Chapter Text
The ambient hum of restaurant chatter and tinkling silverware bleeds into the conversation taking place in front of Anaxa. He can see lips move, hear words spoken yet they register as white noise one and the same.
He has long lost the thread of his former classmate’s story as they share it to the table. An anecdote from their student days or something about their life as of late, it doesn't matter. It's of little interest to him anyways so his attention flits freely like a bird unchained.
The meandering path of his gaze pretends to absorb the scenery, the people, the decor, and whatnot. It's a vain attempt at delaying the inevitable because his ending destination, unfortunately, turns out the same once again.
Just out of the corner of his eye was a snowy-silver head of hair, someone he's stolen a number of glances from already.
Phainon looks good.
Really good. The years have done him well, maturity now lining the edges of this once callow youth.
He's certainly learned to dress himself better; his dark button-down and coat don't clash atrociously in color. A sign he'd gleaned some sort of sensibility towards fashion alongside aging.
But aside from that, Anaxa doesn't find much of a difference between this man and the young boy he used to see nearly everyday.
Yes, there’s a subtle sharpness in his features now, as seen in the angle of his jaw or the taper in his brow, yet the overall picture is still reminiscent of that boyish-handsomeness that drew admirers in by the number.
He even smiles the same way Anaxa remembers; bright, open, honest—completely blinding like he's competing with the sun itself.
Just a little imagination and Anaxa can almost pretend time has never passed like this, like he's sitting at his desk by the window, watching a younger version of Phainon live a life tangential to his own.
When present day Phainon effortlessly earns the laughter of his table, it’s no mystery to Anaxa why a golden band rests on the man’s fourth finger.
There was no shortage of injustice in this world, Anaxa mentally grumbles into his beer.
He's always been told that the gods don't give with both hands but when he looks at him, he can only see a flagrant display of the divine playing favorites.
Or maybe this was just Phainon's rightful karma for being a wonderful person.
Students and teachers alike sang his praises back then: kind and friendly, upstanding and generous with his compassion. He was the kind of guy you could always approach and always rely on. Everywhere he went, he shone like a beacon. The kindness he doled out freely seemed endless and enduring, traces of it lingering in the smiles of those he comes across.
Now, Anaxa wasn't a stone-cold cynicist as others liked to believe; he did believe in humanity’s finer qualities from time to time. But this consensus on Phainon was more like exaggerated gushing fueled by fanatics. Because—really?—how can a pubescent sixteen-year-old possibly achieve this almost concerning level of adulation if not for his looks.
Some facet of it was a farce, he was sure of it.
Needless to say, Anaxa eats his words after seeing it for himself.
He should've known better really. Ever since childhood, Anaxa has been of the delicate sort, easy to tire and easy to fall ill. He's not a stranger to passing out in public or becoming victim to a spontaneous asthma attack—all the express courtesy of being born with a hole in his heart.
What was supposed to be a regular summer day, turned into nothing short of hell when the unforgiving hot weather managed to coincide with his outdoor pe class. For one moment, Anaxa was fine running an unimpressive lap around the courtyard and in the next, he was sweating bullets trying not to keel over due to the tightening in his chest.
When he started coughing like a man dying, the first one to act was of course, the guy no better suited to play knight in shining armor.
The walk to the infirmary was a blur then, barely memorable—not like Phainon’s colorful language upon discovering its custodian was nowhere to be found.
As another devastating wave of coughs assail Anaxa, Phainon gives up jangling the doorknob to rush over to his side.
“Wh-What do I do? How can I help? H-hey, shit—”
If Anaxa wasn't absolutely miserable, he'd be more interested in the fact Mr. Perfect Student just cussed. This brief amusement of his however, was quickly overshadowed by the genuine panic unfolding on the other's face.
As much as he wanted to placate Phainon’s worry, the wet, ragged coughs that replace his answer do the opposite of calm him down.
It's as terrible as it sounds, his whole body jostling along with the coughs practically bruising his lungs. A particularly harsh one scrapes his throat raw and has him stumbling on shaking legs.
Anaxa gasps when he doesn't feel his knees collide against the tiles. Instead, the little breath he had was stolen when his back suddenly meets the wall.
Still, he wasn't spared a moment to process how he hasn't made friends with the floor when a painful spasm seizes his lungs once more, making him contend for the ability to breathe once again.
