Archive of Our Own ^beta

Phainon was screwed. He limped down a dark, narrow street, blood seeping from his leg. Most of the city was asleep by now, so at least he didn’t have to worry about anyone spotting him. 

If you’re wondering how he ended up in this dandy situation, Phainon had decided to help a young lady being robbed, and walked away with a knife in his leg.

The lady didn't even bother to help him either. Running off in fear once the robber pulled out the knife. 

Screw him and his damn savior complex.

So here he was, bleeding out and trying desperately to remember where the nearest hospital was.

Soon enough, his legs gave out beneath him. Phainon’s vision blurred, the world tilting as he stumbled, trying, and failing, to stay upright.

Phainon went down hard, the concrete scraping against his palms as he hit the ground with a thud that made him wince.

Phainon just lay there, every ounce of strength draining from him. His head lolled back, and his eyes caught a sign above a building, ‘The Book Nook Library,’ embezzled in big, bold letters. 

“Huh,” his tired brain unhelpfully supplied. ‘I… don’t remember that being here before.’

Phainon’s vision swam as he laid on the cold concrete. He could barely make out a blurry figure coming out of the library. They seemed to be quick in noticing him, despite how dark it was outside.

They moved toward him with urgency. Their words came out in soft murmurs, but his muddled mind couldn’t make sense of them.

Then, firm hands slid beneath him, lifting him gently off the cold concrete. The warmth of the stranger pressed against him, steady and grounding. Through the haze of pain and fatigue, Phainon caught the scent, pomegranate. Sweet, sharp, and inexplicably comforting.

Phainon hummed as he nuzzles closer to his savior before closing his eyes as his world dissolved into darkness.

Phainon’s eyelids fluttered open as he slowly woke up. Pain still throbbed in his leg, and every muscle tensed reflexively, bracing himself as he looked around the unfamiliar scenery. 

He was in the library, Phainon could tell that much. But he had no clue as to why or how he ended up in here. His chest heaved in panic as he searched the room for an exit.

Then, almost like a lifeline, a far too familiar scent hit him, pomegranate. Sharp and sweet, lingering in the air around him. It made him pause, made his body relax in spite of the ache and dizziness. His tense fingers loosened, and for the first time tonight, his racing heart slowed just enough for him to think clearly.

A desk lamp glowed nearby, its light spilling over rows of books and polished wood. And seated just beside him was a man, calm, composed, almost serene. Golden hair gleamed under the light, and behind slim glasses, his eyes were a vivid yellow, striking enough to cut through the fog of Phainon’s mind. He held an open book in one hand, calmly turning the page with care.

Phainon stared, the breath caught in his lungs. The scent, the steady rustle of paper, the glow of the lamp, it all seemed too gentle, too ordinary, after everything. For a moment he wondered if this was still a dream, some final kindness conjured by his tired brain.

The man’s eyes flicked up from his book and caught Phainon’s. They were golden-yellow, sharp and steady, like a lion’s gaze, watchful, commanding, impossible to look away from. For a moment, Phainon forgot how to breathe.

“Hot,” he blurted before his brain caught up with his mouth.

The man’s lion eyes lingered on him, steady and unblinking. When Phainon’s accidental word broke the silence, the corner of the man's mouth twitched, just barely.

 “So,” the man said smoothly, closing his book with a soft thump, “you are awake.” 

His tone was even, but there was the faintest glimmer of amusement in his gaze, as if he’d heard every syllable and was gracious enough not to comment. Yet.

Phainon’s face heated as the weight of his own words finally sank in. He scrambled for something, anything, to say, but then his gaze dropped to his leg. Neatly wrapped in clean bandages, no longer bleeding.

His mouth went dry. “You- uh. You… did this?” he stammered, blinking like he might be imagining it.

“I did,” The man simply adjusted his glasses with one hand, his eyes never leaving Phainon’s face. His voice was smooth, steady, almost unreadable when he finally spoke. 

“…Have we met before?” 

The question lingered in the quiet, flat in tone but heavy in the way his gaze traced every line of Phainon’s features, as though searching for something familiar hidden beneath them.

Phainon blinked, heat crawling up his neck under that unblinking, lion stare. His mouth went dry.

“N-No,” he said quickly, maybe a little too quickly. “I’d, uh… definitely remember someone like you.”

The words slipped out smoother than he intended, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as he leaned back against the wall, “Golden hair, nice looking eyes, smelling like pomegranate? Kinda hard to forget. So unless you’ve got a twin wandering around bandaging up idiots in alleys, I think this is our first time.”

“How do you know what I smell like?” The man deadpanned. 

Phainon froze, mouth still half-open around whatever charming nonsense he’d been about to say. His brain short-circuited. “I- uh-” He coughed, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. 

