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There is a boy who occupies space in your head. A lot of it, in fact.
Mydeimos—that’s his name, but Phainon insists you call him Mydei, because that’s just what everyone calls him. Mydeimos offers no objections, and since Castorice seems to think that is reason enough to use a nickname that feels so familiar, you suppose you can too.
Castorice tells you that he’s Phainon’s high school best friend—a culinary arts student who wants to be a pastry chef. You envy how simple his coursework must be; you certainly can’t imagine being blessed with the same. In fact, a semester of pain and suffering in Professor Anaxa’s class is what brought you, Phainon, and Castorice together in the first place. (Trauma bonding is a real thing, you suppose.)
Phainon brings Mydei around so that he isn’t outnumbered by women—or so he claims, though you know he mostly drags Mydei with him because the latter isn’t exactly a social butterfly. That much is apparent from your first meeting. And your second. And the third, fourth, and possibly by the eighth, you’ve concluded that Mydei simply isn’t social, regardless of whether he were a butterfly, a moth, or any other creature with wings.
Still, Phainon is a good friend for trying—for forcing Mydei to at least attempt to expand his social circle.
You’ll concede this much: for as awkward and stone-faced as Mydei may seem, he isn’t impolite. Or unkind. Or even unpleasant. He’s just…there half the time. Getting more than a three-word, neutral response out of him is like pulling teeth, but he never treats your presence as a chore. That alone makes it easy enough to overlook his terrible ability to mingle with other humans.
Or so you thought.
Mydei is actually—if you can believe it—plenty good company when it’s just the two of you. When there’s no group setting to make him retreat to the sidelines, he’s surprisingly…chatty.
“Where’s Phainon?” he asks as he lets himself into Phainon’s student apartment.
You glance up from the couch where you’re typing on your laptop.
“He went off to grab some snacks for the movie later,” you hum. “He let me in before he left. My class ended nearby, and I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to my dorm just to come back here again.”
Mydei nods, setting a small box on the table before slumping onto the opposite end of the couch. “I let myself in. Have a key. My class ended early.”
You gesture at the box. “What’s that?”
He picks it up and wordlessly holds it out to you. You blink, confused, before he pops the lid open and a warm, sweet scent fills the air.
“Cinnamon rolls,” he murmurs. “Baked them in class. Thought I’d bring them over.”
You perk up immediately, brightening at the offer. “You made these yourself?”
“Yes.” He hesitates, then adds, “Though I don’t think my professor’s recipe is the best. I’d use less butter. Didn’t really have a choice if I wanted the grade, though.”
“The more butter, the better, I say,” you hum, reaching for a pastry and taking a delighted bite. The warmth of cinnamon and sugar floods your tongue, and without thinking, you do a little shimmy of satisfaction.
Mydei chuckles, eyeing you in amusement. “Do you always do that little dance when you eat? You did it the other day, too.”
You pause mid-bite. “Of course—something tasting good is like the number one reason to do a happy dance. Also, this is definitely not too much butter.”
“It’s not healthy,” he counters, brow furrowing just slightly. “You’d never know the difference if you used less.”
You snort, giving him a look of mock bewilderment. “Oh, yes, because a sweet pastry is supposed to be a healthy snack. What’s a little extra butter in the grand scheme of all that sugar and flour anyway? I think being a gym freak has turned both you and Phainon delusional when it comes to food—yesterday he said a donut could be ‘redeemed’ if he had it with plain black coffee.”
Mydei huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That does sound like him.”
“Right? I told him that’s not how balanced diets work. He just said I just don’t understand nutrition.”
“Maybe you don’t,” he teases mildly, tone soft but playful in a way you haven’t heard from him before, “but to be fair, neither does he.”
It’s a funny way things work, you like to think. How a cinnamon roll and an empty apartment that doesn’t belong to either of you is enough to finally break the ice. Mydei is still not a very good social human being—but it’s endearing that way.
By the twenty-something time you’ve hung out with him, he’s still quiet and observant from the side as he always is, but he likes being there, and you like having him. You like seeing him. You like the slightly snide comments he makes to Phainon under his breath, and you like the fond snort he lets out when Phainon whines at how he’s so mean! You like trying his newest little baked good he brings in a box for you after his class, and you like the amused look he gives you when you insist a little more sugar would never kill anyone.
(It might kill you, he tends to say. If you have so much of it. Heart failure is never good.
Are you saying I’m unhealthy Mydeimos? you always gasp, who taught you how to speak to women?)
