Chapter Text
The building is nicer than most of Phainon’s calls – one of those converted brownstones in the university district with actual architectural charm. He checks the booking details one more time on his phone. A. Goras, 7 PM, formal event. Standard enough. Work has been thin lately, especially since Mydei left for whatever diplomatic obligations keep him overseas for months at a time. Phainon can’t afford to be selective.
Still, a flicker of hope stirs when he reads the name. There’s no way it could be who he’s thinking of – no chance in hell – but the possibility alone is enough to take the edge off the cold autumn evening.
He knocks on the door, rolling his shoulders back and settling into the easy, professional smile that has served him well across all types of clients. It’s through practice alone that the smile remains pasted on even as the door opens to reveal his client for the night. Every muscle in his body locks.
“… Phainon?”
He would know that voice anywhere, even after years. And the face – sharp cheekbones, pale skin, mint-green hair falling loose over one shoulder, the black eyepatch over the left eye. Anaxa stands in the doorway in an ill-fitting button-down that hangs off his narrow frame tucked into dark slacks, staring at Phainon with his remaining eye. Surprise flickers across his expression, then disappears, replaced by the same cool, assessing look he used to reserve for office hours.
No. No, no – this can’t be happening –
He swallows down the shock the best he can.
“You’re the 7 PM appointment? You’re… A. Goras?” Phainon asks, trying to force his voice into his best customer service cheer, though his confusion is bleeding through despite his best efforts.
Anaxa’s eye narrows. “It’s Anaxagoras,” he says flatly. "One word. Not ’A. Goras.’ How could they make such a basic mistake?" He sounds more irritated by the bureaucratic error than by the fact that a former student is standing at his door as a hired escort.
Phainon takes a breath. This mundane complaint – so typically Anaxa – helps ground him. He can do this. He’s a professional. “My apologies, Professor. It should be easy to get that fixed for you,” he says, and if his smile goes a little tight, well, who could blame him?
It’s not as if he can leave. The service will fine him for backing out of an assignment, and he needs this money. His student loan payment is due in a week.
“Don’t apologize for someone else’s mistake.” He steps back, gesturing Phainon inside with an economical motion. “Come in.”
Phainon’s feet move on autopilot, carrying him over the threshold into what is clearly an academic’s domain. There are books stacked on every surface, papers scattered across a dining table that probably never sees actual meals, and the air carries a faint smell of burnt coffee and something chemical he can’t identify. His thoughts spin uselessly, searching for an escape that he already knows doesn’t exist.
This isn’t how these evenings usually begin, even when he’s booked as arm candy for an event. The flirtation, the physicality, it all starts from the moment he greets his client. Instead, Anaxa regards him with the same neutral focus he’d aim at anyone else – nothing to suggest he’s just invited a sex worker into his home. A cold suspicion settles in Phainon’s gut: Anaxa doesn’t actually know what kind of service he’s hired.
Anaxa thinks he’s hired someone to literally escort him to a formal dinner.
“You look different,” Anaxa observes, his gaze traveling over Phainon with clinical interest, catching briefly on the sun tattoo peeking over his collar. “What have you been doing since graduation? You didn’t continue your studies.”
No, I didn’t, Phainon thinks distantly. I wasted every scrap of promise you thought I had.
Outwardly, his professional mask holds through sheer habit. He smiles and answers lightly, “I’ve been keeping busy, Professor.”
“Don’t call me that. You’re not my student anymore.” Anaxa turns away, grabbing a jacket from a hook by the door. It’s worn at the elbows, a long, black wool coat that’s seen better years. “The cab should be here in a few minutes. The event is a fundraising gala for the Institute – tedious, but necessary. Normally, my supervisor attends such events, but she is sending me in her place. Hyacinthia was quite insistent that I bring someone with me.”
He shrugs into the jacket with the economical movements of someone who doesn’t think about his body except as a vehicle for his brain. Phainon can see it now that he’s really looking, the way Anaxa has gotten thinner since they last saw each other, all sharp angles and neglected meals. The eyepatch over his left eye is embroidered in gold – no longer a simple medical necessity, but a deliberate accessory, far removed from the one Anaxa wore back when Phainon was still a student at the Grove.
“Did she recommend… the company I work for specifically?” Phainon asks carefully, stymied by the very idea of it.
“No, she wanted me to bring someone for safety.” Anaxa locks the door behind them, already heading for the stairs. “There have always been threats, but I’m well-equipped to deal with them. No, you’re here because I’m expected to network and I find it inefficient. That’s why I requested someone with social intelligence. The service assured me they’d send their best.”
He glances back, expression faintly approving. “You were always good with people – better than I was at understanding what they wanted to hear.”
The cab is already waiting at the curb when they emerge out onto the street. Phainon opens the door without thinking, gesturing Anaxa inside first. Anaxa pauses, looking at him with mild bemusement, but Phainon only smiles and ushers him along.
Phainon wants to clarify exactly what had been meant by threats, but Anaxa begins again before he can find the words.