“Lucky guess?” His ears burned. “Or maybe I’ve just got… a really talented nose,” he added weakly, instantly regretting every word that left his mouth.

The man gave him a strange, unreadable look over the rim of his glasses, as though weighing whether Phainon was serious or simply insane.

Phainon’s nerves spiked. He sat up a little too quickly, wincing as his leg reminded him of the bandages. “Right! Uh- names, introductions, normal people stuff,” He jabbed a thumb at his chest, forcing a crooked grin, “Phainon. That’s me. A totally normal guy, who bleeds out on strangers’ doorsteps… Y’know, the usual.”

He laughed weakly, scratching at the back of his neck, “And you are…?”

The silence stretched, thick enough that Phainon almost regretted asking. The man’s golden eyes lingered on him, searching, unreadable behind the faint gleam of his glasses. Then, with a quiet thud, he shut the book in his hands and set it aside with meticulous care.

“Mydeimos,” he said at last. His tone was calm, but the name itself carried weight, curling through the air like something ancient and sharp.

Phainon nodded quickly, desperate to keep the conversation from sinking back into that heavy silence. “You, uh… come here often?”

A sound slipped from Mydeimos, half a snort, half a laugh, as he leaned back slightly. “I am the librarian and owner of this place,” he said dryly, the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth betraying his amusement.

“Oh, uh, nice place then,” Phainon fumbled. “Very… tidy. Definitely says a lot about the guy running it.” He caught himself, coughed, and added quickly, “All good things, obviously.”

“Right,” Mydeimos said as he rose from his chair, smoothing a hand over the front of his coat. His tone was steady and made Phainon’s heart do a flip, “You can stay here for the night, if you need to. But I need to start shutting things down.”

Phainon pushed himself up too fast, wobbling as his injured leg protested. 

“No, no, I should go,” he blurted, waving his hands like that would somehow smooth over the awkwardness. “You’ve already done way too much for me. Bandages and a roof over my head, yeah, I, uh… owe you one.” 

He offered a crooked grin, backing toward the door with all the grace of a cornered animal, “Thanks, really. I’ll… try not to bleed on your doorstep again.”

Before Phainon could limp more than a few steps, Mydeimos’s voice stopped him.

 “Wait.” 

Phainon turned, slowly blinking, as Mydeimos pulled a small notepad and pen from his pocket. He scribbled something down with neat, precise strokes, then tore off the slip of paper and held it out.

 “My number,” he said simply. “In case you find yourself bleeding in an alley again.” 

Phainon stared at the paper, then at him, caught somewhere between touched and embarrassed, “…That’s, uh… very specific, but thanks.”

He turned toward the door, his limp still awkward but lighter somehow. As the cool night air met his face, a laugh slipped out under his breath. 

“Maybe getting stabbed wasn’t so bad after all…”

His leg shot up in pain the second he put real weight on it, nearly buckling under him.

“Nevermind,” he hissed through his teeth, clutching at the doorway for balance. “This shit sucks.”

The next day, Phainon found himself limping back toward the library, the bandages tugging against his leg with every step. He told himself it was just to be polite, thank the guy properly, return the favor, maybe drop off some pastries or something. Definitely not because he couldn’t get the image of those lion-gold eyes out of his head.

The library looked calmer in daylight, sunlight spilling over its old stone walls and catching on the windows. For a moment, he just stood there at the steps, heart thudding harder than it had any right to.

Phainon slipped through the door and spotted Mydeimos right away at his usual post, book in hand, glasses low on his nose.

“Yo,” Phainon called, giving a small wave. “Back again. Still mostly in one piece.” 

Mydeimos looked up almost immediately. “Good to see you're alive,” he said.

Phainon stepped closer, nodding toward the book in Mydeimos’s hands. “So… what’re you reading?” he asked, leaning over to look.

Phainon tilted his head, not satisfied with the flat answer. “History of what?” 

Mydeimos’s gaze slid back to the page. “You wouldn’t like it.”

Phainon smirked, leaning a little closer over the desk. “Try me. I’m a college student, y’know. I live off boring books and caffeine. Besides…” His grin widened as he eyed Mydeimos. “You look smart. Bet you’d make a great tutor.”

It wasn’t an excuse to stay close to the librarian. Not at all. Definitely not. He just… appreciated his savior’s company, that was it. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what Phainon told himself as he hovered far too comfortably within Mydeimos’s personal space, grinning like a fool.

Mydeimos let out a quiet sigh, finally closing the book in his hands. His golden eyes flicked up to meet Phainon’s, steady and unreadable. 

“If you really need it,” he said, voice calm and even, “I can… tutor you.” 

The words sounded more like reluctant acceptance than enthusiasm, but there was no mistaking the genuine sincerity behind it.

