding.
He reached for his pencil now, flipped to the blank corner of his blueprint, and jotted down:
“ Alignment adjusted. The vibes were not sufficient .”
He hesitated. Then added:
“ Good eye, though .”
He tore the corner clean and tucked it just under a bracket on the next beam Phainon would check. Not obvious. But findable.
The note didn’t feel like much. Just a dumb back-and-forth.
Still.
He stepped back and looked around the growing framework of the rebuilt auditorium -skeletal outlines and soft light - and felt something loosen in his chest.
…He hoped they wouldn’t stop writing.
He stepped back, checking the final row of beams one last time. Everything was clean. Tight. Secure.
Almost.
The trim piece along the far corner - where the west stair met the base wall - was just barely off. Less than two millimeters. Invisible to anyone else, probably. But to Mydei, it tilted like a crooked tooth.
He crouched beside it, pressed a hand to the edge, and confirmed the suspicion. Phainon’s work. He could tell by the signature overconfidence in the angle - not careless exactly, just fast. Just a little too sure.
Mydei exhaled through his nose and reached for the mallet. Two light taps. Adjusted the alignment. Stepped back.
Fixed.
He brushed dust from the corner of the beam and spotted the note - half-stuck behind a bracket like it didn’t want to be found right away.
“ WALL = STRAIGHT. ME = LESS SO (DON’T JUDGE) ”
A tiny fanged doodle grinned in the corner, labeled “ feral gay spirit level .”
Mydei stared at it for a second, then peeled the note free and flipped it over.
“~ 2mm adjustment. Consider contacting spirit for calibration .”
He hesitated, then added beneath it:
“ You’re getting better .”
He folded it neatly and tucked it into the underside of the stair rail with a strip of painter’s tape - just visible enough for Phainon to catch if he looked closely. Not too obvious.
The beam didn’t matter, not really. The angle had been fine.
But something about fixing it - and responding - felt like keeping a promise they weren’t talking about. Like they were saying I see you , one note at a time.
He took the long way around the scaffolding - old habit - eyes scanning the joint brackets along the western support column.
That’s when he saw it.
He frowned. Slowed. Stepped closer.
There was a hairline crack running just above the joint plate, hidden beneath a layer of fresh paint and surface plaster. It wasn’t deep - not yet - but it shouldn’t be there. Not at that angle. Not this close to the cantilevered edge.
He crouched, pulled out his pocket light, and angled it beneath the beam.
The hairline split ran farther than he thought. Past the bolt housing. Right along the edge of the internal bracing.
He stared at it for a full five seconds, blood draining from his face.
No.
Not now. Not today.
He stood, fast, and scanned the ceiling. Tracing the load path. Following the line that column supported - up to the overhead structure, where the back half of the light rig hung from a series of trusses they'd reinforced in week two. The ones that had passed every inspection. The ones they'd double-checked.
Or so he thought.
Mydei stepped back, pulse rising under the surface. His fingers itched for his sketchpad.
If the crack was what he thought it was - if the bracing had shifted or wasn’t properly seated - the stress would’ve redistributed upward. Which meant...
He looked up at the scaffolding, already tall, already treacherous.
We have to recheck the entire upper structure.
He didn't curse. Didn't shout. Just stood still for a long moment, jaw tight, the unfinished note still clutched in his hand, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
The structure wasn’t going to collapse - not immediately. It wasn’t that kind of flaw. But it wasn’t something they could ignore either. And with the deadline in less than twenty-four hours...
They had time. Technically.
But only if they acted now.
And only if they were willing to go back up.
All the way up.
Mydei tilted his head back and stared at the gridwork overhead, and exhaled silently.
Phainon could not get here sooner.
Phainon jogged through the back corridor, still holding the remains of a granola bar and very possibly wearing two different socks. Again.
He’d meant to get here earlier. Really ! He’d stayed up late helping someone in another group fix their rigging anchors (he’d call it sabotage, but technically he did want them to succeed), and then overslept, and then spilled half his breakfast into his own backpack - so, you know. Chaos. Just another day.
But the auditorium was almost done. The hard part was behind them. Probably.
“Morning, Your Majesty!” he called, pushing open the doors. “I have arrived precisely on time and definitely not twenty minutes late.”
No answer.
He slowed.
The air inside the auditorium was still - not empty, but focused, like the whole room had paused mid-breath. Mydei was crouched near the western column, sketchpad balanced on one knee, flashlight in one hand. When he looked up, it wasn’t annoyed. It wasn’t even tired.
It was just direct.
“Hey,” Mydei said simply.
“...Hey?” Phainon replied, tilting his head. “What’s with the actual eye contact? You find a ghost in the drywall?”
“Crack in one of the upper braces.” Mydei stood and dusted off his palms. “Small, but the location’s bad. I think it’s been spreading under stress. Probably started weeks ago, but we couldn’t see it from ground level until the paint settled.”
Phainon blinked, processing.
“But it’s not catastrophic yet.” Mydei flipped his sketchpad toward him - a rough diagram of the brace, arrows and pencil notes scribbled like a warning label. “If the shift continues, it’ll redistribute stress into the light grid’s lateral supports. Worst case? One of the joints fails during load bearing. Not collapse-level, but dangerous.”
Phainon’s stomach gave a lurch.
“How dangerous?” he asked, his voice in a perfectly normal octave.
“Dangerous enough that I’m not ignoring it.”
Phainon stared at him. Then up.
At the scaffold. At the beams.
At that brace .
Way, way up.
Ah. Cool. So it was that kind of day.
“You’re weirdly calm,” he muttered, mostly to distract himself from the tightness curling at the base of his spine.
“I ran through every version of panic I own,” Mydei replied, voice steady. “None of them helped. So I’m trying this instead.”
There was a beat.
Phainon had a joke lined up. Or at least, a snarky deflection.
But nothing came out.
Because all he could hear was the high, hollow creak of metal above them - the kind of sound that reminded him exactly how far the ground could fall away.
“I haven’t gone up yet,” Mydei added, a little softer. “Wanted to confirm my math first.”
Phainon’s gaze crept back to the scaffold, and Kephale , just the sight of it made his hands itch. Not in a good way. Not in a let’s climb something stupid! way. In a don’t throw up on Mydei’s blueprint kind of way.
But he kept his voice even.
“Alright,” he said. “We’re doing this?”
“We have to. It won’t hold another season of performances otherwise.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “So… what’s the move? We suit up and get climbing?”
“Not yet.” Mydei turned the sketchpad toward him again, tapping a small, underlined note at the bottom. “See this? The lateral joints are reacting to micro-vibrations from the floor. The construction team's generator out back is creating constant flex across the grid.”
“...You can feel that?”
Mydei shrugged. “Not consciously. But the stress marks are shifting just enough. If we go up now, we’ll be bracing against a live vibration. Too unstable.”
Phainon nodded like he understood. Which he mostly did.
Also: thank Kephale. “So we have to wait?”
“Until after everyone leaves. They shut the generator off around midnight.”
Right, the worst possible time, when it was so dark they couldn’t see where the ground ended and where the abyss of shadow and despair began. “Midnight scaffold mission. Love that for us.”
“We need to fix it before inspection. And before they reprogram the light grid.”
“Sure, sure. Ghost hour engineering. I’ll bring the salt.”
He’d done heights before. They’d done heights before. It wasn’t new.
But the scaffolding creaked again - distant, metallic - and something cold scratched down his spine.
He swallowed it.
Hard.
“I’d better nap,” he said breezily. “If I fall off a beam from sleep deprivation, I’m blaming your integrity. Structural and otherwise.”
Mydei didn’t smile. But he didn’t argue either.
That was worse.
Phainon tapped the sketchpad, like that somehow proved something. “Alright. We meet back here at midnight. Bring scaffolding snacks.”
“Protein bars. Coffee.” Mydei had already turned back to the math.
Phainon hesitated a second longer. Then turned for the exit, bag slung over one shoulder. The air felt heavier now - like the whole room knew what was coming.
At the door, he glanced back.
Mydei hadn’t moved. Still in the half-light. Still focused.
Still trusting him to climb.
Phainon’s hand tightened on the strap of his bag. “Get some sleep, Mydei,” he said quietly. “We’ll need it.”
And he stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Phainon pushed open the front door of Dorm Two with his shoulder, still dreading midnight. The hallway smelled faintly of instant noodles and overworking. He rounded the corner -
- and stopped.
Tribios was sitting on the floor outside her dorm room, surrounded by what looked like thirty paper cranes, a violin case, and a large mixing bowl filled with uncooked rice.
“...Do I even want to know,” he said.
Tribios looked up brightly. “Snowy! They’re for Aglaea.”
“The cranes or the rice?”
She nodded solemnly, like a priestess confirming a prophecy. “Correct.”
He squinted. “Is she summoning something?”
“She’s directing tomorrow.” She held up a paper crane folded from a smudged script page. “This one has stage directions in its bones. That makes it lucky.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“Cool,” he said finally. “Very normal behavior.”
Tribios beamed.
Phainon adjusted the tote bag on his shoulder. “Anyway. Just passing through. Midnight mission prep.”
“Oh, right!” she said, eyes lighting up. “You and Mydei. Scaling the haunted steelwork?”
“We prefer ‘extremely responsible structural intervention.’”
“You would .”
He stepped past her - but she called out before he reached the stairwell.
“Still chickening out, huh?”
He froze.
“What?” he said, carefully neutral.
“About inviting him,” she said, folding another crane with unnecessary elegance.
Phainon didn’t answer right away.
“Define ‘chickening out,’” he said finally.
“That was rhetorical,” she said sweetly. “You’ve redefined it four times this week and none of the definitions involved courage or clarity.”
“Listen,” he said, turning around, “I’ve had a week . Structural doom, sleep deprivation, possible scaffolding death -”
“Excuses. Tired ones. It’s been a month.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s just a festival.”
Tribios didn’t move. Her face displayed her skepticism astonishingly clearly.
There was a beat of silence.
Phainon leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled. “I don’t get why this is so hard.”
Tribios looked down at the crane in her hands, smoothing its wings with her thumbs.
“Because it matters,” she said. “And you’re afraid that means it might break.”
Phainon rubbed the back of his neck. “What if we finish this project, and it’s like... we did it, congrats, back to pretending nothing ever happened?”
“That’s what you’re doing now,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Pretending it didn’t mean anything.”
That one hit.