“The keynote speaker is Dr. Veritas Ratio,” Anaxa say as the cab pulls into traffic, completely unbothered by the growing absurdity of the situation. “His talk is about neuroplasticity research that’s ten years behind current understanding. There are a few more speakers, mostly there to beg for corporate donors. Then there’s a reception. Several pharmaceutical executives will be there – they’re the real concern. My work threatens their profit margins.” He says it the way someone else might comment on the weather. “You’ll need to help me avoid extended conversations with them. They’ll pretend to be cordial, but they’ll do anything to obstruct me.”
Phainon nods, professional instinct kicking in despite the surreal dread curling in his stomach. He can do this. He’s handled more difficult jobs – just never one involving his former professor. The man who once called him brilliant. Who wrote letters praising his exceptional insight into human nature and philosophical inquiry.
He wonders if Anaxa remembers writing them. Wonders what he’d think if he knew how that insight is being used now.
“You seem tense,” Anaxa observes, turning to look at him fully. The cab passes under a streetlight and for a moment Phainon can see the hint of a scar peeking just past the eyepatch. “Is this your first time working an academic event? The service said you were experienced.”
“I am,” Phainon manages, his smile holding. “It’s just been a while since I’ve seen you, Professor – I mean, Anaxa. I didn’t expect you to be my client tonight, but don’t worry – I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“It’s Anaxagoras,” he says without heat, already turning back to look out the window. After a pause, he continues. “You were my finest student. I had wondered what happened to you.”
There’s no question in it, just a statement of fact. Somehow, that makes it worse. Phainon has no reply, and Anaxa doesn’t push the issue further.
The venue is the kind of place Phainon used to attend regularly, all soaring ceilings, carefully curated art, and waiters circulating with champagne and canapés. He’d been to a dozen events like this as a graduate student, back when he’d belonged in these spaces. Now he’s here on someone’s arm, paid to be decorative and useful.
Anaxa moves through the crowd with the social grace of a battering ram, and within ten minutes Phainon watches him corner Dr. Ratio himself near the hors d’oeuvres table.
“Your keynote abstract made several unfounded assumptions about neural plasticity,” Anaxa says without preamble. “The citation you used from the Lycurgus study has been largely discredited. You should know that.”
Dr. Ratio just observes him coolly. He’s tall, well-built for a scholar, and clearly accustomed to Anaxa’s theatrics. “Dr. Anaxagoras, a pleasure as always. If you –”
“I’m just surprised,” Anaxa cuts in, “that you would go on stage and put your name behind something so pedestrian.”
Phainon clocks the moment Dr. Ratio’s polite amusement sharpens into interest – the subtle squaring of shoulders that signals a real debate brewing. The two colleagues flanking him exchange pointed glances. One is already opening his mouth, probably to say something cutting about Anaxa’s own stained reputation.
This is about to become a scene, and scenes at events like this have a way of being remembered for all the wrong reasons.
Phainon steps in, fingers brushing Anaxa’s elbow. “Sorry to interrupt – Dr. Ratio, it’s an honor. I attended your guest lecture series at Grove a few years ago. Your work on trauma-responsive neural pathways was fascinating.” He extends his hand, his smile warm and genuine. “Phainon. I’m here with Dr. Anaxagoras tonight.”
The shift is immediate. Dr. Ratio’s posture relaxes slightly as he shakes his hand, his attention redirecting to someone less openly combative. “Thank you.”
“I think what he means,” Phainon continues, his tone conversational, easy, “is that he’s excited to see how your current work builds on those earlier findings. The Lycurgus study had some serious flaws, but the core principles you’re exploring – the intersection of pharmaceutical intervention and behavioral therapy – that’s exactly where the field needs to go.” He glances at Anaxa, his expression pleasant but pointed. “Isn’t that right?”
Anaxa looks at him for a long moment, visibly recalibrating. “Yes,” he says at last. “Your earlier work before joining the IPC was more rigorous. I’m interested to see if your upcoming work returns to that standard.”
It’s still blunt, still Anaxa, but it’s no longer actively insulting. Dr. Ratio’s gaze flicks briefly to Phainon, then back to Anaxa. He smiles wryly. “Well. I appreciate the candor, but I must prepare for my presentation. If you’ll excuse me.” He extracts himself with his colleagues, one of whom shoots Anaxa a look that’s pure disdain.
Anaxa watches them go, then turns to Phainon. “You needn’t be so diplomatic with him.”
“That’s what you’re paying me for,” Phainon says lightly, though his heart is still racing. He’d slipped back into it so easily – reading the room, finding the lever, smoothing the edges. It’s the same skill that makes him good at his current job. “You can’t just tell people their work is bad in front of an audience, even if that’s how you normally talk to him.”
Anaxa snorts. “If his esteemed colleagues can’t recognize mediocrity, they have no place here.”
Phainon accepts two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and hands one to Anaxa. “You want them to actually consider your point, don’t you? Not just dismiss you as an asshole?”
Something shifts in Anaxa’s expression – not quite a smile, but close. “You always were good at this. I remember your final research presentation. You had the entire committee eating out of your hand by the end.”
Phainon’s chest tightens. He remembers that too. Remembers Anaxa in the audience, that rare look of open pride on his face. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long.” Anaxa takes a sip of champagne, his gaze steady on Phainon. “You haven’t lost the skill.”