You grow fond enough of Mydei that you start to notice other things than just how well acclimated he is (or isn’t) in social gatherings. You start to notice his tattoos—enough that you think you could draw them by memory alone. You start to notice how tall and broad he is—enough that once or twice, your mind has drifted to how easily he might be able to lift you. And, more importantly, you start to notice how handsome he is—enough to make you worry that this might be an issue that shifts dynamics around.
But, all things considered, you think shifting dynamics are something you’re safe from for now if one half of the parties involved hardly understands what your first dynamic is to even think about changing over to a second.
———————————————
You thought wrong.
It takes all of two glasses of wine—and maybe halfway into a third, you’re not so sure—for you to be bold enough to change the dynamics yourself. Castorice and Phainon have already left your apartment—they both have early shifts in the morning, so they make their goodbyes after your routine weekly movie is over.
It’s your turn to host this week. And Mydei, being Mydei, the nice guy that he is, stays behind to help you clean up the mess. Empty glasses on the counter, crumbs on the coffee table, crumpled wrappers fallen here and there. He doesn’t think twice, doesn’t even hesitate before he stands and starts to tidy up for you.
“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, reaching to grab the glass in his hand.
He gently catches your wrist, steadying you as you wobble slightly. “I don’t mind,” he says quietly. “I helped make the mess, didn’t I? And you…you should have some water. Sit down before you fall or something.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” you argue, even as you sway a little on your feet.
He huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head before stepping away toward the kitchen. You hear the sound of a glass being filled, the soft hum of water running, and then he’s back, holding it out to you with an expectant look.
“Drink,” he says, tone firm but still so kind. (He’s always so, so painfully kind.)
You take it, squinting at him over the rim. “Are you always this bossy, or is it just me who gets this treatment?”
“I’m not bossy,” he smirks, “it’s called being responsible. Someone has to be when you’re clearly not.”
You pretend to scowl, but the amusement breaks through anyway, and you giggle. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you act like this.”
You don’t register what you say. But he does. In fact, it gets his smirk to falter for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes before he looks away, blushing. “You should probably sit down,” he mumbles, suddenly finding the couch fascinating.
He guides you to your couch, gently with one hand on your shoulder and one at the small of your back, helping you slump onto the cushions before he hands you the glass of water once more and helps you take a sip.
“Mydei,” you say softly. He looks up, and you lean closer—close enough that you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck and to the tip of his ears, close enough that the warmth of him feels like it radiates onto your own. “Thank you,” you murmur, “you’re always so sweet to me.”
“It’s nothing,” he grunts out quietly.
“It’s not nothing,” you insist, “I like being around you. I always have a good time.”
His eyes widen before he stutters over his words—shy. Sometimes, Mydei can be shy. And it’s cute.
So you kiss him.
You lean in, pressing your lips onto his. It’s slow, and soft, and tastes faintly of the wine you both drank earlier. (You more than him, clearly.) For a second, he freezes—but then his hand comes up, careful and unsure, to the side of your face. And then he’s kissing you back, hesitant but desperate all at once, like he’s been waiting for this to happen all along but can’t be sure it’s actually happening outside of his imagination.
He pulls away first, closing his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath. You hum happily, slumping back against the couch.
“Yay,” you murmur.
“You should sleep,” he breathes out, “I’ll clean up.”
“See? So sweet,” you giggle at him.
You don’t sleep right away like he tells you to. Instead, you sit on your couch and watch him clean for a bit, admiring his form as he bends and picks things up and walks around your tiny little living room. Some time between him finishing and leaving to go home for the night, though, you do fall asleep.
But not before you feel him drape a blanket over your form. Because Mydei, for all the many things that he may be, is thoughtful before everything else.
———————————————
You change your mind quickly. Perhaps Mydei is not as generous as you gave him credit for.
You haven’t seen him in two weeks since you kissed him. Or, well…since you both kissed each other—you refuse to let go of the fact that he clearly reciprocated. Therefore, this was not a one-sided incident so much as it was a tango of two.
But apparently, it’s a tango he’s been desperate to pretend never happened. You think that’s rather fucked up because you could hardly be considered drunk—and you definitely had vivid memories of everything that happened that night after you woke up. He drank less than you, so he cannot use the excuse of forgetting. But it’s become his life’s newest mission to avoid you and talking about what happened, anyway, and he’s executing it with military precision.
Every time Phainon tries to make plans for all of you, Mydei finds a way out of them.
I have extra shifts at the restaurant, he’ll text. Other times, it’s: Sorry, I’m too tired from class. I’m gonna nap. And, if he’s feeling particularly creative, he’ll say: Have to stay after class to redo a recipe. I messed up the measurements.