He sat down next to her - not fully, just a lean against the wall, like the weight of the bag had finally caught up to him. “I keep thinking,” he said. “If I ask, it’ll... mean something. Like, open the door to everything else we’ve been avoiding.”
Tribios didn’t argue.
She just reached into the folds of her coat, pulled out a crumpled packet of gummy worms, and offered it to him like a sacred relic.
Phainon took one absently.
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “It’s just - what if it wrecks everything?”
She popped a worm into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully.
“Then you rebuild it. Stronger.”
He stared at her. “Why do you always sound like a fortune cookie?”
“I contain multitudes,” she said proudly. “Also, I’m right.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself.
She leaned her head back against the wall beside him.
“You care about him,” she said simply. “He cares about you. But you’re both waiting for proof that it’s safe to stay.”
Phainon didn’t reply.
“You could be that proof.”
After a pause, she nudged his arm lightly with her elbow.
“But if you’re gonna ask, maybe do it before you both climb fifty feet into the air with unresolved trauma and a deathly fear of heights.”
“...Great pep talk.” He pushed himself up with a groan, slinging the bag back over his shoulder.
Tribios didn’t watch him leave. Just kept folding another crane, her hands moving without pause.
“Last chance, Snowy,” she said softly, just before he turned the corner. “You’re running out of time.”
Notes:
As the conclusion of Act One draws near, I'm happy to announce that, after a disproportionate amount of thinking and hard work, I think I FINALLY have Hysilens locked down for her entry! Cerydra will be making her appearance shortly into Act Two (titled Memory for... reasons you will come to discover), and Hysilens is still reserved for Act Three - but I think a lot of yuri enjoyers will be happy to know I finally have Cerysilens' dynamic done and dusted ~
As another note, I've been planning to attach a document to this project, a concise chapter-by-chapter scene map. Often in longform fics, I find myself wanting to find a specific scene that suddenly pops into my head, but it's quite hard to find without scrolling through the entire fic. Let me know if this is something anyone would like to see!
[EDIT: since this idea got no reception, I'll keep this in the back pocket. However, if any future readers get to this point and want to revisit a scene, please let me know! Don't be afraid to - it costs me no work at ALL. I have it all written out already!]
Chapter 23: I Forgive You
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The hallway was quiet in the way school buildings always got at night - still and echoey, like even the walls were waiting.
Castorice smoothed out the edges of the flyer against the bulletin board. Her fingers moved with practiced precision - one thumb on each corner, a gentle press, a final pin through the top center.
It was the last one.
She stepped back to look at it.
Kindling Festival - One Night Only
The lettering was clean. Confident. The design had gone through nine revisions. This one felt right.
Beneath the title, the flyer listed music, student showcases, open-mic slots, and a dozen other things they hadn’t imagined would come together. A month ago, it had been an idea barely formed over a shared pot of tea and a chaotic calendar. Now it was real. Ink on paper. Taped to twenty different walls. She folded her arms loosely, looking at it. Not with pride, exactly, but something adjacent. Quiet satisfaction.
There’d been a time - not even long ago - when the thought of being a part of anything this big would’ve made her shrink. When she’d rather melt through the floor than speak in front of people. When she’d double-check every sentence twice before writing it down.
But now…
Now her name was on the contact line.
Small. Tiny, really. But visible.
She wasn’t the loudest voice in the room. She never would be. But she’d shown up. She’d helped build this. She’d come to the seeds of something and helped make it grow.
And somehow - so gradually she hadn’t realized the change - that had stopped feeling like pretending.
A soft buzz came from her phone - probably Hyacine. She didn’t check it right away. Just let the moment linger.
The hallway was still. The poster was straight.
She wasn’t sure whether she was looking forward to tomorrow, or dreading it.
The common room lights were dimmed, but not off. Soft lamplight pooled in the corners, catching the glint of scissors and curled ribbon on the coffee table. A hot glue gun sat in its cradle like a weapon of art, still faintly warm.
Hyacine was on the floor, surrounded by a gently spreading halo of Kindling Festival decorations - string lights, event signs, half-folded paper stars. Her sleeves were rolled up, hair tied back in a messy ponytail, hands moving fast and precise as she worked on what looked like the third centerpiece in a row.
She didn’t hear Cipher approach.
“You know,” Cipher said, voice casual, “it’s starting to get a little suspicious how often you look this adorable when you’re actively spiraling.”
Hyacine jumped. A thin strip of fabric fluttered out of her hand.
“Cipher! I - I’m not - this isn’t spiraling,” she said, laughing quickly. “I’m just finishing a few last things before tomorrow -”
“You said that four hours ago.”
“I just want it to look nice!”
“It does look nice,” Cipher said, dropping onto the couch behind her like a cat. “It looked nice two centerpieces ago. Now it looks like you’re being eaten by the glitter dimension.”
Hyacine didn’t look up right away. She held a paper flower between her fingers, staring a little too hard at the fold line.
“I don’t want anything to fall apart,” she said, softer now.
Cipher leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Nothing’s going to fall apart if you take a nap.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re doing the thing again,” Cipher said, tilting her head.
“What thing?”
“The ‘I'm-fine’ voice. The one that means you haven’t eaten, haven’t slept, and can’t stop thinking about which color palette would make or break the emotional resonance of the sign-in table.”
Hyacine opened her mouth to argue. Closed it again.
Cipher raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press.
She just sat there, watching, until Hyacine finally set the flower down and leaned back against the couch.
“I just want it to feel special,” Hyacine murmured. “After everything. For… Mydei and Phainon. What if this is the only time they get something like this? Something that cares and doesn’t end in fire and guilt and sadness?”
Cipher blinked.
Hyacine glanced away, embarrassed. “I know that’s dramatic. It’s just -” She laughed softly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “They’ve worked so hard. I want them to remember this as the part that felt… kind.”
Cipher’s voice was gentler now, all the usual sharpness gone. “It will.”
Hyacine looked over at her, eyes tired but warm.
Cipher smirked, just a little. “Besides. You’re not doing this alone, remember?”
“I know,” Hyacine said. But her voice wobbled, just barely.
Cipher reached over, flicked a bit of glitter off Hyacine’s cheek. “Good. Because if I find you hot-gluing things in your sleep tonight, I will lock the craft drawer.”
“You wouldn’t !”
“I would. And I’d make Castorice hold the key.”
Hyacine laughed - a small, breathy thing, but real.
Cipher leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “There she is.”
Hyacine ducked her head, returning to the paper flower. Her fingers moved gently this time - slower, like she was tracing each fold instead of racing through it.
Cipher watched her work for a moment, then tilted her head, smile quirking just a little.
“You know you can’t fix everything, right?”
Hyacine didn’t look up. She just kept folding.
“I’m not trying to fix everything,” she said softly. “I just want everyone to smile again.”
Cipher went still.
Just for a second.
Her grin didn’t fall - not all the way - but something behind it dimmed. She didn’t argue. Didn’t crack a joke.
She just watched.
Hyacine didn’t see it. She was too focused on her task, threading a ribbon through the center of the flower with quiet precision.
So Cipher sat there, quiet, knees drawn up to her chest.
And for a long moment, she didn’t say anything at all.
The sunset caught on the edges of the scaffolding as Mydei paused outside the auditorium doors, hands in the pockets of his work jacket. The air was still warm, but the shadows were getting long. He’d been here nearly every day for the past month, and still - tonight felt different. Like the building was holding its breath, but in anticipation, not dread, unlike those first few weeks.
He exhaled slowly.
Everything was ready. The revised blueprint was triple-checked. The equipment packed. The fix wasn’t complicated - not technically. Just high up. Just dangerous. Just one mistake away from disaster.
He rolled his shoulders back.
He could do this. He would do this.
No, he corrected himself, they would do this.
His fingers lingered at the edge of his jacket pocket. The compass was still there.
It was, as always, polished brass. Heavy. Too familiar. A Kremnos heirloom, passed down like a commandment - always find north. Always stay the course. Always know the map before you move.
But tonight, Mydei didn’t have a map.
After a long beat, he took the compass out. Studied it. Then flicked it open with a soft click.
The needle spun briefly, then settled.
Still pointing away from him.
He stared at it, thumb brushing the etched initials inside the lid. His great-grandfather’s, then his grandfather’s. His father's. And now his.
The memory came without warning.
He was seven, maybe eight. Swallowed in a too-large windbreaker, boots clumsy on the rocky trail. The morning had been bitter, frost still clinging to the pine needles, breath clouding in the air. He remembered his hands stinging from the cold. And then, his father crouching, steadying him by the shoulders, pressing the compass into his palm.
“Hold it level,” his father said. “Always find north first. That’s how you don’t get lost.”
Mydei hadn’t asked what would happen if he did get lost. He didn’t have to. His father’s voice had been calm, but firm - like he was passing down a rule, not advice.
“You won’t always know what to do,” his father continued. “So you do what’s right. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts.”
Then, softer and fiercer at the same time: “That’s how we protect the people we care about.”
The words had made something tighten in Mydei’s chest, even back then. He was too young to understand, but he felt it - the implication that love came with a blueprint. That care could only be expressed through control.
Later, when he’d fallen behind, it was the compass that brought him back. North, unwavering. The one thing that never changed.
Stuffing it back into his pocket, he pulled open the auditorium doors and stepped inside, the clang of metal and faint scent of sawdust wrapping around him like a second skin.
The blueprints were still where he’d left them. Scaffolding waited above.
Then, the soft creak of the door. Footsteps. A rustle of jacket.
He didn’t turn at first.
“Hey,” Phainon called - quiet, almost unsure.
Mydei turned.
Phainon stood in the doorway, hair damp from a rushed shower, eyes a little too focused.
No jokes. No noise.
Just him.
“You’re early,” Mydei said.
“So are you.”
They both looked up, toward the looming structure overhead. Neither spoke.
Then Phainon added, without looking: “You do this kind of thing often? Invite guys to climb death scaffolding by starlight?”
It wasn’t quite a joke. More like a line tossed out to fill the space.
But Mydei’s answer came after a breath too long.
“Only the important ones.”
The words were matter-of-fact. No irony. No flourish.
Just truth.
Phainon’s eyes flickered - something unreadable, but sharp. A heartbeat caught sideways.
They stood there for a moment, not moving, not speaking.
Then Mydei stepped forward and broke the spell, handing over Phainon’s gear. “We’ll take it slow,” he said. “I mapped the anchor points earlier. We’ll move together.”
