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After that first, delicate time in his room, that first full of firsts and shaky breaths and quivering fingertips, Zagreus learns, or maybe rediscovers, that Thanatos is quiet.
His room, still though it is, is full of things and has therefore always been loud to him. His footsteps are loud, the sound of his feet on marble tile and then on lush rugs and then on the thick blanket of his bed, everything bounces around the decorated walls, the trinkets sitting on tables and on the floor, his clothing discarded somewhere, his laurels somewhere else, the glittering mirror of night shimmering and casting the far side of the room in an ethereal glow despite its darkness and making a soft chiming sound as he walks past, as though to entice him closer. His voice is loud; as Prince he has no need to lower it out of respect or deference to anyone. He can shout as he pleases. And even if he isn’t aware, he can always, in times of rare silence, hear the churning of his own blood, red and hot, in his body, in the heart that doesn’t need to beat in his chest but does anyway, in the veins that he can see under his skin, fat and green.
He is not quiet. Not by any conceivable measure. What he lacks in silence, Thanatos makes up in droves.
Zagreus places his head over Thanatos’s gray chest, the bare skin cool and pleasant to the touch. His ear is directly over the cavity where a heart would beat if he had one, if one was needed. Zagreus doesn’t hear anything, not even an echo, and Thanatos’s chest neither rises nor falls but he lays, statuesque, stretched onto the bed, one perfect ankle crossed over the other, his arms encircling Zagreus gently, almost absently.
“Could you feign a heartbeat, if you wanted to?” Zagreus asks.
Thanatos opens his mouth to speak. Zagreus waits, his ears poised to catch whatever comes next, the only sounds outside of his own breathing, his own always crackling feet, embers drifting from his soles and up into the still, dead air.
Thanatos’s voice, light and soft and pleasant. “I haven’t tried.”
Zagreus shifts, the blanket they lay on moving as he presses his ear harder against Thanatos’s chest. “Okay, try now.”
“Okay.” Thanatos closes his eyes.
The silence stretches. No heartbeat outside of Zagreus’s own, no sound outside of his own breathing.
“Actually, I’m not sure I can do that.” Thanatos sounds surprised.
Zagreus props himself up on one elbow. He touches Thanatos’s wrist, thin and soft, feeling the impression of the delicate bones within, the golden ichor that fills him, but no pulse.
“Does that bother you?” Thanatos’s voice has taken on a hushed tone, as though he’s whispering secrets now.
Zagreus thinks on this. “No. You’re just quiet. Will you tell me what you’re thinking?”
“I’m thinking about you.” The answer comes easily, without resistance, like a drop of nectar disappearing on his tongue.
Zagreus lays his head back on Thanatos’s chest, listening to nothing but his own blood rushing in his own ears. Thanatos’s long fingers run through his hair.
.
The surface is not quiet. The surface is chaos.
A cacophony of sounds, the opposite of his home realm in every way. The snow that falls from the sky is loud as each snowflake drifts onto the snow already piled on the ground, the piles that hiss and melt as his feet touch them, melt into water that freezes again as he passes, then cracks as the uneven temperature changes he causes break the ice, and somewhere around him he can hear tiny feet or claws against the bark of the trees that surround him. And snow falls from branches that become too overwhelmed and sometimes snap in a sharp sound that echoes around the cliff side forest, and in response he can hear more claws and more animal feet, startled and running.
He has made the ascent many, many times and is always winded when he comes up, covered in blood, his arms heavy with exhaustion, dragging his weapon behind him, too weak to hold it up off the ground. The first time he sees the sun, he expects it to make a sound too, he expects hissing or perhaps a dull gong like thing, but beyond the slapping of the water along the cliffs and the snow and the animals and his own heavy breathing visible in the air in front of him, the sun is quiet. It makes him think of Thanatos, every time.