The keynote is engaging, even if Phainon can only grasp every other concept, and wraps up without further incident. The dinner that follows is mercifully brief – mediocre chicken paired with the kind of small talk that makes Phainon’s professional smile ache. Anaxa sits beside him, methodically working through his meal while offering only the bare minimum to the conversation. The other academics at their table make polite attempts at drawing him out before giving up and turning to each other instead.
Phainon watches it happen. The way eyes slide away from Anaxa when he speaks. The barely-concealed derision when they think he’s not looking. There’s an empty seat on Anaxa’s other side, someone having relocated under the pretense of needing a word with a colleague.
It’s not new. Phainon remembers this from the Grove, too. The whispered warnings about Anaxa’s classes, the way he’d openly challenge other professors in front of their own students. Brilliant, but difficult. A genius, but impossible. As though refusing to sand down his edges were a moral failing rather than simply who he was.
They’re only a few years apart – Anaxa having torn through his own education at an inhuman pace – but watching him now, he seems older. It’s in the way he carries himself, that rigid posture and measured speech. The way he treats social interaction like a necessary evil rather than something that might be enjoyed. He’s always been like this, Phainon realizes. Even when Phainon was an undergrad and Anaxa a newly appointed professor, there was the sense of someone who had already spent too long alone inside his own head.
The moment dinner ends, Anaxa rises. “We should go.”
“You should mingle first,” Phainon says, guiding him away from the exit with a light touch at his lower back. “Just for a few minutes. It’ll look better.”
Anaxa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. They move toward the reception area where people are gathering with coffee and dessert. He chooses to snag another glass of champagne instead.
Before Phainon can suggest a low-impact strategy to be seen, exchange pleasantries, and avoid further drama, a woman in an expensive power suit approaches them. Mid-fifties, maybe older, with hair more gray than not and a power suit cut to perfection. Her smile is practiced, precise, and never reaches her eyes. Phainon recognizes the type immediately: corporate, powerful, and used to getting what she wants.
“Dr. Anaxagoras,” the woman says warmly, extending a hand. “I’m Caenis, VP of Research Development at Kephale Pharmaceuticals. I’ve been hoping to catch you this evening.”
Anaxa shakes her hand briefly, perfunctory. “Ms. Caenis.”
“I’ve been following your work with great interest.” Caenis’s smile widens. “Particularly your upcoming symposium presentation. I read your abstract. Quite ambitious, what you’re proposing.”
“It’s not a proposal,” Anaxa replies evenly. “It’s data.”
Caenis laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Of course, of course. Though I have to say, some of your hypotheses are... some might say audacious. The regulatory landscape for neuropharmaceuticals is complex. Rushing to publish findings that could disrupt established treatment protocols – well, it raises questions about patient safety.”
Phainon watches Caenis’s body language, the way she’s positioned himself slightly too close, the tension in her shoulders despite the casual tone. This isn’t a friendly debate, like it had been earlier. He starts calculating an escape hatch, but Anaxa places a discreet hand on his elbow, a clear signal to stand down.
“My methodology is sound,” Anaxa says. “The pathways I’ve discovered will lead to treatments that are more effective and significantly cheaper than current options. The truth is not audacious.”
“Truth.” Caenis’s smile thins. “Dr. Anaxagoras, I think you’re not considering the broader implications. Let me be frank with you. We have shareholders, employees, patients who depend on the stability of –”
“Your profit margins,” Anaxa interrupts. “You’re concerned about your profit margins.”
The temperature drops. Caenis’s pleasant mask slips for just a moment, and Phainon sees something hard and cold underneath. “I’m concerned about responsible science and bucking the status quo before the world is ready. As are many of your colleagues, I might add. Dr. Aglaea herself has expressed reservations about your... methods.”
“Aglaea may express whatever she likes. My findings stand.”
Caenis leans in slightly, voice dropping. “This is the third time we’ve reached out to you, Doctor. We’ve been more than patient. We’re simply asking you to delay publication by six months, maybe a year. Give the community time to properly evaluate –”
“To bury it, you mean.” Anaxa’s single eye is cold. “The answer is no. It was no before, and it’s no now.”
Something flickers across Caenis’s face – frustration, anger, and something darker. “That’s unfortunate. I hope you’ve considered the potential consequences of being... uncooperative. Public opinion is a fickle thing, after all. Anything can happen when the world starts clamoring for blood.” Her gaze cuts to Phainon, as if daring him to speak.
Phainon’s blood runs cold. For a threat delivered at a formal dinner party, that was about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“Are you threatening me, Ms. Caenis?” Anaxa asks, unflinching.
“Of course not.” Caenis’s smile returns, all teeth. “I’m simply noting that unpredictability cuts many ways.” She straightens her ostentatious diamond necklace. “Do think about what I’ve said, Doctor. There’s still time to make the sensible choice.”
She walks away before Anaxa can respond, disappearing into the crowd.
Phainon’s hand tightens on his champagne flute. His heart is racing, and his instincts are screaming danger. That wasn’t just ordinary corporate posturing. That woman has already decided what happens if Anaxa doesn’t comply.