Phainon took the harness with one hand. The other stayed clenched in his pocket. “So romantic.”
Mydei didn’t answer, but he saw it - the moment Phainon’s hand hovered at the straps too long. The beat where his breathing shifted, shallower. A flicker in the jaw.
“Crossbrace first,” Mydei said, knowing he wouldn’t want to speak about it. “That shifts the load. I’ll swap the bracket. You just hold position.”
Phainon looked up again, grimacing. “So I get to dangle dramatically while you do precision surgery.”
“You said you wanted to help.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to prove it at altitude…”
They suited up in silence. Straps tightened. Clips clicked. Mydei checked each of Phainon’s carabiners once, then again.
He felt the stiffness in Phainon’s shoulders. The delay before every motion. The way his fingers trembled at the buckles when he thought Mydei wasn’t watching.
Not hesitation. Not quite.
Fear.
But not spoken.
The tool bag went to Phainon. The bracket case slung across Mydei’s shoulder, and when everything was ready, they stood at the base together.
The structure loomed overhead, ribs and spine reaching into shadow.
Phainon rocked back slightly on his heels, neck craning up. “Feels taller at night.”
“It is,” Mydei said absently, already placing his foot on the first rung. “When you can’t see the top.”
Together, they walked to the base.
“Ready?” Mydei asked quietly.
There was a breath beside him.
“Yeah.”
But it didn’t sound like yes.
They began to climb.
The first few levels weren’t so bad.
The metal rungs were cold under Mydei’s gloves, each step ringing faintly against the silence. The light above was dim now, sunset turning to dusk, gold bleeding into deep indigo. The air smelled like old sawdust and rusted iron.
Below him, he could hear Phainon’s movements.
They weren’t loud. Just… cautious. Slower than usual. Not unskilled - he knew Phainon could climb. But there was a tension in it. A second of hesitation at every change in grip. A breath held longer than it needed to be.
The scaffolding creaked underfoot, metal groaning as it adjusted to their weight. Each platform was a narrow lattice of aluminum and plywood, worn smooth from weeks of use. But higher up, where the safety rails thinned and the boards grew scarce - that’s where the world started to fall away.
Mydei reached the fourth level before glancing back down.
“You good?” he called.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Phainon called back, a few feet below, voice just a little too high.
Midway up, they reached the narrow catwalk that ran beneath the rigging. The crossbrace was three levels higher, but this spot offered a small platform, barely three feet wide. Just enough to pause.
Mydei stopped there. Anchored. Waited.
Phainon climbed up beside him a moment later. Too quiet.
He wasn’t shaking. Not exactly. But his knuckles were white on the railing, and when he leaned against the vertical support beam, it wasn’t casual.
“You good?” Mydei asked again.
Phainon nodded quickly. “Just taking in the view,” he said shakily.
They were forty feet up now. The ground stretched far below, reduced to shadow and scattered scaffolding poles. No railings behind them. Just open air.
Phainon didn’t look down.
Mydei didn’t press. Instead, he adjusted the weight of the bracket case on his shoulder, gaze scanning the brace above. He turned to clip his line to the overhead track. He heard the tool bag shift behind him. Then stillness.
Then Phainon’s voice - tight, trying not to be. “Hey, Mydei?”
He glanced back.
Phainon opened his mouth. “Do you…”
He trailed off. His fingers flexed once on the railing.
Then, finally: “You think we’ll be done before the festival?”
“…Probably,” Mydei said, confused.
A beat.
Another.
“Cool,” Phainon said. “I was just thinking about - uh. Logistics. For the lighting crew.”
Right.
…Lighting crew.
Mydei didn’t move. Just looked at him. Really looked.
Phainon had that same barely-pulled-together look from earlier. Rushed hair, slightly off-kilter harness, the edge of a sock peeking above one boot. All of it easy to dismiss as casual.
But his fingers hadn’t left the railing.
They gripped it like it was the only solid thing left.
“…Hold steady,” Mydei said at last.
He turned and started the climb again.
The metal creaked under his weight. The crossbrace was close now - just one more vertical ascent.
As he rose, he felt the platform shift slightly underfoot, then go still.
He glanced down.
Phainon hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where he’d been, jaw locked, one hand still gripping the rail like a lifeline. His other hand hovered awkwardly near his harness clip - frozen halfway to adjusting it. Like some part of his body still believed it could move. The rest wasn’t listening.
“…Phainon?”
No answer.
“Hey.” Mydei’s voice lowered. Not sharp. Not pitying. A tether. “Look at me.”
Phainon didn’t.
But his fingers twitched.
Mydei waited.
Then: “It’s fine,” Phainon said, like it was an automatic response. “I’m fine. I just - just give me a sec.”
He wasn’t asking for help. He never did.
But Mydei climbed back down anyway. One level. Two. Then stepped back onto the platform with him.
He didn’t touch him.
He just stood nearby. Close enough to be there. Not close enough to be seen as pity.
The wind whispered through the upper beams, soft and indifferent.
Phainon let out a breath - shaky, too loud.
Then, so quietly Mydei almost missed it: “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I really hate this.”
“I know.”
Another silence.
“…But I’m not going down,” Phainon said, his jaw setting. “Not when you’re up here.” His voice cracked a little on the last word.
Mydei didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say you don't have to . He just nodded once. “We’ll go slow. Together.”
This time, as they climbed, it wasn’t silent. Phainon kept muttering. Random things. Comments about the bolts, or the paint job, or the suspicious squeaking sound he was definitely imagining.
It wasn’t helpful, but it meant he was still moving.
And when they finally reached the cradle, and Mydei unshouldered the bracket case to start the replacement -
Phainon stayed anchored.
Both hands braced. Shoulders tight. Eyes not quite meeting Mydei’s.
But steady.
Alive.
There.
Above them, the auditorium’s ceiling yawned open like a dark ocean. Every sound echoed - boots scuffing metal, the rasp of breath. No generator hum. No students. No audience. Just them.
They kept going.
Fifth level. Sixth.
The light grid stretched across the top like a massive ribcage, slung with cables and rust-speckled joints. Somewhere above, the crack waited - hairline, sharp, hidden behind crossbeams. Dangerous in its silence.
Mydei reached for the next rung. His glove slipped slightly on a worn edge; he reset his grip, heart pounding.
He kept climbing.
Phainon didn’t speak much anymore; he seemed to have tired himself out. His breathing was steady, but the way he gripped each bar, checked each latch, was focused, intensely so. More focused than Mydei had ever seen him.
When they reached the upper platform, it swayed - not much, just a breath. Just enough for both of them to pause before stepping fully on.
“This is definitely not OSHA approved,” Phainon muttered.
Mydei didn’t answer. He crouched low, clipped into the anchor with practiced hands, and took a slow, grounding breath. Then he looked up, eyes flicking to the skewed bracket nestled where beam met wall.
“We cradle it first,” Mydei said. His voice came out steady. It surprised him. “If I shift the load without bracing it, the whole thing might torque. I’ll rig the lateral brace. You set the tension.”
Phainon swallowed and nodded. “Copy.”
It took longer than expected. Mydei had to wedge himself half-off the platform to angle the temporary cradle beam just right. Phainon held the line steady, his knuckles white under his gloves. A few times, the whole frame let out a metallic groan that made both of them freeze - not dramatic, but low and alive, like the bones of the building were breathing.
When Mydei finally shifted his weight back onto the platform, the relief was so sharp it made him exhale out loud.
“Okay,” he said, quieter. “Bracket’s loose. Ready for the swap.”
Phainon passed over the new piece with both hands. “If this thing falls,” he muttered, “I am not climbing down to get it.”
“You’re clipped in,” Mydei said. “If either of us drops, we’re not climbing anywhere.”
“That’s comforting.”
They kept moving.
Mydei braced the new bracket in place with surgical precision, then began threading in the bolts one by one. Phainon’s job was to hold the ratchet strap steady - to keep the beam from shifting while Mydei did the work.
It meant trusting each other. Again and again. Every tiny adjustment had to be mirrored with perfect counterbalance. A push here. A weight shift there.
Every sound - the rattle of a wrench, the hum of metal on metal, the faint buzz of the floodlights far below - echoed up and out like it might never stop.
Finally, finally , the last bolt clicked.
Mydei didn’t let go immediately. He checked the alignment again. Then again. Then put one gloved hand on the beam and closed his eyes.
No tension.
No sway.
It held.
“...Alright,” he murmured.
Neither of them moved.
Then Phainon shifted his weight beside him, peering over the narrow ledge into open air. “Right. Can we climb down now, or do we get to dramatically die of frostbite instead?”
Mydei didn’t answer right away. He tapped the side of the bracket, then straightened, slow and careful. “We have to wait.”
Phainon blinked. “Wait for what?”
“For it to settle. Give it an hour to gel in this cold, then we’ll torque in sequence; final check after sunrise.”
Phainon gave a short, dry laugh. “Right. Time. The one thing we have.”
He leaned back against the support beam behind him, exhaling through his nose. His breath curled faintly in the cold air.
“Well. That’s fine. I love waiting. Especially in mortal peril.”
“The harness will catch you.”
“But my heart might stop beating,” Phainon muttered. He sat down on the narrow platform, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up to rest his arm on. Still clipped in, still watching the joint like it might flinch.
The auditorium below them was silent. Even the air seemed to hold still.
“…You’re sure it’ll hold?” Phainon asked, voice quieter now.
Mydei nodded once. “Yeah.”
And that was it.
Nothing else to fix. Nothing else to do.
Just… time.
Time, and silence, and two boys suspended above everything they’d tried to leave behind.
They waited.
The glue dried with glacial slowness. It just… sat there. Forming invisible bonds, imperceptible but irreversible, while the wind whispered through the rafters.
Mydei hadn’t moved in minutes. Just kept watching the joint like it owed him rent. His focus was unnerving - calm, precise, maddeningly steady.
Phainon, meanwhile, was in motion. Constant, nervous motion. He paced - well, paced in the loosest sense. It was a three-foot-wide beam. More of a jittery shuffle, punctuated by half-turns and grimaces every time he had to turn and see how far up they were. His harness creaked every time he shifted, metal clips glinting in the moonlight.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Like, conceptually. Two guys. On a rickety scaffold. Sixty feet in the air. At midnight. For glue.”
“Not stupid,” Mydei murmured, eyes still on the seam. “And not rickety.”
“Emotionally rickety,” Phainon amended. “Spiritually rickety. Metaphorically hanging by a thread.”