He whips to the side at the last second, eyes screwed shut and possessing enough decency not to cough right into Phainon's face.
Somewhere outside his own suffering, Anaxa faintly feels the rustle of movement and of warmth retreating. He thought Phainon was about to leave to go get help only for the very same warmth to return, suddenly and firmly clamping over his mouth.
Alarmed, his eyes fly open only to see the same shock equally reflected in Phainon's wide eyes.
Whatever crossed Phainon’s mind to resort to this instead of the obvious, he'll never know. He'll just know the sensation of that hand over his lips, its pair anchoring him to the wall with subdued strength.
As well as the exact color of Phainon’s irises as he stares right into him, almost begging him to stay alive. And the scent of his skin, the flush on his cheeks, the softness in his voice as he whispers barely reassuring platitudes to Anaxa, some probably for himself too.
“Breathe with me?” Phainon gently asks of him. Anaxa watches him take a deep breath then slowly exhale; the air softly sweeps over his nose bridge and flutters his bangs this distance.
Anaxa unconsciously leans into the rhythm, letting the gentle rise and fall of Phainon's shoulder line and steady sound of his inhales be his guide.
It's a painfully slow affair and Phainon was nothing but patient. Hope brims in his eyes even when Anaxa feels hopeless from the unrelenting stream of coughs leaking through the edges of Phainon's palm.
Still, Phainon encourages him with a kind gentleness that urges him to keep trying.
“Just like that, just breathe with me.”
He listens, concentrating on every shared intake of air, each one a triumph when his lungs fill with much needed oxygen. Soon enough, Anaxa feels the frenzy in his chest slowly calm. His agonized wheezing gradually turns into sporadic hiccups that eventually die down, until all that's left is his shaky breaths through his nose.
Sensing the change, Phainon gingerly pulls his hand off but doesn't step away. His gaze bores into Anaxa, a sensible thing to do after everything that's happened but it prickles like static on his skin anyway.
“Is it over?” Phainon asks in a quiet voice, shy or probably afraid of agitating the peace that's befallen them.
Anaxa nods weakly, “I… I think so…” his voice, unsurprisingly hoarse and banged up like hell.
“Okay, okay. You… really scared me. I really thought you were gonna die for a minute.”
Anaxa snorts slightly amused before lifting his gaze up.
“It would take more than that to do me in.”
It clearly catches the other by surprise, Phainon's lips parting and face palpably burning cherry red. It was quite a memorable thing.
So memorable in fact, that the sight had disrespectfully ingrained itself into Anaxa’s brain, inducting itself as one of those intrusive thoughts that never really goes away.
It's good that the school nurse finds them at this exact moment Anaxa is at a loss. He is promptly taken inside and made to rest on one of the cots. The hushed tones of Phainon's voice wash over him alongside the exhaustion, effortlessly leading him into slumber before he can hear the sliding of a door shut.
It was the most interaction they had with each other. Sure their paths crossed and they exchanged words after the ordeal but they were all interactions purely warranted in a school setting.
Nothing more than cordial acquaintanceship formed between them and there was no time to delve deeper into friendship because Phainon was just as busy being tugged into every direction as Anaxa was preoccupied with his own things.
Soon enough, it was graduation and that was the last they'll see of each other.
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Anaxa's eyes flutter open and he is greeted by concrete and frigid night air, the remnants of what he recalled fading from his mind.
He's just excused himself from the boresome tale his former classmate was spewing to smoke in the restaurant's back alley. As he takes a slow drag of his cigarette, he debates on whether or not he should go back inside and endure whatever convoluted torture he's imposing on himself.
He could just leave, because what really is keeping him here anyway? A taken man? He chuckles hollowly for even feeling… this way. He blames it on the alcohol and the too many trips down memory lane.
Mired in the untangling of his thoughts, he doesn't pay much attention to the sound of footsteps approaching. It isn't until he hears words being spoken to him that Anaxa realizes he's not alone.
“Who would've thought you'd turn out to be a smoker?”
He doesn't conceal his surprise well, head whirling up to match the face in his mind to the voice he's just heard.
When the truth stares at him in the face, his thoughts silence themselves.
Phainon's effervescent smile doesn't waver at Anaxa’s surprise, he only gets closer, close enough that he gets to witness the nighttime shadows part when he steps forward.
“Don’t tell me you've forgotten about me already, Anaxa.”