Mydei does not mess up measurements. He’s too good a cook for that. You have seen him tweak recipes with flawless execution off the top of his head—he is too skilled to do something like mess up a pre-instructed recipe. But at least he’s committed to the bit—he is certainly charitable enough to at least attempt to play his blatant avoidance off as unintentional due to his overwhelming schedule.
Phainon, unfortunately, has caught on because he so bluntly asks you one day when you’re trying to study together while Castorice is at work—which, you realize, is exactly why he asked to study with you in the first place. Because she is at work. And he can have you alone. And if he has you alone, he can interrogate you.
You should have seen that coming.
“Did something happen between you and Mydei?” he asks casually, though his tone is far too deliberate to actually be casual. He sets his laptop aside, folding his arms. “He’s seen Cas a few times, and he hangs out with me just fine. That only leaves you. Did he say something you took the wrong way? Because if so, I know he’s not always the best at expressing himself, but I promise he didn’t mean it with any harm.”
You glance up from your notes, trying for nonchalance. “What makes you think something happened? Maybe he’s just busy.”
Phainon raises an eyebrow. “Busy. Right. Because the man who plans his week down to the minute suddenly has no time for movie nights or dinner? Please.”
You look down, pretending to focus on the highlighted paragraph in front of you. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“Am I?” he asks, raising a brow. “Look, usually, I’d drop it, but this time…I don’t think I’m wrong. So, what happened? Did he say something stupid? He does that sometimes—he doesn’t ever mean it, he’s just not exactly the best at…words.”
You sigh, rubbing your temple. “No. He didn’t say anything stupid.”
Phainon tilts his head. “Then what?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“That sounds exactly like something you’d say if it were a big deal.”
You glare at him. “It’s not. It was…something that just happened. And now he’s avoiding me, and I don’t know why.”
“Okay, so what happened?” he presses. He is rather persistently making it clear he isn’t going to let it go and drop this.
You stare at the open tabs of your laptop, debating whether to lie, deflect, or just walk out the door. Eventually, you cave. Phainon and Mydei have been friends since they were awkward, scrawny teenagers who grew into themselves. Surely, if he really wanted, he could weasel an answer out of Mydei. It’s probably out of kindness that he asks you for your side of the story first so he can make fair assessments without being biased.
So you rip the band-aid off. You set your laptop down on the couch beside you and turn your body to face him, and you rip the band-aid off, even if it means revealing the fresh wound that hasn’t even started to scab over yet.
“We…we kissed,” you admit quietly.
It’s silent. Phainon is, to his core, bewildered.
“You kissed Mydei?” he blurts, blinking at you as if you’d just confessed to some awful, terrible, unimaginable crime.
You sigh, already regretting telling him anything. “And so what if I did?”
“So what if—” He stops, mouth parted in shock and jaw slack enough it might as well touch the floor. “I just—wow. I didn’t think Mydei even knew how kissing worked.”
You blink, then hiss incredulously, “What is that supposed to mean?”
Phainon waves his hands defensively. “Hey, no need to get so offended on his behalf. I’m just saying he doesn’t exactly strike me as the romantic type. He’s like—what’s that word? Stoic? Mildly robotic? Did it feel like kissing cold metal?”
You purse your lips. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m just asking,” Phainon insists. “Well, anyway…did he initiate it or did you? Wait, no, don’t tell me—actually…wait. Yes, tell me.”
“Phainon.” You give him a flat stare. “If I tell you anything, you’ll make it weird.”
“It’s already weird!”
You pick up a pillow from the couch and toss it at him—he yelps as it hits him square in the chest. Yet another display of his commendably annoying theatrics because he could have easily caught or dodged your throw, and you know it as well as he does. But you suppose you appreciate his good sportsmanship in letting you land a hit.
“Enough questions,” you mutter, crossing your arms and looking away. “It just…happened.”
Phainon narrows his eyes like you’ve given him a riddle. “It just happened, huh? So what, you tripped and so did he, and you met halfway and accidentally locked lips?”
You huff. “Does it matter who did what? It wasn’t a big deal.”
He stares at you a little longer than necessary, as if trying to read something in your face. Then, finally, he lets out a low whistle and sinks back into the couch on the opposite end of you.
“Wow. Mydei actually kissed someone. Voluntarily.” He leans back, shaking his head in disbelief. “Next thing I know, Castorice is gonna tell me he’s eloping with his bread starter.”
You can practically see Mydei’s reaction to that—the slow blink, the withering look, the grumpy smack to the back of Phainon’s head—and you have to bite down a laugh before it slips out. The last thing you need is Phainon accusing you of smiling at the thought of Mydei.
“I’m pretty confident,” you say instead, fighting your grin, “that he’s likely a better kisser than you. Your lips are barely even there.”