The vast dark stage yawned beneath them. Empty chairs stretched out like tombstones. Loose wires curled like veins. Overhead, the scaffold shadows angled across the beams like broken wings.
He took three more steps, then stopped with a sharp intake of breath.
“Okay. Okay. I know you said it’s safe, but this plank just made the sound of impending doom, and I need you to explain why it’s personally targeting me.”
“That’s aluminum flexing,” Mydei replied, still maddeningly calm. “It’s supposed to do that.”
“Well I don’t want it to do that.”
“Then don’t move.”
“I’m not moving,” Phainon snapped. “I’m standing dramatically.”
Mydei pointed at the narrow space beside him. “You’ll be more stable sitting.”
Phainon stared, weighing the odds of dying dramatically versus dying awkwardly, then crouched down onto the platform with all the grace of a collapsing lawn chair. His shoulder brushed against Mydei’s. Neither of them flinched.
They didn’t talk. Not at first.
But the quiet wasn’t bad. Just... loud.
“I suck at this,” Phainon said suddenly.
Mydei glanced over.
“Sitting still,” Phainon clarified. “Waiting. Not talking. It makes the thoughts get too loud.”
Mydei was quiet a second longer than Phainon expected. Then he said, softly, “…Yeah.”
Phainon turned his head just slightly. “You too?”
Mydei didn’t answer. Just slid one glove off and set it down beside him, pressing his bare hand to the metal beam like it anchored him.
“I used to hate silence,” Mydei said. “Felt like it was waiting for me to mess up.”
Phainon didn’t interrupt. Didn’t quip. Just let the words settle.
“But here…” Mydei tilted his head up. “Here, it’s different. Feels like the silence is holding the building up. Not judging. Just… keeping it still.”
Phainon swallowed, throat tight. “You’re different now.”
“So are you.”
“Worse or better?”
“...More real.”
The air had changed. The sky was no longer black, but a deep pre-dawn blue, quiet and expectant. The kind of color that belonged to dreams just before they died - or bloomed.
Phainon tapped a rhythm against the beam.
“Hey, uh…”
He paused.
Mydei waited.
“…Never mind.”
“You were going to say something.”
“Yeah, and I was also going to throw up off the edge earlier, but I didn’t, so let’s call it a win.”
“Phainon.”
He flexed his hands. Didn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s just…” His voice dropped. “When this is over - when the auditorium’s done, tomorrow - I keep thinking that’ll be it.”
A shift. Tension in Mydei’s posture. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“I know. But…” Phainon shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “I don’t want to be your project. Something you fix. And then forget.”
“You’re not,” Mydei said instantly.
Phainon looked at him.
“Then what am I?”
Mydei didn’t answer.
He didn’t look away either.
Eventually, they rose to their feet.
The seam had cured. Mydei checked it, gloved fingers pressing along the join with that infuriating, methodical precision of his.
“It’s ready,” he said.
Phainon stood too, legs prickling from sitting on cold metal. “Cool. Love that for us.”
They worked together in silence now - short commands, easy coordination. “Angle.” “Hold.” “Wrench.” It was weirdly seamless, like muscle memory they'd built by accident.
The wind had picked up. The structure swayed, subtly but noticeably, as if the whole thing breathed with them.
Just one piece left.
Mydei climbed.
Phainon held steady, bracing the bracket from below. He watched as Mydei reached for the last latch.
And then -
The slip.
It happened fast. A missed step. A squeal of metal. The brief, echoing clang of a dropped wrench - and suddenly Mydei was falling.
No time to think. No time to be afraid. Just instinct.
Phainon lunged, body snapping forward as if yanked. His hand caught Mydei’s glove a second after the tether jerked taut, wrenching Mydei mid-air. He was suspended, legs kicking, harness groaning.
“I got you!” Phainon shouted over the wind. “Don’t move - don’t - !”
Mydei’s eyes met his. Strained. Gritted.
Phainon clung to the beam like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Every muscle in his body screamed. The harness dug into his chest. His heart pounded loud enough to shake the struts.
Then -
Mydei reached up. Got a grip. Pulled.
Phainon didn’t release him until both feet were back on the beam. Until he was kneeling, breathing hard, face pale but alive.
They stared at each other. Then both looked away.
Too much. Too fast. Too close.
“I hate this stupid building,” Phainon muttered, voice shaking.
Mydei gave a sound between a laugh and a gasp.
“You okay?” Phainon asked.
“Yeah.” Mydei turned slightly. “You?”
“I grabbed you,” Phainon said, like he hadn’t quite processed it. “I didn’t think. Just -”
He blinked.
He was still holding Mydei’s harness.
“I didn’t freeze,” he said, his voice cracking on the last word from sheer awe.
“No,” Mydei said. “You didn’t.”
Phainon let go, fingers trembling.
“…Kephale,” he whispered, sitting back on his heels. “I didn’t freeze.”
His voice was shaky.
But his smile wasn’t.
“You saved me,” Mydei said, low and steady.
Phainon looked up at him, and nodded.
“Let’s finish this.”
They didn’t talk much after that.
The last bolts were tightened. The bracket was secured. The rigging checked and double-checked until there was nothing left to do. Just the steady clink of tools, the rasp of breath through teeth, the occasional muttered curse when a wrench refused to cooperate.
And slowly, quietly, Mydei noticed the sky beginning to bloom.
Not just faint streaks anymore - real color. Gold, rose, amber. It spilled over the scaffolding like warm paint, touching every rung, every beam, every shadow.
Mydei sat back with a quiet grunt, hands falling into his lap. “That’s it.”
Phainon didn’t answer right away. He was perched beside him, back against the brace, fingers still curled around a wrench he no longer needed.
They watched the sun climb higher.
The auditorium below them - once a shell of splinters and silence - began to glow in the light.
“…Looks different up here,” Phainon said finally, voice quiet. “Almost like it was always supposed to be like this.”
Mydei followed his gaze. The copper beams. The rebuilt rafters. The pieces that had nearly come apart. Held now by bolts, adhesive, and something else entirely.
The city stretched out far below, scattered lights flickering like candleflame. The platform was barely wide enough for them to sit side by side, but they did anyway, backs to the support beam, hands resting loosely on their knees. The wind was sharper now, combing through the exposed girders. Mydei’s jacket flared slightly at the edges.
It was quiet.
Mydei checked the alignment again. He didn’t need to - the fix was sound. They’d double-checked everything.
Still, his fingers lingered on the metal.
Below them, the world was shadows and angles. The rows of seats were black outlines. The scaffolding below stretched like the ribs of a forgotten ship. Above them, the lights had long since gone dark.
But beyond the high windows, the sky had begun to soften, black giving way to dark blue.
“I didn’t think we’d get this far,” Phainon said.
Mydei glanced over. “With the fix?”
“With… everything.”
Phainon was still watching the brace. His face was pale in the low light. There was a smear of dust on one cheek.
Mydei followed his gaze, then looked away.
“I didn’t either,” he said. “Not really.”
A creak snapped through the silence. One of the boards under Phainon’s foot shifted with a sharp lurch - just an inch, maybe less - but it sent a full jolt through both of them.
Phainon flinched, grabbing the beam beside him. His boot scraped metal. Mydei reached out on instinct, but stopped just short of touching his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said, low and even. “Just settling. We’re good.”
Phainon’s breath came sharp and shallow. He gave a short, shaky laugh. “Love that for us,” he repeated.
“Still want to stay up here?” Mydei asked.
Phainon didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah.”
So they stayed. Crouched on the beam. Waiting.
The silence stretched again.
It was Mydei who broke it this time.
“You were right,” he said.
Phainon blinked. “I usually am. About what?”
“That night.”
There was a beat of stillness. Phainon didn’t move.
“I was scared,” Mydei said. “More scared of people seeing me fall apart than actually falling apart. I begged you not to call anyone. And when you did, I…” He exhaled. “I shut down. Let them treat you like the problem. Let them send you away.”
Phainon’s throat bobbed.
“You didn’t say anything,” he said, voice wobbling. “You just let them -”
“I know.”
Another silence.
“I kept thinking,” Phainon mumbled, “if I’d just stayed quiet, maybe I wouldn’t have lost you.”
Mydei looked at him. The light was rising - not full sunrise yet, but close enough to paint the edges of things. Phainon’s expression was pinched. His hands were white-knuckled against the beam. In the light, he looked ridiculous and real and beautiful . So, so beautiful.
“You didn’t lose me,” Mydei said. “I just didn’t know how to come back.”
Phainon let out a breath. It sounded like it hurt.
“I hated you,” he said. “I hated you for making me feel like doing the right thing ruined everything. I spent years laughing it off, turning it into some stupid grudge, and I still -”
His voice broke.
Mydei didn’t interrupt.
Phainon’s eyes were bright. Shining. And then - to both their surprises - a tear slipped down his cheek.
“Kephale,” he muttered, swiping at it. “This is so stupid. I don’t even know why I’m -”
“Because it mattered,” Mydei said.
Another tear fell.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon said. It was just a whisper of a whisper. But Mydei heard it, because he was listening for it. “For everything.”
The words were a physical blow to Mydei.
“I forgive you,” he whispered back. Short. Simple. It was all he needed to say.
Phainon was crying openly now. “I didn’t mean to - why do you - if I just did something differently, if I just listened -” He covered his face with one hand. Shoulders shaking.
Mydei leaned forward.
No longer hesitating. No longer second-guessing. No longer letting his father’s unerring compass hand control his body.
He just wrapped his arms around Phainon.
Phainon stiffened - for half a second. Then he crumpled.
His forehead dropped to Mydei’s shoulder, his arms came around to his back, and Phainon sobbed like he hadn’t let himself in years. Guilt and grief and anger and sadness and devastation and everything he’d tried to laugh away. It hit all at once.
“I’m sorry!” he cried, sobbing. “I’m sorry I was so stupid, I’m sorry I didn’t think, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, I’m sorry I didn’t know about your stupid parents, I’m sorry…”
Mydei held him tightly, one hand braced between Phainon’s shaking shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head.
He didn’t cry at first.
But then Phainon’s shouting faded, and he whispered, brokenly: “I missed you.”
And Mydei broke too.
His breath hitched. His shoulders trembled. His chest ached like something old had finally split open.
“I missed you,” he said back, voice shaky. “So much.”
The wind passed gently through the rafters, stirring the morning light around them like mist.