“I thought I was here to keep that from happening,” Phainon says around a sigh.
“I was curious how far she’d go.” Anaxa takes another sip of champagne, unbothered.
Phainon looks at him – brilliant, stubborn, completely unconcerned that he just received a blatant threat to his person – and thinks he’s never known anyone before or since that has less of a self-preservation instinct. It reminds him of the days back in school where he’d bring snacks to office hours, just because he knew sometimes Anaxa wouldn’t eat all day otherwise.
Except back then, the worst that could happen was Anaxa getting lightheaded during a lecture or skipping another meal. Now the threat is corporations with infinite resources and no ethics, people who've already demonstrated they're willing to move from veiled warnings to direct intimidation. People who won't stop there.
This isn’t just any other job. This is his professor, his mentor, the man who believed in him when he was just a student from the boonies on a full scholarship, and he’s standing in the crosshairs of people with money and power and no conscience.
He eyes the crowds milling around them. More corporate suits stand by a pillar, staring at them. A group of powerful old men laugh uproariously, one of them subtly eyeing Anaxa. Caenis is nowhere to be seen.
“We should leave,” Phainon says.
“That’s what I said five minutes ago,” Anaxa mutters.
They collect their coats and slip out through the front door, stopping now and again to briefly greet a mostly-friendly face. The entire while, Phainon’s hand rests against his lower back, a gentle pressure guiding his professor along. The street is quieter than when they arrived, the city settling into its late evening rhythm.
Phainon flags down a cab with practiced ease. Once they’re inside, the driver pulling away from the curb, he finally allows himself to breathe.
“You’re taking this more seriously than I am,” Anaxa observes, watching the city lights slide past the window.
“Someone has to.” Phainon keeps his tone light, but his eyes scan the street behind them, irrationally paranoid that they might be followed. “So how often does this happen?”
“Third time this month. Different companies, same message. Though Caenis was bolder than others.” Anaxa toys with the red gem dangling from his ear, the first real sign that the evening has rattled him at all. “They think intimidation will work better than peer review. It won’t.”
“And if they escalate beyond intimidation?”
“Then they escalate.” Anaxa says it like he welcomes the challenge, like they’re going to debate the merits of his conclusions rather than destroy him and his research altogether. “The data doesn’t change simply because someone threatens me.”
“You’re going to give Hyacine a heart attack,” Phainon jokes weakly.
“Hyacinthia worries too much.” There’s something almost fond in Anaxa’s voice. “Though I suppose hiring you was a reasonable compromise.”
The cab pulls up outside Anaxa’s building. By force of habit, Phainon pays before Anaxa can reach for his wallet – he’ll expense it to the service later. Phainon walks him to his door, hyperaware of every shadow and every sound on the dimly lit street around them.
Anaxa unlocks his apartment and pauses in the doorway, turning back. “Thank you for tonight. You were helpful – more than I expected. Though I should have known, once I saw it was you.”
There’s genuine appreciation in his voice, the same tone he’d use praising a well-executed thesis defense. Phainon waits for the invitation inside, for the moment when Anaxa reveals he’s known what kind of service this actually is the whole time, for –
“Good night, Phainon.”
The door closes.
Phainon stands on the empty sidewalk, staring at the wood grain, his hand still half-raised in an aborted movement to – he doesn’t even know what he’d been about to do. Behind the door, he hears the sound of locks engaging – one, two, three. At least Anaxa takes that seriously.
Slowly, Phainon lowers his hand. A laugh bubbles up in his chest, slightly hysterical. He’d just been dismissed like a student who’d walked his professor home from the library. No invitation inside. No expectation of anything beyond what already happened. Not even an explanation of why he hired an escort without planning on getting his money’s worth.
Phainon is officially convinced Anaxa genuinely has no idea what he hired.
The amusement fades as Phainon walks toward the nearest metro station. Something else settles in his chest – embarrassment, yes, at the absurdity of it all. But underneath that, sharper and more uncomfortable, is disappointment. Which is ridiculous. He should be relieved. This is the best possible outcome. There’s no awkward revelation or having to see that look in Anaxa’s eyes when he realizes what his finest student became.
And yet.
His own apartment is a forty-minute train ride away, in a neighborhood where the buildings don’t have doormen and the locks are more hope than security. It’s small, cramped, nothing like the places Mydei keeps in three different cities. Nothing like Anaxa’s cluttered, homey space.
Phainon sheds his suit and sits on his bed – unmade, because who’s going to see it. He pulls out his phone. There’s an automated message from the service requesting his feedback on the appointment.
He stares at it for a long moment. Then he rates him five stars, skips all the optional fields, and checks the box that says Allow this client to book again before sending it off.
Phainon hopes Anaxa chooses to hire him again, and not even just because he wants to see him again. After tonight, after Caenis’s open threats, Anaxa needs someone watching his back. Even if that someone is his former pupil who works as an escort.
Even if that someone is disappointed, for reasons he absolutely refuses to examine at this moment, that the evening ended with a closed door and a polite good night. He’s simply keyed up because his body has an expectation on how these types of nights tend to end.