He summons him here, on the edge of the cliff as the water is colored pink by the sunrise, as the sky lightens and turns yellow, as the world wakes up around him. The snow has melted around his feet, leaving green grass that singes and burns as he moves. Snow falls on his head, his face, his shoulders and instantly melts into water droplets. Thanatos appears in a flash of green light, his back to the sun, hovering in the air just a few inches over the already ruined grass.
“Hey,” Zagreus says. His breathing is uneven. He will be swept away soon, on the blood red waters of the Styx, but while he’s here he wants to listen. “Sit with me?”
Thanatos hesitates. It’s always the little things that trip him up. Zagreus drops where he’s standing, a little too hard. His shield clatters behind him. Thanatos places his scythe by the shield and sits gingerly on the grass. As soon as he touches it, the grass turns yellow and dies.
Zagreus watches the sunrise. Thanatos watches him.
“Are you in pain?” Thanatos’s voice touches his ears amidst the chaos of the surface. It has a soothing effect, familiar and easy.
“No, I’m fine. I like it up here. Can you hear the world waking up?”
Thanatos tilts his head to one side, listening. “I can hear animals in your mother’s garden. Do you want to see?”
“Not sure I could make it that far,” Zagreus says, breathing around a thick cough. He pushes aside the encroaching death and reaches for Thanatos, touching his hand, pressing it to his cheek. Cold, smooth skin absorbs the warmth from Zagreus’s cheek quickly. For a moment, he can pretend there’s hot blood running through both their veins.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Zagreus says, pleads.
“I’m thinking about you.” The answer comes easily, always.
“About me?” Zagreus prompts.
Thanatos’s pale eyes study him. There are thoughts churning within, and no hint as to what they could be, nothing given away in the shifting of hands or the skip of a heartbeat. He holds his cards very close to his chest. Zagreus holds his gaze, looking into his eyes.
“If you must know,” Thanatos says, his words halting. “I was thinking about you. Your bed. Us.”
“Us,” Zagreus echoes. He kisses the back of Thanatos’s hand. “You know, you’re so quiet. It makes me nervous, not knowing what you’re thinking.”
“Do you ever know what anyone else is thinking?” Thanatos asks, amused.
“No, but I don’t care about anyone else. Not like you.”
A familiar feeling settles into Zagreus’s chest. Thanatos’s eyes dart down, his hand coming up to touch Zagreus’s sternum, his fingertips barely brushing his skin. The stirring in his chest gets worse.
“Time to go,” Thanatos says. “I can take you home.”
Zagreus’s hand presses Thanatos’s down until it’s flat against his chest. He can feel his soul stir, ready to go.
“Tell me first, what you were thinking about. Us in bed. What else?”
Thanatos could be blushing now, Zagreus thinks triumphantly, seeing something touch his cheeks, some color like pale gold, like his eyes. “Zag, what are you up to?”
“Tell me and we can go.”
“Is this some punishment for being too quiet?”
Zagreus bites back a smile, trying to look serious. Thanatos sighs, taking his hand back, and Zagreus’s chest settles, the uneasy, restless shifting subsiding as Death keeps a little distance.
“I was thinking about… your… mouth. On me. Okay?”
Zagreus’s heart skips a beat, then keeps beating harder and faster. He can see clearly Thanatos’s face as his mouth drifts lower and lower, down the cool slope of his neck, the softness of it always covered by his gorget, covered even now but he can imagine it, the gray skin, the feel of it under his lips. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Beside him, Thanatos remains still and silent, no breathing, nothing giving him away.
“When you think of that, what do you feel?” Zagreus asks.
Thanatos shifts uncomfortably. Finally, a sound, his clothing moving against the dead grass. Zagreus almost punches the air in triumph.
“I feel… warm,” comes the whispered reply.
Zagreus pushes him onto his back on the grass, killing more of it. Behind him, his feet melt more snow. The sounds of blades of grass snapping and snow melting and their bodies shifting fills the air and through it, Zagreus whispers, “I don’t like when you’re quiet for so long.”