They stayed like that for a long time - two boys in harnesses, clinging to a beam sixty feet above the world, holding on like they’d fall apart if they let go.
But they didn’t fall.
And when the tears finally slowed - when Phainon hiccuped a breath that almost turned into a laugh - Mydei leaned back just enough to look at him.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry too.”
Phainon’s lips trembled. He nodded. “I forgive you too.”
And in that moment, Mydei knew he’d spend the rest of his life with this boy.
Phainon pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to stem the tears. “Is that it, then? Are we done? With… everything? Each other?”
“We’re not,” Mydei said immediately.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He exhaled slowly. “Because for the first time… I’m not scared of where we go next.”
Phainon finally looked at him.
And Mydei, with a steadiness that had taken years to rebuild, pulled the compass from his pocket.
He held it in his palm.
The brass casing caught the rising light, glinting gold. The needle spun, then wavered. Then stopped - not toward Mydei. Not toward Phainon. Just away. Always away.
It had belonged to his grandfather. Then his father. Now him. Passed down like a commandment. Always find north. Always stay the course. Always know the map before you move.
But for once, he didn’t need a map.
He didn’t want a map.
He wanted to move forward.
So he drew his arm back, and with all the might he could muster, threw.
The compass arced into the pinkening sky, vanishing into open air.
Mydei watched it go.
Then sat back down.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Eventually, Phainon said, voice still thick, “You know Chasing the Firebird’s Feather ends with them throwing the feather away too.”
Mydei nodded. “Yeah. I remember.”
Phainon wiped at his eyes.
There was a long pause.
Then, finally, finally -
“You want to go to the Kindling Festival with me tomorrow?”
The words came out like a leap off a ledge.
Mydei blinked. Then smiled.
Small. Honest.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Phainon nodded, smiling back.
“…I still think they should’ve kept the feather,” he said after a moment. “For scientific research or something.”
“They had each other. That was the point.”
A beat.
“...Gross.”
“Shut up.”
They didn’t say thank you.
They didn’t have to.
The sun crept closer to the horizon, soft light washing over the rooftop. The final stretch of night gave way to gold. It lit them up, spilling warmth across the beams, across their faces, across the place they had rebuilt with their own hands.
Together.
END OF ACT ONE
Notes:
And that's a wrap!
I have some personal thoughts about how Act One went, some positive and some not-so-positive. Some parts were definitely sloggish, and not so enjoyable, I'm sure! However, I'll share those thoughts in full in the footnotes of the next chapter.
Even if I'm not particularly proud of Act One as a finished product, I'm still proud of the fact that I managed to write an arc and execute it! This is my first (consistently posted) multi-chapter story, so I didn't have much experience going into it. For anyone that didn't burn out from Act One, and is still here, I promise Act Two will be much more engaging!
On that note, school's coming up, so after the next chapter (the festival), I'm taking some time off to finish planning Act Two! I hope to take the mistakes from Act One and use my experience to improve Act Two. I'll return with a well-thought out plan ~
I hope that Act One - Rebuilding was worth your time, dear reader!
Chapter 24: And We Are Never Alone
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
INTERLUDE - AFTERLIGHT
The Kindling Festival was many things - big event, student bonding opportunity, minor fire hazard - but above all, even in the early morning setup stages, even before it had officially begun, it was loud .
Music blared from the sound check tent. Booths shuddered as they were forced into last-minute alignment. Volunteers darted around like caffeinated mice, dragging folding chairs and tangled extension cords behind them. Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed about the absence of napkins.
“Left!” Phainon barked, holding up a hand-painted sign. “No, your left!”
Tribios rolled her eyes. “Say ‘your left’ again and I’ll rewire the compass of the universe.”
“I don’t know what that means!”
“I’m counting on it.”
The sign finally went up, slightly crooked. Neither of them cared. Phainon stepped back to admire their work and tripped over a stack of unused clipboards.
“Casualties!” Tribios announced, pointing dramatically. “We have our first festival sacrifice!”
Phainon groaned from the dirt. “Kephale take me.”
Across the yard, Cipher glared at a malfunctioning popcorn machine.
“You’re kidding me,” she muttered. “You explode once and suddenly you’re a fire risk. This is bias.”
“Technically,” said a volunteer beside her, “you set off three fire alarms last year.”
Cipher looked her dead in the eye. “That counts as one incident. Triple kill.” She gave the machine one last death glare and stalked off, the scent of burnt kernels trailing behind her.
Near the main booth row, Hyacine appeared, cheeks flushed pink with excitement and hands full of handmade signs. She wore a flower crown. She did not remember putting it on. She’d probably been crowned by Tribios mid-run.
“Cas!” she called, skipping forward. “I found a spare canopy and the guy let me take two extra folding tables and look! Free drinks!”
She held up two paper cups.
Castorice - hair pulled into a ponytail, sleeves already flecked with white paint - blinked. “They’re glittery.”
“They’re festive!”
“They’re glittery.”
Hyacine pouted. “You’re glittery.”
Castorice stared at her.
“Don’t think about that one too hard,” Hyacine said quickly, cheeks already reddening.
They reached the corner where their booth would be - a cozy, shaded spot tucked under a blooming tree. Hyacine’s eyes narrowed, and she started to reach for the folded tablecloth, but Castorice gave her a look.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said gently.
Hyacine tilted her head. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’m-being-helpful-but-I-haven’t-sat-down-in-two-days’ thing.”
“I’m not -”
“Sit.”
Hyacine sat.
Castorice placed the drink in her hands like a peace offering. “To keep your hands busy.”
From across the field, Aglaea passed with a stack of papers pressed to her chest. She moved quickly, head held high, directing a cluster of drama kids toward the temporary stage. Her hair was tied up in a neat twist, every motion composed.
Cipher caught sight of her in passing. Paused.
Their eyes met. Aglaea blinked. Cipher narrowed her eyes and turned away.
No words. Not yet.
The morning sun inched higher. Booths took shape. Streamers unfurled. The smell of fresh waffles began to waft from somewhere behind the stage.
Phainon stood triumphantly on top of a folding chair with one foot raised like a captain at sea. “Behold! The funnel cake banner has risen!”
“No one cares,” Cipher said.
“I care,” Hyacine called brightly. “It looks really good!”
“Don’t enable him,” Cipher whispered.
Nearby, Tribios was having an animated conversation with a bubble wand.
“Look,” she whispered, holding it up to Aglaea. “It’s a metaphor. One breath and the whole thing’s beautiful and gone.”
Aglaea didn’t look up from the clipboard. “Please find the fire extinguisher and not another existential metaphor.”
“Both?”
Hyacine giggled and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. A breeze picked up. She stepped aside to keep the hanging ribbons from tangling in her pigtails - and accidentally bumped into Mydei, who was crouched by the support beam of one of the folding tents.
“Oh! Sorry!”
He looked up. “No worries.”
He was adjusting the ballast bags by hand, methodically tightening a cord that had slipped off its hook. Despite his usual expression (or rather, lack thereof), there was something lighter in his posture this morning. Quieter. Grounded.
Hyacine knelt beside him, helping steady the pole while he worked.
“How are you and Phainon?” She asked tentatively.
Mydei gave the cord a final tug, then leaned back on his heels.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But… it’s different now.”
Hyacine tilted her head. “Different how?”
He hesitated, then looked past her, across the quad where Phainon was now trying to balance a centerpiece on his head while doing a dramatic monologue for no one.
“...Lighter,” Mydei said.
Hyacine smiled, her heart feeling full.
Before she could respond, Phainon yelled, “I am the crownless king of snacks! Bow before my crispy reign!”
“I take it back,” Mydei muttered. “I want to fall off the roof again.”
Hyacine laughed out loud.
Mydei stood, offering her a hand up. She took it.
The two of them rejoined the group, just as Phainon tripped on the chair leg and landed face-first in a paper plate.
Tribios applauded like it was intentional.
A corner of the quad had been cordoned off with rope and white ribbon - not for any practical reason, but because Tribios said it needed its own “boundary of breath.”
That’s what the tiny handwritten sign read, anyway. Kindly respect the boundary of breath.
Mydei stopped first, tilting his head.
“…Did Castorice make a gallery?” he muttered.
She had, in a way.
The “memory wall” was a winding structure of cloth and wire mesh, woven through with photos, fragments of old event posters, half-burnt playbills, handwritten scraps, dried flowers, and thumbtacked photos that fluttered gently in the wind. A handmade love letter to every memory that the owners wanted to remember.
At the top, in tidy block print:
Every feeling belongs here.
Castorice stood beside it, still fussing with a paper star that refused to stay taped. Hyacine hovered nearby, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.
“I wasn’t sure how it would look,” Castorice said, not looking directly at anyone. “But it’s all… real now. So. I thought someone should remember.”
Tribios was already circling the display like a museum curator.
“Some of these are burnt edges,” she whispered. “Like actual scorched theatre scripts. That’s so - oh, I love this - this is postmodern grief.”
Phainon stepped beside her, squinting at a photo of himself holding a mangled ladder.
“Who let me look like that,” he muttered. “I look like I just lost a fight to a chair.”
“You did,” Mydei said. “And you lost.”
“Lies!”
Aglaea approached, then paused at the edge of the rope. She didn’t step across. Her eyes lingered on a small, crumpled ticket stub.
Cipher noticed.
They didn’t speak. Just stood at opposite ends of the group, looking at the same little decrepit piece of paper.
Hyacine finally stepped forward and gently touched the corner of a pinned drawing - a sketch someone had made of the auditorium during cleanup.
“…It’s really beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you for making it.”
Castorice flushed. “It’s not meant to be a centerpiece. It’s just… if people want to remember.”
Phainon made a face and quickly turned away.
“I’m not crying,” he said loudly. “That’s just powdered sugar from the funnel cakes. It got in my eye.”
“Both eyes?” Mydei said.
“Yeah, it’s ambient.”
The moment didn’t last long. And then the wind picked up, and the scent of warm batter drifted down the path, and someone shouted that the festival was about to begin.
The clocktower struck one, and suddenly, the campus was alive.
Fabric canopies bloomed over the quad, bright as fire lilies. Paper banners danced overhead, strung between lampposts and balconies.
A loudspeaker clicked on.
“Hello, everyone!” came the voice of someone far too enthusiastic. “Welcome to the once-in-a-lifetime Kindling Festival - officially in full swing!”
Cheering erupted. Confetti blasted from one of the upper balconies. A small child screamed in delight. Or fear. It was unclear.
