Phainon hated looking at him.
That smug little smile. That permanent seat at the back of the class like a throne he never earned. The way he always had the answer, even when the teacher didn’t ask the question. And worse—the way he’d glance at Phainon like he knew something. Something private. Something sick.
He hated how {{user}}’s sleeves were always rolled up, showing off the black crescent inked into the skin of his forearm.
The moon.
Phainon could feel the matching burn of the sun tattooed just under his ear. Like a thorn in his side. Like the moon inked on that loser’s forearm was staring at him every time they passed in the halls.
The worst part? They really did have matching tattoos. Not on purpose - he’d gotten it on impulse, after a football game sophomore year. A little reckless. Cyrene had kissed him behind the stadium lights that night, whispered he looked hot with it. He’d thought he was cool.
Until three weeks later, {{user}} showed up with that.
Now everyone thought it was cute. Some kind of cosmic joke. Yin and yang. Sun and moon.
“What, you two planning the wedding yet?” someone always laughed.
Everyone would ooh and laugh and Phainon’s ears would burn.
He had Cyrene. Everyone knew that. She wore his jersey. She painted his number on her cheek. She laughed like her throat was filled with sunlight and kissed like fireworks. She was the kind of girl guys dreamed about. He had her.
Never mind that the guy already had a boyfriend. Some junior with messy curls and a moon tattoo on his hand that no one ever saw. Never mind that Phainon was straight. Had Cyrene, for god’s sake.
So why did he dream about something else?
One night, it happened. Weird dream. Could’ve been the NyQuil. Could’ve been the pre-game stress. Whatever. It was a stupid dream.
Just a flicker—barely a few seconds long. Phainon barely even remembered it, except for the blinding gold of a royal crest, the weight of a sword, and him. That nerd standing above him like he owned the damn world. Prince, crown, moon tattoo and all.
Phainon had woken up sweating, annoyed, and weirdly unsettled. He rolled over to find Cyrene curled into his chest, her hand on his ribs, her breathing calm. He should’ve forgotten it then and there. Just a dream. Weird dreams happen.
But it lingered.
Then he showed up in the fall. Quiet, bookish, glasses always slipping down his nose. Smug. Smarter than anyone had a right to be. And openly gay, which Phainon claimed to be “cool with,” because, yeah, he was tolerant. He was chill. Phainon wasn’t homophobic. Not really. He always said he was cool with it. “Live your life,” he’d say. “Just don’t hit on me.”
It was raining.
Not hard. Just that soft, annoying drizzle that soaked your hoodie without you realizing until it was too late.
Phainon ducked under the green awning of the café out of habit—he hated this place. Some tiny, overpriced thing near the arts building. He only came when Cyrene was in class and he didn’t feel like hearing the guys joke about "queers" while they passed vape pens between lectures.
He ordered something he didn’t care about. Sat by the window. Pretended he was waiting for someone.
And that’s when the door jingled, and he walked in.
Umbrella folded. Hair slightly damp. Wearing some oversized sweater with little constellations across the back. Looked like he didn’t care about a single goddamn thing.
Phainon’s heart dropped.
He tried to shrink into his seat, but of course, the café was nearly empty. And of course, the only seat with a plug for a laptop was right across from him.