The next morning, Phainon shuffled into the library carrying a small plate, the burnt smell hitting Mydeimos before he even looked up. 

“Uh… breakfast?” Phainon said, holding it out with a nervous grin. “I tried pancakes. They… um, have character.” 

Mydeimos’s golden eyes flicked to the plate. Smoke still curled faintly from the edges. He raised an eyebrow, deadpan, “I take it you don’t cook often?” 

Phainon winced, scratching the back of his neck, “You could say that.”

Mydeimos leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing at the faint smoke still curling from the burnt pancakes. 

“You know what,” he said calmly, standing and straightening his coat, “we’re going to a café nearby.” 

Phainon blinked, caught off guard. 

“I’ll shut down the library for the day,” Mydeimos continued evenly, “and we’ll do your tutoring there. Somewhere with… edible food.” 

Phainon’s grin spread uncontrollably, “You mean… you’re taking me out? For breakfast and tutoring?”

Mydeimos gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh and started toward the door, “Yes. Don’t make me regret this.”

Phainon’s grin stretched from ear to ear, and he practically bounced along beside Mydeimos like an overexcited puppy.

Ever since that day, Phainon made a point of visiting the library every single day. Being around Mydeimos had become a habit he couldn’t break, an addiction he didn’t want to. He was captivated by how beautiful the man was, how sharp and intelligent his mind seemed, and how quietly kind he could be.

Every glance, every word, every subtle movement of Mydeimos drew Phainon in further. He was completely enthralled, obsessed in a way that left him both exhilarated and helpless, unable to imagine a day without seeing him.

So he kept coming by to see the man.

To see his prince again.

One day, as Phainon shuffled through his notes and muttered to himself, Mydeimos finally set his book aside. His golden eyes locked onto Phainon, calm and steady. 

“Phainon,” he said, voice flat and even, “why do you keep coming here? You don’t seem to actually need tutoring.” 

Phainon choked on his own breath, scrambling, “I mean! I’m… improving!” he said quickly, waving at the open books around him. “Totally learning! That’s why I’m here! Not… not because of other reasons!” 

Mydeimos didn’t blink. The faint tilt of his head made Phainon’s stomach twist. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Mydeimos continued, voice calm but cutting, “I’ve noticed something. You never actually pay attention to any of the reading material I give you. You’re here for something else entirely.” 

Phainon’s mind spun, red creeping up his neck and ears as he was exposed.

Phainon’s shoulders slumped, face falling. “Fine… I can stop coming if I'm bothering you,” he muttered, barely audible.

Mydeimos’s golden eyes fixed on him, steady and unreadable, yet somehow gentle. “No,” he said firmly. “That’s not what I mean. I want to know… why you keep coming back.”

Phainon froze. His chest tightened. Words failed him. He opened his mouth, then shut it, flailing silently inside his own head.

“I….I-!”

He was spiraling. Unable to speak, struggling to breathe as his mind tried to come up with an excuse, any excuse.

Then Mydeimos stepped closer, hands steady as they cupped Phainon’s face. The kiss was rough, urgent, and insistent, silencing the panic and spiraling thoughts. His world narrowed to the golden eyes, the weight of Mydeimos’s presence, and the undeniable pull between them.

Phainon sat frozen for a beat, then slowly, a dazed grin spread across his face. His chest felt light, almost like it had been unshackled, and a warmth bubbled through him.

“You… kissed me,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, grinning like a fool. And for once, he didn’t care how ridiculous he looked.

Mydeimos’s golden eyes held Phainon’s, calm and unyielding. “You’ve never annoyed me,” he said simply. 

Phainon’s heart fluttered, as Mydei spoke. 

“And,” Mydeimos added, just the faintest softness in his tone, “I like having you around. Don’t think for a second that you’re a burden to me.” 

Phainon’s heart hammered in his chest as he leaned closer, his hands trembling slightly as they hovered near Mydeimos. Without thinking, he closed the distance and pressed his lips to Mydeimos’s again, this time slower, softer, and deliberate, letting the warmth and longing of his feelings pour into the kiss.

Mydeimos didn’t pull away. His hands found Phainon’s shoulders, steadying him, golden eyes half-lidded in quiet acknowledgment. The kiss deepened naturally, unhurried, a mutual understanding passing between them that this was no accident, no fleeting impulse.

‘Oh, Mydeimos…’ Phainon’s eyes darkened as they kissed. He wasn’t deserving of this, he knew it. Not after their previous lives, not after the endless times he had shoved a sword into this man’s back.

‘How many times will this happen? How many times will you fall for me?’

His hand hovered over Mydeimos’s back, right above the tenth thoracic vertebra, trembling slightly, ‘How many times will you give me your heart?’

‘And how many times will you sacrifice your life for mine?’