Castorice blinked glitter out of her eyes. "Why is the sky attacking me?"
Hyacine, beside her, was already giggling. She had an armful of paper tickets and a cider in hand, and the flower crown was still perched slightly crooked on her head.
"You look great when you're dazed," she said, helpfully.
Phainon was holding a smoked turkey leg like a sword. Tribios had a fox mask on the back of her head, sunglasses on the front, and a ribbon from the cakewalk wrapped around her arm like a victory sash.
“They said I was too enthusiastic,” he said, offended. “There were no enthusiasm rules.”
“You threatened to tackle a child.”
“She was hoarding the good frosting!”
They both ducked behind the giant puppet installation as Aglaea stormed by in a festival coordinator vest, clipboard in hand and murder in her eyes.
“You’re both banned from the entire south lawn!” she shouted in their general direction.
“She saw us!” Phainon peeked out. “Is that a bluff or do we test it?”
Tribios tapped her temple with a ring pop. “The lawn holds memories of us now. It can’t forget us. Even if she can.”
“We’re not even on the lawn.”
“I know,” she said, flashing a grin too wide for the situation. “But sometimes a boundary needs a witness.”
They fist-bumped and took off running.
The festival carried on.
Cipher emerged from the crowd with a stolen pretzel the size of her head. She took one bite, frowned, and muttered, “Mid.” Then tried to feed it to a passing squirrel.
Phainon - wearing a homemade ‘official’ festival staff shirt - caught her red-handed. “Pretzel tax,” he declared. “You pay in crumbs.” Cipher flipped him off with mustard on her fingers.
Aglaea stood on a folding chair giving instructions like she was directing a Broadway tech run. “No, the second easel goes here. The color wheel needs to be visible. Why are there sunflowers on the sign-in sheet?”
A student tried to compliment her hair. She thanked him in the same tone used to accept an award.
Meanwhile, Mydei worked in the background. Quiet, efficient, unnoticed by most, but every flickering light, crooked banner, or half-collapsing pole passed through his hands and came out steady again. A student tripped near a wiring hub; Mydei caught the cord before the sound system blew. He didn’t comment, just nodded once and moved on.
At one point, Phainon walked into the photo booth with two prop swords, posed dramatically, and the curtain broke clean off its track. A scattered cheer erupted from students nearby.
Mydei sighed, re-secured the canopy for the fourth time, and muttered something about “liabilities.”
Through it all, the festival carried on.
Booths swapped vendors. Students milled. Music faded in and out. Laughter echoed like light through the air. For the next few hours, there were no looming deadlines. No hidden mysteries. No heavy pasts.
Just color. Motion. People.
At some point, Mydei found himself standing near a column, arms crossed, watching some kids throw beanbags at a paper hydra. His expression was about as neutral as a brick wall. Cipher appeared beside him like a summons.
“Wow,” she said. “You're doing such important work. Standing here. Guarding the beanbags.”
Mydei didn’t look at her. “I’m supervising.”
“Sure,” Cipher said. “Supervising joy.”
He gave her a side-eye. “I’m not going to start juggling, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Too bad,” she said cheerfully. “You have the build for it. Broad shoulders. Tragic past. Classic juggler energy.”
Mydei exhaled. “Go bother someone else.”
Cipher, predictably, did not.
Instead, she leaned over the table, grabbed two of the small beanbags, and tossed one at him. Mydei caught it reflexively.
“There. Now you’re participating.”
“I’m not -”
“Shh.” She handed him a third. “You’re in too deep now.”
A nearby kid watched them curiously. “Are you guys gonna throw?”
Cipher pointed dramatically. “Mydei is. Right now.”
The kid looked delighted. Mydei looked betrayed.
With the grim determination of a man who had survived both scaffolding and childhood trauma, Mydei took aim and threw.
The beanbag ricocheted off the hydra’s wing, hit the post, and landed in the snack bucket.
Cipher applauded like he’d just slain a god. “Precision! Elegance! The emotional arc of that throw!”
“It bounced,” Mydei said flatly.
“Yes, off the wall of your emotional defenses.”
Mydei handed her back the remaining beanbags. “I’m leaving.”
Cipher followed him.
“You can’t escape me,” she said brightly.
“I can try.”
“Is this how you flirt?” Cipher asked innocently.
He paused mid-step. “That wasn’t flirting.”
“It was a little flirty. You caught the beanbag like you caught my attention.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
Mydei snorted.
“Did you just laugh at my flirtatious advances?!” Cipher said, offended. “That’s it, I can’t handle this emotional repression anymore.”
“Oh good, I found a way to get rid of you,” Mydei said dryly.
She peeled off with a spin, snagging a pink drink from a passing tray and raising it like a toast.
“Happy festival, juggler!”
Mydei shook his head - but she didn’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Just the faintest, traitorous almost-smile.
Hyacine squeaked as powdered sugar scattered near her feet. She stepped back, only to bump directly into a very sparkly someone.
“Oh! I - sorry -!” she turned quickly, already bowing her head, “I didn’t mean to -!”
“You’re fine, darling,” came the amused voice. “Though I can’t promise my cardigan won’t want compensation.”
Hyacine blinked.
Then blinked again.
And lit up.
“…Cyrene?”
Cyrene gave a flutter of her fingers, bracelets chiming faintly. “In the flesh. Glittered and unbothered.”
“I didn’t know you were coming!” Hyacine hurried to throw her arms around her.
“I like to arrive fashionably unexpected,” Cyrene said, returning the hug with a laugh. “Besides. Word on the wind said someone finally made Phainon talk about his feelings. I had to see it for myself.”
Hyacine flushed. “That wasn’t really - I mean, it was all you -”
Cyrene laughed again. “Relax, sweetheart. You did your part.”
Behind them, Castorice hung back a step.
As expected, Cyrene noticed.
She let Hyacine go, then turned just enough to meet Castorice’s gaze. “Ah, Castorice!”
Hyacine blinked, confused. “Wait - you two have met?”
Castorice looked away briefly. “Sort of.”
Cyrene’s grin was just a little too innocent. “We’ve spoken.”
Hyacine looked back and forth. “When?”
“Before you two were a thing,” Cyrene said airily. “Reconnaissance. Important older sister duties related to a certain very stubborn little brother.”
Hyacine’s face flushed pink. “A thing ?! What’s that mean?”
“You’ll find out soon, darling,” Cyrene said, grinning.
Hyacine looked like she might combust. “I - okay - I’m going to go pretend to look at handcrafted soaps now -” she darted off toward a booth, leaving the two of them briefly alone.
Cyrene turned to Castorice with a slightly different smile - not teasing, just gentle.
“Still thinking about those birds?” she asked, voice lilting, like they were sharing an inside joke.
Castorice hesitated.
“…Sometimes,” she said.
Cyrene didn’t push. “Good.”
It was afternoon by the time Phainon spotted him.
Mydei was sitting on a low stone wall at the edge of the garden path, just past the food tents. The scent of woodsmoke and candied sugar wafted faintly on the breeze, but the corner he’d chosen was calm, quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper lanterns in the trees.
Phainon jogged up the path, then slowed as he reached him.
“There you are!” he said, slightly winded. “I’ve been looking all over.”
Mydei glanced over. “I was hiding from Cipher.”
Phainon laughed. “That’s fair.”
Mydei made a spot for him on the low wall. “Did you need something?”
Phainon made a face. “No. Can’t I just… show up?” He flopped down beside him. “You know. For company. Normal people do that.”
Mydei didn’t argue. He just handed Phainon one of the little festival drinks - a cider in a cup shaped like a pumpkin.
Phainon blinked. “Wait, is this for me?”
“Would I hand you someone else’s?”
“…Fair.” He took it, lips twitching. “This is the most affection I’ve ever received from you. Should I be worried?”
Mydei sipped from his own. “Maybe.”
A beat passed.
Then, quieter: “How’s the vertigo?”
Phainon smiled faintly. “Still terrible. But, y’know. Alive.”
“Good.”
Their shoulders brushed lightly. Neither of them moved.
For a moment, it felt like the world had settled into balance.
No wind. No scaffolding. No past clawing its way to the surface.
Just the distant thrum of festival music and the warmth of two cider cups between two mostly-steady hands.
Phainon nudged him. “So… you gonna dance later?”
“No.”
“C’mon. For the rebuilding spirit. One little shuffle.”
“I said no.”
“You’re no fun.”
“And you’re loud.”
“Match made in heaven,” Phainon said, grinning into his cup.
Then:
“Hey, seriously… I’m glad you’re here.”
Mydei didn’t say anything right away.
Then he nudged Phainon’s shoulder once, just enough to make him slosh a little cider.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
And that’s when a familiar figure appeared.
“Ugh, finally .”
Phainon nearly dropped his drink. “You came?!”
Cyrene strolled up, pink jacket catching the late sun, lollipop back in her mouth and a spark in her eye. She pointed dramatically at the pair.
“You two.”
Phainon stared. “Why do I feel like I’m in trouble?”
“You are in trouble,” Cyrene said cheerfully. “For being cute and brooding alone when there’s a festival happening. Well?”
Mydei blinked. “...Well?”
Cyrene glared. “You’re sitting. Together . No one’s going to fill me in on what happened?”
Phainon looked at Mydei.
Mydei looked at Phainon.
Then they sighed - perfectly in sync - and made room for her in between them.
By the time the three of them made it to the stage, the first performance had already begun.
The lawn was full - people sitting on picnic blankets, folding chairs, or just the grass, all facing the temporary stage set up beside the auditorium steps. The sun was beginning to touch the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. The air smelled like fried dough and cider, and the distant sound of a fiddle played out over the speakers.
Phainon scanned the crowd. “Okay, wow, this is… a lot of people.”
“Did you think no one would show up?” Cyrene asked, lollipop still tucked in the corner of her cheek.
“I didn’t think this many people liked theatre,” he said.
“It’s not just theatre,” Mydei pointed out. “There’s music, too. And food. And fire-juggling.”
“...That explains the unicyclist.” Phainon squinted. “Wait, is that Tribios?”
Cyrene threw an arm around each of their shoulders, steering them toward an open patch of grass near the back. “Come on, the back row’s our vibe anyway. Mysterious. Unbothered. Close enough to the exit in case one of you cries again.”
Phainon made a strangled sound. “Cyrene -”
“Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly.”
They settled down just as a girl with a cello took the stage. The emcee - clearly a drama student - announced her as part of a “romantic duet.” From the side, Hyacine’s gasp was audible.