Phainon sets his phone aside and lies back, staring at his ceiling.
He doesn’t even manage to resist for five minutes.
He pulls his boxers down just low enough that he can take his cock in hand, already half-hard. In his mind he sees the pale column of a neck, mint green hair swept to the side. He feels the heat of Anaxa’s lower back under his palm and imagines how it might feel to wrap both hands around that slender waist.
Phainon groans, stroking faster, swiping his palm over the precum at his tip to make the glide smoother.
He used to have dreams like this back in school, and, increasingly rarely, for a while after graduating. Waking up hard and aching with fragments of Anaxa’s voice still echoing in his mind, the phantom sensation of those long fingers on his skin. He’d thought he’d grown out of it – convinced himself it was just a stupid crush, the kind that fades with time and distance.
If it had, seeing Anaxa again tonight only made it flare back to life even stronger than before.
In his fantasy, he pushes Anaxa against a wall, watches that perpetually composed expression fracture. He imagines kissing down that pale throat, finding all the places that would make Anaxa’s breath catch. Would he try to stay quiet? Would he bite his lip, or would soft sounds escape despite his best efforts?
Phainon’s hand moves faster, his breathing harsh in the quiet of his apartment. He remembers the brief touch at the gala of Anaxa’s fingers on his elbow, light and impersonal, stopping him from navigating them out of a conversational minefield. It had lasted maybe three seconds. The only time Anaxa touched him all night.
He wants more than that. He wants Anaxa clawing at his back. He wants to map every inch of Anaxa’s skin, learn what makes him shiver. Wants to take him apart slowly, methodically, the way Anaxa approaches everything, with focus and precision. He imagines Anaxa’s single eye going hazy with pleasure, that brilliant mind finally, blissfully quiet. And it’s Phainon that can give that to him. Only Phainon.
In his mind, he drops to his knees. Takes Anaxa in his mouth and watches him struggle to maintain composure, watches it crumble. He’d be so careful, so attentive, learning exactly what Anaxa likes.
The fantasy shifts. Anaxa on his back, mint green hair spread across pillows, looking up at Phainon with something like wonder. Phainon’s hands on his thighs, spreading him open. Taking his time, using his fingers, his mouth, whatever it takes to make Anaxa come apart completely. He wouldn’t even need to fuck him. Just this, just making Anaxa feel good, making him lose control, would be enough.
"Fuck," Phainon gasps, his rhythm faltering as he gets close. Fantasy-Anaxa says his name not with the careful formality from tonight, but with breathless need, and begs with teary eyes for more, more, more.
He comes with a choked sound, spilling over his fist and onto his stomach. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the last of his pleasure fizzing out through his veins, his heart pounding and his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Then reality crashes back in.
He just jerked off to fantasies about Anaxa. His former professor. Who hired him as an escort tonight for completely professional reasons. Who has no idea Phainon used to dream about him in school, and apparently still does.
Phainon closes his eyes, shame settling hot and uncomfortable under his ribs. This is exactly why he shouldn’t see Anaxa again. This is exactly why he should have declined the booking in the first place, when he’d first had the sinking suspicion that he knew who his client was.
But he’d taken the job, and then later, checked the box. Allow this client to book again.
“What am I doing,” he mutters to himself, reaching for the tissues on his nightstand.
–
Two weeks pass, and Phainon doesn’t hear from Anaxa again.
He tells himself it’s fine. In fact, it’s what he expected. He checks the news occasionally – local outlets, university publications, even pharmaceutical industry briefs – half-expecting to see a headline about an "accident" or a researcher who suddenly retracted his findings. Nothing appears. Either Caenis’s threats were empty, or she just hasn’t made her move yet.
Life returns to its usual rhythm. He gets two appointments through the service, both of them infrequent repeat clients, both of them uncomplicated. They’re pleasant enough company, and they sing for him in the sheets at the end of the night. Mydei texts to say he’s finally landed back in Okhema, so Phainon makes sure to keep his schedule open going forward.
He goes to the gym four times a week because his body is part of his work, and maintenance is easier than repair. Working out has always had a meditative effect on him, and it’s probably the only thing getting him through the days lately.
It’s not that Phainon dislikes his work. Being an escort actually suits him quite well – he’s personable, attentive, and he genuinely enjoys making others happy. His favorite appointments are when he’s hired to play someone’s boyfriend, spending an evening making them feel like royalty. And it’s not as if he dislikes the sex aspect of it. Far from it, actually. He enjoys the physical intimacy, finding out what makes each new partner tick. He finds pleasure in those moments, in the heat and the connection.
It’s only when he thinks about the potential he squandered, the support of friends he quietly stepped away from, that regret creeps in.
Hyacine has texted him multiple times over the past two weeks, likely having heard an abbreviated version of the events of the party from Anaxa. Phainon wants to reply, but he just can’t figure out how to explain how everything came to happen without giving away what he does for a living. Not one to be easily deterred, she shifts her strategy.
She knows Phainon can ignore her, but it’s much harder for him to avoid the combined, pastel efforts of both her and Castorice.