Thanatos’s hair falls from his forehead. On his back, he looks smaller, less formidable, more like the image of him Zagreus holds in his mind and in his heart. “I told you once before not to take my silence the wrong way.”
Zagreus leans in and kisses his cheek. It’s still cool to the touch, despite the brush of gold that looks almost like blush.
“I remember.” The fluttering is back, the shivering of his soul up against the cage of his chest. His body fights to return to the sanctity of the underworld. He presses his body against Thanatos’s, their chests together, hips together, against the dying grass and melting snow.
Thanatos’s arms wrap around him, his cool palm setting on the back of his always too hot neck. “And yet you still try to misinterpret me. Your mind is like a maze. Your thoughts run into each other.”
Zagreus takes a shuddering breath. “When we’re down there, tell me more. Tell me about my mind again. Tell me how it annoys you. Tell me about my mouth. I want to hear what goes on in here.” His fingers brush Thanatos’s forehead. The golden eyes flutter shut for an indulging moment.
Thanatos starts to pull them into the underworld. Zagreus feels the shifting begin, the haziness of the sunrise, the green tint of his power, the restlessness of his soul slowly fading. He lets go of the surface and drifts into the dark.
“Alright,” he hears, just before he dies again.
.
Zagreus opens his eyes. He’s in his room, resting on the bright blue sheets of his bed. Beside him, Thanatos lays on his side, observing him calmly.
“You were sleeping,” he says.
“Was I?” Zagreus never feels entirely rested but there’s a heaviness to his limbs now as he stretches. “I haven’t slept in a while.”
“You spent more time than usual on the surface. Perhaps it affected you.” Now that he looks, he can see a thin line creasing the space between Thanatos’s pale eyebrows. He was worried.
Zagreus turns slowly to his side until they’re facing each other. The sheets shift under him, his skin slipping against the covers. He’s aware of his heartbeat, always echoing in the emptiness of the House, loud and conspicuous. Thanatos is quiet but his face isn’t. A long fingered hand gently pushes hair from Zagreus’s face, lingering along his jaw, cool and soothing.
“Don’t be reckless,” Thanatos says. It’s almost a scolding.
Zagreus can’t help a smile. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. So you’ve just been laying here, watching me sleep?”
“Waiting for you to wake up.”
“Hmm. Do you remember what we talked about on the surface?”
Thanatos’s eyes dart down to his lips, and then back up. “Yes.”
“Do you think I’m annoying?” he asks next.
Thanatos smiles. “A little.”
“Am I too loud for you?”
Thanatos thinks about this one. His hand drifts almost lazily to Zagreus’s hip, his thumb brushing against the bone. “Sometimes.”
Zagreus waits. The cool hand against his hip moves, caressing the warm skin there. Distracting him. Zagreus moves and Thanatos’s hand falls onto the covers.
“You’re almost alive,” Thanatos whispers. “Almost. Almost like the souls up above that call to me. Your body. The blood. When you hold me, I feel alive too.”
The words swirl around Zagreus’s head, churning like the Styx, slotting neatly into his mind. “Tell me more,” he says.
Thanatos shrugs one gray shoulder. “I don’t have the words,” he says. “You think I’m holding back. I’m not. But I can feel. I feel this. I just don’t know how to say it. Okay?”
Zagreus leans in for a kiss. His lips brush Than’s, cool as always, and Thanatos’s mouth opens just a little, a sigh escaping him, drifting sweetly into the air between them, a soft sound that fades as soon as it comes out. It raises all the hair on Zagreus’s body, sending a shiver through him, a tingling in his arms and legs.
Zagreus pulls back. If he looks into Thanatos’s eyes, he can see his mind working, the mysterious gears moving, churning thoughts, tasks that need doing, worry about him, about work, about the House. Zagreus can only guess on the thoughts that pass through the head of Death itself. But he kisses him again and feels another soft sigh break against his mouth, and figures he doesn’t have to guess at this, at least.
He presses closer, kissing him deeply, listening to the sounds of their bodies against the bed, his heartbeat loud enough for the both of them.