Cyrene raised an eyebrow. “Ah. There she is. My pink protégé.”
Phainon leaned back on his elbows. “I give it two minutes before she trips over her own heart.”
The music started - low and slow, the cello rising like a hush spreading over the crowd. Cyrene popped her lollipop back in her mouth and tilted her head to listen.
Next to her, Phainon muttered, “If either of them so much as sings, I’m going to combust from secondhand yearning.”
Cyrene gave them both a look - a knowing sort of smile like she’d just solved a mystery they hadn’t realized was a mystery.
“Well,” she said, rising with a stretch, “this has been lovely. But I’m getting the itch to stir something else.”
Phainon blinked. “What does that mean.”
“It means I just saw Castorice right next to Hyacine,” she said, “and if I don’t get over there right now, I’m going to miss another major ship development.”
“As if,” Mydei muttered. “You can take your time with those two.”
Cyrene pointed at him. “Excellent! Another shipper!” She tossed her lollipop stick into a nearby trash bin with infuriating accuracy and patted Phainon lightly on the cheek. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That’s not a comfort,” he muttered.
“Exactly,” she said brightly, and vanished into the crowd.
The crowd was already clapping as Cyrene vanished into it, her pink jacket catching the stage lights one last time before being swallowed by movement and color.
The applause from the stage faded into the hum of the next transition. Mydei was half-turned toward the next set of benches, clearly ready to sit again - to observe, quietly, like always.
Which was why he didn’t expect it when Phainon grabbed his wrist.
“Come on,” Phainon said.
Mydei blinked. “Where -”
“You’ll see.” His grip wasn’t forceful, just firm. Familiar. His fingers warm where they wrapped around the callused skin of Mydei’s wrist.
Mydei didn’t move at first. His body hesitated instinctively, rooted like always - like he had to evaluate every step before taking it.
But Phainon tugged again, lighter this time. “Trust me.”
And that was the difference, wasn’t it?
I do trust you .
So he let himself be pulled.
Through the crowd, past stalls glowing with paper lanterns and laughter. Through a sea of faces, through music, through lights, Mydei let Phainon guide him - didn’t ask where, didn’t argue. Just followed, bewildered, a little amused, a little in awe.
Phainon didn’t let go until they reached a small clearing near the back of the field - a tucked-away booth with ring toss games and cheap plastic prizes.
Mydei stared at it. “Seriously?”
Phainon grinned. “I saw a stuffed chicken. You need it.”
Mydei raised an eyebrow.
“I’m serious,” Phainon said. “It’s hideous. It would look amazing in your dorm. Like a little paperweight. Or - I don’t know - a threat.”
“That’s what you dragged me for?”
Phainon turned fully toward him, suddenly a little more serious.
“No,” he said. “I dragged you because I want you to have moments like this.”
Mydei blinked.
“You always look like you’re waiting for someone to allow you to have fun,” Phainon said. “So, congratulations. Official permission granted.”
There was a pause. A long one. Mydei looked at him for a while - like he was trying to translate the feeling in his chest into language.
“I’m not good at fun,” he said eventually.
“I know,” Phainon said cheerfully, then tossed a ring toward the bottles. “Which is why I’m the one dragging you.”
The ring missed. Wildly.
Mydei stared at the target, then at the ring on the ground. Then - slowly, impossibly - picked up the next one.
Phainon’s eyes widened. “Oh?”
“I’ll get the chicken,” Mydei said.
His voice was flat. But there was the tiniest spark in it.
He tossed.
It hit the bottle.
Phainon’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
Mydei smirked, just a little. “What color was the chicken?”
“...Rainbow. I’ll win next time,” he added under his breath.
“Like hell you will.”
The booth attendant handed it over with a shrug, clearly not paid enough to care. Mydei took the horrendous plush - the fabric was already fraying - and turned it over once in his hands.
He didn’t smile outright, but when Phainon bumped his shoulder against his, Mydei didn’t step away.
Just stood there, holding something ridiculous.
Feeling… good.
Hyacine had just finished clapping for a particularly beautiful singer when a familiar voice rang out behind her.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite emotional time bomb and her unsuspecting victim.”
Hyacine startled so hard she nearly knocked over a stand. “Cyrene!”
Castorice, who’d been sorting candles in a perfectly logical, overly detailed system, didn’t even flinch. “Hi again,” she said.
Aglaea, busy checking her clipboard, froze at the sound. Her fingers paused.
Cyrene, radiant in pink with sunglasses perched in her curls, was already grinning. “Oh, come on, Agy. That’s not the reaction I was hoping for.”
Aglaea turned slowly. “Cyrene.”
Cyrene gave a two-finger salute. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Eight years,” Aglaea said, arching a brow. “Give or take.”
Cyrene winced playfully. “Oof. When you say it out loud.”
“...I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Yeah, well.” Cyrene smiled, softer now. “None of us expected things to… scatter the way they did.”
Aglaea nodded once.
“For a while, I thought about reaching out. But your group fell apart so cleanly, it felt like… maybe that was the point? You were so young, I thought you’d all forget.”
“That’s a terrible reason.”
Cyrene sighed. “I know. That’s why I’m here now.”
Aglaea studied her. “Same old makeup and glitter.”
“Same old frown and judgment,” Cyrene shot back.
Aglaea cracked a smile.
“You’ve grown so much, Aglaea,” Cyrene said, stepping forward to hug her.
Aglaea didn’t return it, but she allowed herself to be hugged, eyes glistening a little.
As Cyrene pulled back, she exhaled brightly. “Look at this!” she said happily. “All my favorite disasters in one place.”
“What are you doing here?” Hyacine asked curiously.
“Oh, I was just doing my rounds. Making sure no one’s repressing anything important.” She gave Hyacine a playful side-eye.
Hyacine went bright pink. “I’m not repressing!”
Cyrene blinked innocently. “No?”
Castorice carefully avoided her gaze. “We’re just watching the performances.”
“Mmhmm,” Cyrene said, popping the lollipop out and pointing it at them like a wand. “You know, for a pair of girls who spend so much time not being together, you’re really good at standing very close and making eye contact for long, lingering seconds.”
Hyacine made a high-pitched sound and nearly dropped the paper lantern in her hands.
“We’re friends,” Castorice said flatly, even as she subtly shifted half an inch farther away.
Cyrene nodded sagely. “Friends. Friends who blush when they reach for the same teacup. Friends who accidentally hold hands for too long and then pretend they didn’t notice. Friends who leave each other voice messages at midnight that start with ‘I know this is stupid but I just wanted to hear your voice -’”
“CYRENE.”
“That was all a guess, by the way, but it sounds like I hit the mark.” She turned to Castorice conspiratorially. “You doing okay? I know pink whirlwind energy isn’t always easy to handle.”
Castorice gave a small, amused exhale. “I don’t mind.”
“I can tell.” Cyrene smiled, and this time it wasn’t teasing. “It looks good on you. The soft edges.”
Castorice blinked.
Cyrene turned back to Hyacine. “ You , on the other hand, need to breathe. You look like you just received a love confession.”
“I did not!” Hyacine squeaked, practically vibrating. “And I do not!”
“Relax, sunshine. I’m not here to force anything.” She took a slow, theatrical lick of her lollipop. “Just observing. Lightly meddling. Mostly basking.”
“In what?”
Cyrene gestured vaguely at the space between them. “The sheer, unrelenting tension. Honestly, it’s incredible. I haven’t seen this much mutual pining since… well, a month ago, when a certain pair of idiot boys tried to rebuild the auditorium together, which wasn’t that long ago, but my point stands.”
“I’m going to scream,” Hyacine whispered to no one in particular.
Aglaea pinched the bridge of her nose. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“I have layers now,” Cyrene said proudly. “Like a fashionable onion.”
Before anyone could say anything else, another voice drifted in from the side. “You’re causing a scene.”
Anaxa, hair a little windblown and coat slightly askew, appeared behind a lantern stand with the air of someone who had not planned on encountering chaos but had accepted its inevitability. The crowds parted around him out of fear.
Cyrene grinned. “Professor Anaxagoras! Still brooding beautifully, I see.”
“Miss Elysiae,” Anaxa said, inclining his head. “Still undermining public order. Welcome back to campus.”
“Thank you! I’m here for emotional support and light matchmaking.”
Anaxa gave a quiet sigh, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “As long as no one sets anything on fire.”
“I make no promises,” said Cyrene happily.
“Don’t forget to hydrate, Castorice,” Anaxa said, nodding at her. “You have a tendency to forget when you’re focused.”
Castorice dipped her head. “I’ve been drinking tea.”
“Tea isn’t water.”
“It’s ninety percent water.”
That earned the faintest flicker of amusement - barely.
Behind Hyacine, Aglaea had been standing motionless, clipboard balanced against her arm like a shield. She finally broke her silence.
“I take it you’re Professor Anaxagoras?”
Anaxa turned. “I am,” he said, studying her. “And you must be the infamous Miss Okhema.”
“I am.”
There was a pause as both assessed the other, watchful.
The crowd applauded in a scattered wave as the student performers took their bows on the temporary stage. Someone behind them shouted something unintelligible.
Anaxa gave a soft exhale. “Messy form. But earnest.”
Aglaea turned her head. “What was messy?”
“The pacing. Inconsistent breath control. Movement lacked clarity.”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re not their instructor.”
“Nor am I their target audience,” Anaxa said mildly. “Just an observer.”
“You sound like a judge.”
“Merely offering an observation.”
Aglaea folded her arms. “They're second-year students. Performing in open air. In wind.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then you might consider context before tearing them down.”
Anaxa raised an eyebrow. “Tearing down? That was a passing comment.”
“A passing comment can still reveal bias.”
“Bias against?”
“Expression you don’t control.”
A spark. A tilt of his head.
Hyacine looked nervously between them. “U-um… they’re just doing their best -”
Anaxa didn’t take his eyes off Aglaea. “You’re a theatre major.”
“Coordinator,” she corrected.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s a correction.”
“A very small semantic difference,” Anaxa said mildly. “And hardly dichotomous.”
Aglaea narrowed her eyes. “Are you here on behalf of someone?”
“Just myself.”
“I see,” she said. “So not affiliated with the rebuild.”
“Not directly.”
“Then you’re not required.”
Anaxa looked vaguely amused. “Few people are. Festival or otherwise.”