Grove Graduates 🌳📚🎓
Hyacine
Snowy! Heard you were playing bodyguard for Prof Anaxagoras?? I’d love to hear how that came about.
Castorice
That does sound interesting. Hope you’re doing well, Phainon.
Hyacine
You could at least tell me you’re alive, I’ve texted you soooo many times
Castorice
Maybe he’s just busy?
Hyacine
For two straight weeks? Snowy, are you ghosting us?? 😭
Castorice
I’m sure he’ll respond when he’s free.
Hyacine
Fine. But I’m buying you both lunch next week whether you like it or not
They’d all been classmates at the Grove, all three of them bright and promising once. Hyacine had continued her studies to become a nurse, even spending time as Anaxa’s research assistant before moving on to practice medicine, and actively keeps in touch with him to this day. Castorice had found success as a writer of fantasy romance novels that had developed a devoted following. The work suits her, and not only because it means she rarely has to leave her apartment. They’d both made something of themselves
Phainon had... not.
They don’t judge him for it, but the gap between their lives feels wider every year, and it gets harder and harder to bring himself to go to their monthly lunches. Phainon leaves their chat on read, meaning to respond and never quite finding the words.
It’s during his Thursday morning session, halfway through his third set of pull-ups, when his phone buzzes again. He drops down, breathing hard, and glances at the screen more out of habit than expectation.
Hyacine
I gave him your phone number btw!
The message is followed immediately by a string of butterfly emojis from Castorice, which he interprets as her way of saying she’d tried to talk Hyacine down, failed, and isn’t sorry about it.
Another notification follows, this one from an unknown number.
Phainon picks up the phone, swiping it open with his thumb. The message is unmistakably blunt.
Unknown
I require advice on an interpersonal matter. Are you available to meet?
No greeting. No acknowledgment of the two weeks of silence, or that he’d gotten Phainon’s number behind his back. Just straight to the point, as if they’d spoken yesterday. He quickly saves the contact in his phone, as if it would disappear the moment he looks away if he doesn’t.
Phainon stares at the message, aware of his elevated heart rate and unsure how much of it is from the workout. This isn’t through the service. Anaxa is asking him directly. There’s no payment discussed or professional framework to hide behind.
Something warm and dangerous unfurls in his chest. Maybe –
His phone buzzes again before he can finish the thought.
Anaxa
Apologies, I should clarify. I will book through your service to ensure proper compensation. I know your time is valuable.
Anaxa
I wanted to confirm this request falls within your professional scope before doing so.
The warmth evaporates.
Of course. Of course Anaxa would want to keep this professional, transactional. It’s the responsible thing to do, really. The considerate thing. Phainon should appreciate that his former professor respects his work enough to insist on payment.
He does appreciate it.
He does.
Phainon sets his phone down and returns to his pull-ups, but his grip feels weaker than it should. His mind is elsewhere, caught on that brief, stupid moment when he’d hoped –
He doesn’t let himself finish that thought, either.
When he picks up his phone again, he types an answer. Deletes it, types again. Picks apart his word choice until he’s certain he doesn’t sound too desperate or too disinterested.
Phainon
Of course! I think I can help you with that.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Anaxa
Good. The service will contact you with the booking details.
Phainon pockets his phone and moves to the weights. His former professor needs his “professional expertise.” That’s all this is.
That’s all it can be.
–
The coffee shop Anaxa chose is called Perennial Grounds, tucked between the university’s chemistry building and the medical research facility. It’s the kind of place that caters to academics – quiet, with good wifi and outlets at every table. Phainon arrives ten minutes early out of habit, orders a black coffee and a chocolate chip cookie he doesn’t particularly want, and claims a corner table.
His phone had pinged yesterday evening with the booking confirmation from the service. Two hours, consultation rate. The money will hit his account within forty-eight hours of completion. Exactly how it should be.
It still feels wrong.
Anaxa arrives precisely at 2 PM, because of course he does. He’s dressed in navy slacks and a button-down shirt beneath a heavy pea coat, his hair pulled to the side in that same careless style. He spots Phainon immediately and heads over without bothering to order anything first.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Anaxa says as he sits. He barges ahead, skipping any further preamble or small talk. “I need advice on managing a professional relationship that has become... difficult.”
Phainon takes a sip of his coffee to buy himself a moment. This feels surreal – sitting in a coffee shop near campus, across from his former professor, being paid to have what looks like a casual conversation. That same professor that he used to go to for advice is now somehow seeing him as the expert at something. “Tell me about it.”
“I mentioned my supervisor previously, Dr. Aglaea,” he says with open contempt. “She oversees the neuropharmacology division at the Grove Medical Research Institute.” His voice shifts into clinical mode, like a case presentation. “We disagree fundamentally on research ethics and methodology. She prioritizes institutional approval and funding security over scientific progress. I prioritize results and accessibility over bureaucratic procedure.”
“And you’ve told her this,” Phainon clarifies.
“Repeatedly.” Anaxa frowns slightly. “She seems to take it personally, which is irrational. These are objective assessments of our different approaches.”
Phainon has to bite back a smile. This is so perfectly Anaxa – brilliant, insightful, and yet sometimes so willfully obtuse when it comes to his research. “What exactly did you say to her?”
