"Hey, 'Savior'," Phaethon's voice held its usual teasing note. "Finally about finished with your month of dishwashing, huh? Today's the last day of your... free trial."
Phainon didn't turn around immediately. Instead, he placed a gleaming plate, its rim still beaded with water, heavily onto the drying rack with a sharp *clink*.
He straightened his aching back, wiping the sweat from his temple with the back of his damp hand, before finally turning. A wry, self-deprecating smile touched his lips.
"Phaethon, give me a break. Just hearing the words 'Savior' now makes my back teeth ache."
"Before... I always thought it was proof of strength, a badge of honor."
He picked up the last greasy soup bowl, submerging it in the sudsy water, his voice lowering with a tinge of exhaustion.
"But now, getting mobbed for signatures every day, having my every word and action scrutinized... I've truly come to understand how heavy that Honor is. Heavy enough to break a man's neck."
"Walking down the street now," his bitter smile deepened, "I just want to shrink into my cloak. Walk too fast, and people say you're arrogant; too slow, and they say you're putting on airs."
"Whether to smile, what to say, even how to breathe... it feels like someone's always holding a ruler against me. The feeling... tch."
"You know, I really get it now. You." He finally placed the clean bowl in its spot, shook the water from his hands, and looked at Phaethon with unprecedented understanding. "You, you slippery little... you saw right through this 'Savior' business from the start. Dodged it beautifully."
The corner of Phaethon's mouth lifted, the smile stark under the dim back kitchen lights.
"Heh, now you realize I was prescient? Told you so. Empty fame is exhausting. Nothing beats sleeping in."
Phainon untied his apron strings and tossed the grimy "battle garment" casually into a nearby bin.
He walked to the corner, where his trusty one-handed greatsword, steeped in the blood of enemies, rested quietly against the wall.
The familiar, heavy coolness of the metal hilt in his grasp seemed to instantly dispel the stifling air of the kitchen.
He picked up the sword and walked over to Phaethon. Instead of meeting his eyes, he lifted a hand, still damp and warm from dishwater, and brought it down heavily on Phaethon's shoulder.
The slap was solid, not like a brotherly jest.
"But... Phaethon..." Phainon's voice dropped, carrying a sharpness that cut through the playful facade. "Stop playing the fool. I don't know why you're so against becoming the Savior."
"But... you can dodge the title of 'Savior.' You can dodge the cheers and the stares..."
He paused, his gaze finally lifting to meet Phaethon's perpetually mocking, now slightly frozen eyes, enunciating each word clearly.
"But you can't dodge what's in your own heart."
"You love having breakfast with the family. You love the chaotic daily hustle of The Grove. You love the sight of cooking smoke rising over Okhema at dusk... You love this vibrant, noisy, flavorful world. Deeper than any of us."
"As long as that 'love' remains," Phainon's gaze was sharp as a blade, as if trying to dig out the thing Phaethon refused to face deep in his soul,
"The responsibility you're desperately running from—the responsibility to protect all this—will chase you like a shadow."
"It won't disappear just because you bury your head in the sand. It will wait patiently. Wait until you have nowhere left to run. Wait until the moment something you cherish is about to shatter before your eyes..."
Phainon's voice lowered further, taking on an almost cruel, prophetic tone. "And then, it will surge up like the black tide, and swallow you—bones and all—completely."
Having said that, Phainon didn't look at Phaethon again, as if unloading a weight from his heart, or perhaps simply unwilling to face whatever expression Phaethon might wear now.
He hefted his familiar greatsword, turned, and pushed open the plain wooden door leading to the restaurant's main hall.
*Click.*
The hinge gave a soft sound, cutting off the damp stuffiness and noise of the kitchen, and the brief heaviness between the brothers.
Phainon's figure disappeared into the slightly brighter light beyond the door, leaving Phaethon alone, still rooted stiffly to the spot.
The weight and residual warmth from Phainon's hand seemed to linger on his shoulder.
The smile on Phaethon's face—that habitual, cynical mask he used to block everything out—shattered and fell away silently, like ice struck by a heavy hammer.
He twitched the corner of his mouth, as if trying to reassemble that carefree grin, but only managed a profoundly lonely, even slightly bitter curve.
"Heh... Phainon..." he murmured to the empty door panel, his voice as light as a sigh. "You didn't spend many days in The Grove's classes, but you've sure learned to sound like a proper 'life coach' with that philosophical tone..."
His laugh echoed in the empty kitchen, sounding particularly thin and lonely.
He slowly turned, his gaze unconsciously sweeping over the residual suds in the sink, the rows of clean yet cold plates on the drying rack, finally settling on the window.
The light of the Dawn Device outlined the contours of this world he loved so deeply, clung to so fiercely.
*If this world is destined to fall, if destruction is inevitable... where does someone who never truly fit in on Amphoreus belong?*
Just then—
"Little Phaethon~ Phainon's already out here!" A clear, bright female voice, with a playful lilt at the end, like sunlight breaking through clouds, pierced the kitchen's gloom without warning.
The voice held undisguised familiarity and a hint of impatience.
"I asked you to fetch Phainon for dinner, how come you're hiding in there again?" The door cracked open, and a bright, smiling face peeked in—it was Cyrene.
She blinked, deliberately drawing out her words with a slightly coquettish tone:
"Ti~ime for di~inner~ ♪ Your big sister Cyrene is still starving! If you dawdle any longer, I'll pinch your ears!"
Cyrene's voice seemed magical, instantly piercing the gloom weighing on Phaethon's heart.
His head jerked up, the momentary confusion and heaviness in his eyes scattering like fog in a strong wind, rapidly fading.
Almost instinctively, the lonely bitterness on his face was replaced by a brighter, more vivid expression, though a ripple of unresolved emotion still lingered deep in his eyes.
"Coming, coming!" Phaethon called back, his voice regaining its usual lightness, even layering on a bit of exaggerated urgency, as if the person steeped in heavy thoughts moments ago was someone else entirely.
He casually grabbed a clean cloth hanging by the sink, wiped his hands hastily, and nimbly stepped over the threshold.
His face was already adorned with that familiar, slightly cunning smile. "When big sister Cyrene calls, how could I dare delay? We can't let my dear Cyrene go hungry, now can we?"