Phainon gasps, clutching his chest in mock hurt. “So now we’re body shaming? Crazy.”
“You did that to yourself,” you snort.
“I was just expressing concern for my emotionally repressed friend!”
You roll your eyes. “Concern that is pretty unnecessary.”
“Please,” Phainon scoffs, mirroring your tone as he leans back against the couch. “I’m looking out for you both. If anyone’s gonna date Mydei, it should come with an instruction manual. He’s…a piece of work.”
You laugh—can’t help it this time, even if you tried—and shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s not here to hear you say that. You’re the worst.”
He shrugs cheerfully. “And yet, you still hang out with me. Which, honestly, makes me question your taste almost as much as the kissing thing.”
“I don’t know if you’re rooting for him or against him,” you say flatly. “And in any case, like I said, Mydei is finding every excuse in the book to avoid hanging out with all of us, which is probably because I’m there, which likely means he regrets the kiss, which likely means he doesn’t feel the same, which likely means—”
“Mydei is, like…the dumbest guy I’ve ever talked to,” Phainon cuts in, “and that’s only because I can’t exactly talk to myself.”
“You can if you really want to,” you laugh, “but at least you’re self-aware.”
“You didn’t have to agree that fast,” he mutters, giving you a dry smile. Then, with a sigh, “Look, he’s a little slow on the emotional uptake, okay? But he definitely likes you—trust me, I’d know.” He pauses, squinting. “I mean, I never thought you’d like him back, of course, because—well, you know, you seem like someone with standards, but—”
“Phainon.”
He freezes, hands up instantly. “I’m kidding! He’s a good guy—great, even. My point is, he probably thinks you regret it. He’s avoiding you because he thinks you’re going to reject him.”
“That makes no sense,” you grumble. “I was the one who kissed him first.”
“So it was you who initiated—”
You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“—B-but anyway, Mydei doesn’t always make sense!” he rushes out, backpedaling so fast it almost makes you smile. “I meant it when I said he’s a piece of work—but I also meant it when I said he’s a good guy. I know him better than anyone, and I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. So while I think he’s an idiot for being a coward, I also think maybe you could…I don’t know, end his suffering. Let him know he’s not walking straight into heartbreak.”
You huff, arms crossing. “Fine. But you owe me for this. A month’s worth of coffee.”
“For what?” he gapes. “I didn’t do anything—”
“Just ’cause.”
You stand, gathering your bag and laptop, and head toward the door. Phainon wordlessly follows, his footsteps padding behind yours until he stops beside you at the entryway.
You hesitate. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn and lean forward, wrapping your arms around him. He startles only for a second before returning the hug instantly—one arm protectively around your waist, the other rising to cup the back of your head with enough gentleness, you feel the familiar sting of tears in your eyes.
“Hey,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, voice low and steady, “you two are good for each other. I know it, okay? Don’t worry so much.”
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice soft and small. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he chuckles, the sound rumbling against your body. “Just don’t soak my shirt. I can’t replace my wardrobe if you drain my wallet with coffee.”
You laugh, and it’s a watery little thing. “You are so insufferable.”
He grins. “And yet, I’m still your bestest friend in the world.”
You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. Phainon is a good friend, you think—and, if things work out between you and Mydei like he promises, he’ll also be the one who introduced you in the first place. You think you can afford to be a little nicer to him from now on. Perhaps starting with trying not to make fun of his thin lips ever again.
(Key word: try.)
———————————————
Mydei’s apartment is on the wealthier end of apartments in the area.
Apparently, from what you’ve gathered in passing from Phainon, Mydei comes from generational wealth. Or something like that, at least. You don’t really know—his family is a touchy subject, evidently. He seems to sour anytime the mention of fathers in a general sense is brought up. You don’t even dare to bring up his father specifically—you can only imagine that he does not get along with his father.
Perhaps, though, if things go accordingly, and you are able to mend things over with him, you could get to know him better. Get to know him personally. Intimately. Get to know him in ways that only you are allowed to know—vulnerable ways where he doesn’t just confide in you, but lets you pick up the pieces and press them back into place, holding them steady with nothing more than conviction and affection as the glue.
A wishful way of thinking, maybe. Daydreaming, even. But you’d like the opportunity—you really would. You like Mydei. He’s nice and quiet and respectful, and he cares for people in silent boldness. He doesn’t smother you in that way that feels performative, and he doesn’t make you wonder how long before he gets bored with you. He takes the time to learn you silently without you realizing, and he shows you just when the time is right in casual, gentle ways without asking for anything in return.
Here, he’ll say, I baked this for you. I know you like that flavor.