“That her insistence on traditional approval pathways will delay treatments that could help people now. That her concern with the institute’s reputation is prioritizing optics over outcomes. That if she spent less time in administrative meetings and more time in the lab, she might understand why my methods are necessary.” Anaxa pauses. “She called me arrogant and reckless. Then she threatened to block my upcoming presentation unless I agree to delay publication of my findings for another year.”
There it is. Phainon sets down his coffee and leans back, studying his former professor. Anaxa looks genuinely confused by Aglaea’s reaction, like he’s encountered an experimental result that doesn’t match his hypothesis. “You’re not wrong about the substance,” Phainon says carefully. “But you’re wrong about the delivery.”
“I was direct and honest.”
“You were insulting.” Phainon keeps his voice gentle. “You essentially told your boss that she’s more concerned with politics than patients, that she’s not a real scientist anymore, and that she’s bad at her job. Even if all of that is true – and I’m not saying it is – she’s never going to hear the valid points underneath the criticism.”
Anaxa’s frown deepens. “The validity of the points should matter more than how they’re delivered. This isn’t personal.”
“It is to her, clearly.” Phainon leans forward, falling into the rhythm of explanation that feels familiar from his student days. “Dr. Aglaea holds a position of authority. That means she has responsibilities you don’t, like keeping the institute funded, managing dozens of researchers, navigating relationships with donors and pharmaceutical companies. She can’t evaluate your research in isolation. She’s weighing how it affects the entire institute.”
“That’s exactly the problem. She’s compromised by those considerations.”
“Or she’s being realistic about the constraints she’s working within.” Phainon watches Anaxa’s expression shift slightly. He doesn’t entirely agree, but he’s considering Phainon’s point carefully. “You see her caution as cowardice. She probably sees your impatience as recklessness. You’re both right, from your own perspectives.”
Anaxa is quiet for a moment, his visible eye fixed on Phainon with that same intense focus he remembers from seminars. Phainon takes that moment to break off a piece of the cookie he’d left on its plate between them, offering it to Anaxa, who waves it away. “So how would you approach this?”
“Stop telling her she’s wrong. Start asking her what she needs.” Phainon ticks off points on his fingers. “She’s worried about the institute’s reputation? Show her how your research could enhance it. She wants traditional approval pathways? Explain which ones you’ve already followed and why the remaining ones are unnecessary delays rather than safety measures. She thinks you’re reckless? Demonstrate that you’ve considered the risks and have mitigation strategies.”
“That sounds like manipulation,” Anaxa challenges.
“It’s communication,” Phainon corrects. “You’re not changing anything about the content of your disagreement. You’re just framing it in a way she can actually hear. Right now, you’re speaking different languages. You need to translate.”
Anaxa absorbs this, his fingers drumming once against the table – a rare fidget that Phainon recognizes as deep thought. “You always had exceptional insight into people,” he says finally. “I remember your seminar presentations. You could read the room, anticipate objections, adjust your approach mid-discussion. I thought you’d go into psychology or behavioral research.”
The observation lands like a punch to the gut. Phainon keeps his expression neutral through years of practice. “Life took a different direction.”
“Clearly.” Anaxa’s gaze is assessing but not unkind. “Though you’re still using those skills, simply in a different context.”
Phainon doesn’t know what to say to that. The service calls what he does interpersonal consulting in the marketing material, a polite fiction to give it a veneer of legality. Anaxa probably thinks that’s actually what it is – a way to get advice for navigating social situations. The absurdity of sitting here, being paid to do exactly that, while his former professor has no idea what Phainon usually does with his clients, is almost too much.
“I suppose… I should try your approach with Aglaea,” Anaxa says, pulling Phainon back into the moment. He sounds like he’d rather walk over hot coals. “Frame my research in terms of her priorities rather than simply stating why her priorities are misguided.”
“That would be a good start,” Phainon agrees, relieved to move past the earlier discomfort. “And try seeing her as an ally with different constraints instead of an obstacle. She’s not trying to stop your work because she doesn’t care about patients. She’s trying to protect the institute that makes your work possible.”
Anaxa nods slowly. “A strategic partnership rather than an adversarial relationship.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t think that’s possible with her,” he says with distaste, “but I suppose I’m short on alternatives.”
They lapse into a brief silence, the primary purpose for their meeting already fulfilled. But Anaxa paid for two hours, and Phainon isn’t ready to leave his company yet. “So what is this controversial research about, anyway? You mentioned accessibility in mental health care.”
“That’s one application, yes,” Anaxa confirms, already more animated now that the topic has shifted to something more pleasant. “It stemmed from my research on the nature of cognition. The soul, if you will.”
Phainon smiles despite himself. Anaxa always did have a flair for the dramatic. “I remember your lectures on consciousness. You had this whole theory about neural pathways as the physical manifestation of – what did you call it?”
“The architecture of the self.” Something like surprise flickers across Anaxa’s face, or maybe pride. “You remember. Yes, this research builds on that foundation. I’ve developed a targeted delivery method for psychoactive compounds that prioritizes neuronal survival while optimizing therapeutic efficacy. The key breakthrough was identifying specific receptor pathways that –” He pauses, studying Phainon’s face. “Do you care about the specifics?”