Cyrene looked between them like she’d just spotted two cats preparing to fight. “Oh no,” she said, delighted. “There’s two of you.”
Aglaea folded her arms. “Let me guess. You sit in the back of the theatre and mutter notes to yourself.”
“Only when the lighting’s too dim to write them down,” Anaxa said, again with his small, amused smile.
“You’re exactly the type we warn our first-years about.”
“And you’re exactly the type who ignores structural feedback in favor of symmetry.”
A pause.
Aglaea blinked slowly. “You think I ignore structure.”
“Quite the opposite. I think you control it. Tightly.”
Another beat.
Then Aglaea gave a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re lucky we’re in public.”
Anaxa matched it. “That’s never stopped me before.”
He seemed like he might leave it there. But instead, his gaze flicked over her one more time - clinical, unreadable, just short of amused.
“A pleasure speaking,” Anaxa said. “Though I admit I assumed you’d be… taller.”
Aglaea arched a brow. “Likewise.”
Hyacine made a choking noise behind her hand.
Then Anaxa gave a short, approving nod. “Your mind’s sharp. You’ll do well.”
“I plan to.”
There was a pause. The others shifted, uncertain how to interpret his continued presence.
Then Hyacine, slightly too hopeful, ventured: “Did you like the lantern display?”
Anaxa considered her a beat too long. “It didn’t collapse.”
Hyacine lit up. “That’s high praise!”
Cyrene leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s happy because you’re her favorite professor.”
“I am not -!” Hyacine immediately tried to fix her posture. “I mean - just one of - equally favored -”
Anaxa waved her off. “Calm down, Miss Dawncloud. I’m not grading you today.”
Hyacine exhaled. “Right. Okay.”
He studied her for a beat. Then, to Castorice: “I see she’s around you often.”
Castorice nodded slowly. “She’s… a friend.”
“Mm.”
Hyacine cleared her throat, trying not to read into anything. “We work on projects together.”
“Late ones,” Cyrene added, not helping.
Anaxa’s tone remained neutral, but the arch of one eyebrow betrayed something curious. “Consistently?”
Hyacine smiled nervously. “She’s very organized.”
“She’s very pink,” Castorice added, as though it explained everything.
Anaxa’s gaze flicked between them curiously, analytically. “Believe me, I’m aware.”
The sun had dipped lower now, casting golden shadows through the gaps in the trees. The noise of the festival was still present - laughter, music, voices echoing from the main field - but it felt far away from where the two of them sat.
Mydei leaned back against the bench, head tilted slightly up toward the light. Phainon sat next to him, knee bouncing, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve like it might distract from the weight in his chest.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Mydei turned. “Yeah?”
A pause.
“…Do you think we’re okay now?” Phainon’s voice was quiet, almost fragile.
Mydei didn’t answer right away. He looked back toward the lanterns, then down at his hands.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we’re still figuring out what ‘okay’ means.”
Phainon gave a soft breath of a laugh. “I like when you’re brutally honest.”
Another silence, one that had the texture of something waiting to be said.
“…It wasn’t just guilt,” Phainon said.
Mydei looked at him.
“I missed you,” Phainon said, not looking away this time. “A lot. Even when I was pretending I didn’t. Even when I told everyone you were the worst and probably allergic to friendship.”
Mydei’s throat tightened.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You deserved better.”
Phainon shrugged one shoulder. “So did you.”
The breeze picked up again, soft rustling through the leaves. Somewhere nearby, a kid let out a loud squeal of delight - one of the games, probably.
And still, they sat.
Then - gently, almost shyly - Phainon leaned his shoulder against Mydei’s.
It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t loud.
It was intentional.
Mydei didn’t pull away.
“…You know,” Phainon said after a moment, “I was gonna ask you out to the festival like, five different times.”
Mydei turned his head. “I know.”
Phainon blinked. “Wait, you did?”
“The glue,” Mydei said dryly. “The climbing. Midnight scaffolding. Definitely romantic.”
Phainon grinned. “Damn. You’re right. That was textbook.”
He exhaled.
“I want to try,” Phainon said. “Us. If you do.”
Mydei didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Phainon let out a breath. “Okay. Cool. Good.”
He cleared his throat. “So uh. Do we like… hold hands now? Or - is there a protocol?”
“Probably,” Mydei said. “But I don’t know it.”
They looked at each other. And both smiled - a real one this time, unguarded and a little disbelieving.
Then Mydei reached down and, slowly, threaded their fingers together.
Phainon’s breath caught. But he didn’t let go.
“Want to find out together?” Mydei asked.
The sky was deep violet now, stars beginning to peek through the dusk. Lanterns swayed like constellations strung on invisible threads, and the air buzzed with the soft hum of post-performance energy.
In the center of the field, a great pyre had been built - logs stacked carefully in a wide circle, kindling already catching flame. Orange light flickered across the crowd, warm and golden and alive.
Aglaea stepped onto the temporary stage with her clipboard tucked under one arm. Her hair had fallen loose from its bun, and the edge of her skirt was faintly dusted with paint - remnants of a long, chaotic, triumphant day.
“Good evening,” she said into the mic, her crisply accented voice calm but clear. “Before we begin the final send-off, I just want to thank you all for your work these past weeks. The rebuild, the planning, the… chaos.” A faint smirk. “You know who you are.”
Scattered laughter.
She glanced toward the side of the stage.
“And there’s one last thing,” she added. “Or rather - one last pair.”
Her gaze landed on Phainon and Mydei.
“You two rebuilt the stage beneath our feet,” she said. “You worked through night and storm and stress. And more than that - you reminded all of us why we toil in the first place.”
She gestured. “Come up here.”
Phainon blinked. “Oh no.”
Mydei’s eyebrows raised. “You didn’t know this was coming?”
“I didn’t think she’d do it!” Phainon hissed. “I thought it’d be like, a discreet thank-you. Not a fire-lit spotlight.”
“Too late,” Mydei murmured, already stepping forward.
Phainon groaned but followed.
The crowd parted as they made their way up. Lanterns framed them on all sides. The fire cast long shadows. It felt surreal, like walking through the final chapter of something.
They stepped onto the stage, side by side.
Phainon looked at the crowd, then at Mydei, then at the mic.
“Oh, we actually have to talk?”
Mydei gave him a dry look. Someone in the crowd coughed politely.
Phainon took a breath. Stepped forward. And then - not with a joke, like he usually would, but with something quieter - he said:
“We didn’t expect this.”
A pause.
“But… I think we needed it.”
He looked at the faces in the crowd - classmates, friends, strangers. Castorice, Hyacine, Cipher, Tribios. Cyrene leaning smugly against a tree. Aglaea beside them, smiling with pride. The auditorium glowing behind them.
“All of it,” he said. “The work. The weird glue at midnight. The way we all pulled each other through.”
He cleared his throat. “If I’ve learned anything from all this… it’s that it’s never too late to rebuild.”
He glanced at Mydei.
“I don’t know what we’re building next,” he added. “But I think we’re ready for it.”
The silence that followed was soft.
Then Mydei stepped forward. He didn’t say much.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “For trusting us.”
A beat. Then he looked out toward the fire, and added - not for the crowd, but just for Phainon:
“I wouldn’t have done it with anyone else.”
Phainon turned pink.
The fire crackled louder now. Aglaea stepped up again, smiling faintly.
“And with that,” she said, lifting a torch from its stand, “we end as we began.”
She offered the torch to Mydei. He took it, steady hands steady as ever.
Together, he and Phainon stepped down from the stage. They approached the final unlit arc of the fire.
And with one motion, they touched the flame to it.
The blaze rose. A pillar of warmth and light.
Cheers broke out across the field.
But the boys didn’t look at the crowd - or even listen to it.
They looked at each other.
And smiled.
Notes:
Alright, I'll be disappearing into the gremlin cave to plan for Act Two: Memory in my spare time after school! Phaidei haters, the worst is over now. Phaidei lovers, they DO go on a date later. Hyarice haters, how dare you! Hyarice lovers, you're about to eat well ~
In the meantime, as I said before, I have a lot of thoughts on Act One, and I'll share them here - hopefully they'll help you guys in your writing endeavors. Two main issues stood out: #1, the general lack of multi-purpose scenes, and #2, the general absence of subplots. Feel free to skip this part if you don't plan to write!
Issue #1: Multi-purpose scenes are scenes where many things are going on. While "pure scenes" (scenes that express a single emotion to its fullest, like the scaffolding, or Hyacine and Phainon painting the sign) don't need multiple purposes, smaller ones, like Phainon walking home with Aglaea, could really use some other stuff going on - for example, maybe Aglaea shuts down at the mention of Cipher and Phainon tries to coax her out of it.
Scenes are most compelling when they have a clear goal in mind - more than one is even better, but make sure it doesn't feel confusing for a reader to follow. Fluffy, slice-of-life scenes can be incredibly fun and captivating (in fact, scenes like that are why I began this fic in the first place), but too many and your pacing begins to suffer, and your audience begins to snooze, as I experienced in this last month.
[Side note: multi-purpose scenes are often easier done with more than two characters, but two characters is completely doable as well!]
[An important distinction to note is that multi-purpose scenes don't have to be loud scenes! Quiet scenes can also serve many purposes at once.]Issue #2: this arc, at least to me upon reread, was painfully straightforward! The Kindling festival was the only subplot, and it added some much-needed breaks between massive chunks of Phaidei, but it simply wasn't enough! Following one single plot thread can be well-done, but if that thread isn't compelling enough (e.g. fixing an auditorium, something that doesn't have a lot of "wow" moments), then those "wow" moments MUST come from somewhere else. To create enjoyment, memorability before sound logic - that's why people like fiction more than real life, after all!
I feel a little like Castorice seeing her own memory wall - every little glaring flaw is so apparent to me, and now that it's out it's so obvious what I could've done better, hahaha!
However, I'm quite proud of some aspects! I'm quite surprised the style of the prose didn't change throughout the Act, and stayed fairly consistent. Phaidei's development, though a little slow and boring, felt natural, gradual and gritty, just as I imagine a real breakup like this would be like. And there were a few memorable moments, like the Angstplane and the scaffolding. I believe this story is at its best during its "pure scenes," where it's focusing on one specific emotion to its fullest. Characterization stayed fairly consistent, the beginning and ending were pretty compelling, and I still think the names of the chapters are quite cool! XD
With all that said, writing Act One was some of the most fun I've had in my life, and I hope you had lots of fun reading. Thank you so much for your time!!!