You rolled your shoulder out again, he’ll point out casually, if your bag is so heavy for you, you shouldn’t carry that much all the time. Here—give it to me.
You have an exam next week, he’ll bring up, I got you groceries. You never eat healthy during exam weeks.
He’s sweet. Blunt and a little dry in nature, but sweet. His heart is so gold, you wonder if he bleeds it. If it pumps delicate, soft gold between every vessel and artery. It’s exactly why it hurts so bad when he seems to avoid you after you get a taste of him—being so close to believing you could have someone like him before having it torn away from you feels sickeningly cruel.
But Phainon is right about one thing. Mydei is a good guy. Great, even. You choose to believe he is a little slow in the head and goes about protecting himself in the wrong ways. And you choose to believe that with a little luck on your side, you can walk away knowing that getting to know him enough to understand why his father is a sore spot and why he never brings up his family is quite possible.
You knock on his door. He opens it almost instantly—so fast that it’s clear he was expecting someone else. You’re fairly certain you have Phainon to thank for that.
“Hi,” you say.
“Oh.” He blinks, surprise flickering across his face. “You’re…here?”
“Yeah.” You fidget with your fingers. “Is that okay?”
“I—yeah,” he stammers, stepping aside. “Uh, yeah. Come in.”
“You don’t have to invite me in,” you shake your head quickly. “I just wanted to talk, Mydei. It’ll be quick.”
He stands there for a beat too long, staring at the floor, before his shoulders slump the slightest bit with a quiet sigh. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I know you’re probably upset with me for…what happened.”
“I mean, yeah,” you admit softly, “you could’ve just been honest if you didn’t feel the same—”
“I should’ve never let it go that far when you were clearly tipsy,” he blurts. “I’m sure you think I was taking advantage of you.”
You blink once. Then twice. Then again, just to process his words and make sure you heard him right.
“Sorry,” you frown, “what was that?”
He stares back at you, equally confused. “Why wouldn’t I feel the same? I kissed you back, didn’t I?”
“No, no, hold on,” you say, lifting a hand. “Forget that part for a second. Why would I feel taken advantage of?”
“Because I kissed you when you weren’t sober?” His tone is baffled, staring at you like you’ve grown two heads. “I don’t know what got into me that night, but I don’t usually lose control like that. I’m sorry—I should’ve had more restraint. You don’t deserve to—”
“This whole time you were avoiding me because you thought I felt taken advantage of over a kiss?” you interrupt, incredulous.
“Well, yeah,” he almost pouts, “you’re not supposed to be intimate with people when they aren’t sober. It’s not right.”
“You thought I regretted it,” you continue, half-laughing in disbelief. “This whole time, I thought you regretted it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says instantly, “I would never regret kissing you. I just regret not waiting for a more appropriate—”
You cut him off by wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a hard, passionate kiss. One, because he’s such…a good guy, and two, because he deserves to know you’re not mad. Not in the slightest.
He doesn’t hesitate, either. Wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you tight against him, kissing you back with an almost desperate amount of need. Your mouth parts, and he slips his tongue past your parted lips, groaning as he gets a taste of you. Without wine, this time—thankfully. And because Mydei is so well-mannered and considerate, he turns his body so that you’re not facing the outside world, gently maneuvering you into the privacy of his apartment and shutting the door behind him so no one gets a glimpse of the way he kisses you absolutely senseless.
You pull away with labored breaths as his forehead presses against yours.
“We were both tipsy, for the record,” you snort breathlessly, “you silly goose.”
His lips quirk into a slight, amused grin at that. “I guess maybe I was. I don’t drink often enough to know my limits.”
“You are a hopeless case,” you huff out a disbelieving chuckle, “Phainon was right. You aren’t very bright, are you?”
His face turns sulky at that as he asks, “What does that mean?”
“Nothing important,” you laugh. “Just kiss me for now—I’m sober, okay? So you can. And you can even when I’m not—I don’t mind if it’s you.”
“Okay,” he smiles, pressing a chaste peck to your lips. You press another before he can fully pull away. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Don’t ignore me again.”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?” you pout.
“I do,” he hums, kissing your curled lips soothingly.
“It hurt my feelings when you did, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” he says instantly.
“So do you like me?” you bat your lashes hopefully, cheekily.
He laughs—sweet, and low, and delicate enough that you lean in closer to hear the sound a little better. “I do. A lot. Maybe more than like, actually.”
“Good,” you nod, “I like you, too. So take me on a date.”
“Will do,” he grins. His arms wrap tighter around you, and his face buries into your neck as he pulls you flush against his chest. “You can stay here, even. I’ll make you dinner. It’ll be good.”
“Okay,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair as you lean into him in relief, “I will.”