“Keep going. I took enough of your courses to follow the basics.” Phainon had taken more than he should have, actually. More than he needed for his degree. It had delayed his graduation by a full year and took a chunk out of his GPA. “You’re talking about making psychiatric medication more precise with fewer side effects.”
“Precisely. Current treatments are crude – they flood the entire system, causing widespread effects when only specific pathways need modulation. My method allows for targeted intervention with minimal collateral impact.” Anaxa’s hands move as he talks, sketching invisible diagrams in the air. “The implications for treatment-resistant depression, anxiety disorders, even certain trauma-induced cognitive impairments are significant.”
“That’s incredible,” Phainon says, and means it. “But you mentioned promising results. Does this mean you’ve been able to do some testing? I thought the red tape for getting approval for human trials is –”
“Why would I bother to announce mere theory?” Anaxa says it so matter-of-factly that it takes Phainon a moment to process. He breaks off a piece of the cookie before adding, “I tested it on myself first.”
Phainon chokes on his coffee. "What does that mean," he croaks, setting the cup down before he drops it.
“I’ve proven the potential of this treatment by demonstrating efficacy and lack of adverse effects. Obviously I’m only one data point, but the results are compelling enough to warrant–”
“You experimented on yourself.” Phainon’s voice comes out sharper than he intends. “With an untested drug delivery system. For psychiatric compounds.”
Anaxa blinks at him, clearly not understanding the problem. “It wasn’t untested. I ran extensive simulations and animal trials first. The theoretical framework was sound.”
“Theoretical framework.” Phainon can feel his heart racing, that protective instinct he thought he’d buried rising up. “Anaxa, that’s – do you have any idea how dangerous that is? What if something had gone wrong?”
“Then I would have documented the failure and adjusted the parameters accordingly.” Anaxa’s tone remains maddeningly reasonable. “I’m not reckless, Phainon. I took precautions.”
Phainon drags a hand through his hair. This isn’t his business. Anaxa isn’t his responsibility. Except – he can’t help himself. “Did anyone even know you were doing this? Hyacine? Dr. Aglaea?”
“No.” Anaxa’s expression hardens. “They would have interfered.”
His tone implies that they are the irrational ones in this situation.
“Because they care about you,” Phainon insists.
“Because they’re constrained by institutional fear,” Anaxa counters. “The review board would delay approval for years, if it came at all. Meanwhile, people suffer. I had the knowledge, the means, and the ethical obligation to act. Publishing with even one dataset will get traction a mere supposition would not.”
Phainon stares at him, seeing clearly now what he’d only glimpsed before. Anaxa doesn’t just prioritize his research over social niceties or professional politics. He prioritizes it over his own safety. “And if it went wrong? What then?”
That, finally, gives Anaxa pause. He looks away, something uncomfortable crossing his face, but his tone is as flat as ever. “My individual wellbeing is less important than the potential impact of this research.”
“That’s not how it works,” Phainon says quietly. “You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.”
They sit in silence for a moment. Phainon’s coffee has gone cold, untouched for the last ten minutes. Phainon watches him think, wondering how he can get through to this brilliant, frustrating man who’ll sacrifice anything – including himself – for his work.
“You sound like Hyacinthia,” Anaxa says at last.
“Then maybe you should listen to her more often.”
“Perhaps.” Anaxa meets his eyes. “You seem unusually invested in my wellbeing for a paid consultant.”
Phainon’s breath catches. “I – that’s not – I was your student long before I was this.”
“I’m aware.” Anaxa’s expression is unreadable. Phainon honestly can’t tell if he’s joking or actually uncomfortable. “I’m merely making an observation.”
They talk for another half hour after that – Anaxa asking clarifying questions about approaching Aglaea now that the full context is in the open, Phainon offering specific suggestions while trying not to dwell on why his hands feel unsteady. It feels natural despite the tension, almost comfortable.
It reminds Phainon of office hours he used to attend, when Anaxa would listen to his ideas with that same serious attention, treating a student’s insights as worthy of genuine consideration. Back then, Phainon had walked away feeling sharper, more certain of himself.
Phainon had forgotten what it felt like to be valued for his mind, not his body. To be listened to, not just looked at.
When Anaxa finally checks his watch and stands to leave, Phainon feels the loss of it acutely.
“This was helpful,” Anaxa says. “Thank you for your insight.”
“Of course.” Phainon stands as well, instinctively slipping back into a professional cadence. “I hope your conversation with Dr. Aglaea goes well.”
Anaxa hesitates, studying him with that penetrating, evaluative gaze. “I may need to consult you again,” he says. “If you find the arrangement agreeable.”
It’s not quite a question, but Phainon hears the opening anyway. “I’m available,” he says. “Just contact the service.”
Something flickers across Anaxa’s face, too quick for Phainon to read. “Yes. The service.” He nods once, then turns to leave.
Phainon watches him go, then sits back down at the table even though his coffee has gone cold. His phone will ping later with the payment confirmation.
Professional.
Transactional.
Exactly what this is supposed to be.