Work Text:
A bright Sunday, just before lunchtime. Mydeimos is alone. The sun filtering through the silky curtains of the library’s windows reminds him of someone. Little pecks of light cover the pages of books long abandoned on the desk he’s sitting at, and he feels at peace. Sometimes he wishes he’d studied at the Grove like Cas, Hyacine and Phainon did — he imagines them researching together at the Library of Philia, or attending Anaxagoras’ unconventional lecture, and he’s not jealous, obviously, he just wonders; his life has always been a raging fire, a fierce, never-ending battle between who he is and who he’s supposed to be, what he must do and what he wants. That’s fine, he was born to be wise, brave, strong. (Why do these words feel like synonymous for “lonely”?)
In his fist there’s a crumpled paper stained in wobbly inked words. It’s something he cherishes, because it was Phainon’s, and it shows his handwriting. Most would expect an elegant, plain one from the renowned Deliverer — but he writes words that look alive. It’s an old note he found in a book Phainon once lended him and, once he’d noticed it, he’d taken it with him on a whim. Why exactly he did that, he doesn’t know. He’s not someone who does useless things, yet. When it comes to Phainon, his heart often takes over his brains. That precious piece of paper is now being used as a bookmark. Mydei has become alarmingly attached to it.
He lets his mind wander. There’s an old codex somewhere, one he knows by memory since he’s read it many times before. It tells the story of a long, excruciating war, where there was no victor. A war that left nothing to write about except for disaster. The parchment of a specific passage is all worn out, given how many times Mydeimos reread it.
Two young men are described drinking together in a tent, on the eve of the last battle. There is no moon, no stars, only a little fire crackles as clouds darken up the night, and the older is scared of dying and leaving his friend, while his companion just smiles.
“Are you not afraid?” He stares at the fire barely alive.
The other scoffs. “The one who remains will remember the other. That’s how we’ll play destiny.”
They pour all the wine and toast to the dead.
“Why do you fight?” The older asks; he knows his friend better than anyone, more than he knows himself, but he doesn’t understand how he isn’t worried; why he isn't crying.
“To live and die by your side. I decided that would be my prophecy. Why do you fight?” “I’m expected to win.”
“Then you’ll win, and become immortal.”
By the end only one remains, and he tells the story.
Why he remembered about it now, he doesn’t want to know. He’s supposed to be reading, relaxing, yet his mind always wanders to places it shouldn’t go — he can’t seem to get Phainon out of his mind. He’s drawn by him in a way that’s shameful to his dignity. A warrior knows no shivers nor unnecessary words; a king fears not loneliness. But there’s something magnetic about Phainon, something akin to the heat of a fireplace, the thrill of a fight. He’s trying to find the right word, but the Castrum Kremnian vocabulary seems to be lacking in the semantic field of vulnerability.
He feels a hand steadying itself on his shoulder. He has not noticed someone approaching him, so it can only be one person, the one he doesn’t mind getting close to him. He crumples the paper he had in his hand and puts it between the pages as a bookmark. Phainon’s eyes light up, a thin smile on his lips, and his mouth is suddenly near his right ear.
“How long have you been here?”
Mydei goes for a neutral, quiet tone. “Since this morning. I’ve been reading.”
“I can see that,” Phainon gestures to the books scattered across the table. Mydei is at ease, his long limbs lazily abandoned on one of the library's red armchairs. He emanates the dignity of a king, even in a place like that, that’s the reason why he adds, “Is this your throne now?”
Mydei sighs with a smile, and replies earnestly, “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
Phainon’s eyes soften as he whispers, “It could be, maybe.”
Mydei is feeling good today, that’s why he doesn’t think too much and asks, “Would you sit by my side?”
He can’t stand it, sometimes – how much Phainon being or not being around affects him. The core difference it makes. It’s frustrating, not knowing if he feels the same. He feels stupid. Stupid like Phainon’s habit of tracing the corner of his lips with his tongue when he’s at a loss of what to say, stupid like his ridiculous blue eyes — the bluest he’s ever seen.
“You bet. Am I not the only worthy one left?” He smiles a dazzling smile.
His hand, still on Mydeimos’ shoulder, is warm and firm, just like Mydei likes it. Hot and strong, yet light and soft, that’s how he would describe the Deliverer. Phainon’s hand squeezes his muscles and something in Mydei’s crumbles. He wants to tear it off, wants to feel the warmth in his bones. How is he supposed to do this, when his body tends to a light he can’t allow himself to reach? He’s the last king of Castrum Kremnos, the undying Chrysos Heir, Strife’s vassal. He has fallen many times, rearranged pieces of himself back together and kept walking down his journey. He’s lost every connection, every ounce of love he’d had. He physically doesn’t have the space for it anymore. He’s endured much more than this, he’s his mother’s son — he will not disappear, nor will he bend. Not by the hands of this smiley, fascinating boy.
Phainon enjoys taking walks around Marmoreal Market. A place where citizens can live a normal life, thanks to Aglaea’s golden threads. Children leave their parents’ hands — the ones lucky enough to still have parents — and talk about the latest show at the baths. Guards patrol the city, ready to protect their people. A nice smell comes out of the restaurants’ kitchens. He wonders if he should buy some Honeycake to share with his partner, who he’s meeting later that day. Curious of Mydei to have a sweet tooth. He always looks younger when he’s eating something he likes, a forgotten shadow of what he was when he didn’t have to bear his burden.
He passes by the shop twice before deciding to buy something, just to hope it’ll make Mydei happier. He stops at the Library to pick up a book Mydei ordered a few days prior, then to say hello to Chartonus. He’s in a good mood today, and that has everything to do with the person he’s about to meet.
There’s something right about Mydei. Ever since arriving in Okhema Phainon has been trying to make a home for himself, but it hasn't been easy. There’s always something missing, something long lost he’s been trying to find where he won’t be able to get it back. He misses the long fields of wheat that surrounded his village, like a golden ocean. He misses trees in warm colours, and orange leaves piling up to his feet whenever he would rest under their fronds. He misses sitting by the coast, feet in the water, breeze in his hair, wondering how much his world would change as he grew up. He misses going after what his heart desires without worrying.
There’s no sea in Okhema city, no golden fields nor his first home. The one he called a sister is missing too, he’s not a younger brother anymore. But there’s something new. He has his precious friends and colleagues, he knows almost every face in the city. He’s become stronger and tougher than he ever was, and he’s not alone.
He trains with his sword while Aglaea teaches him about balancing politics in Amphoreus; he updates Hyacine about the latest events in the city in his letters; he takes strolls with Castorice on the outskirts of the city, discussing past lectures of Anaxa, recalling old tales and remembering serene times; he dines with Tribbie, Trinnon and Trianne in the Garden of Life and never forgets to gift each of them a different flower every time.
Then there’s Mydei. Mydei is a special thing. Absolutely irritating with those wild strands of hair, bold tattoos and piercing eyes, nevertheless gorgeous. He’s someone he hadn’t been looking for, but found anyway, and that changed everything. The one who seeks through his deception, who understands what it means to live to protect, to have to be the strongest. The one who trusts him and who he trusts the most out of everyone.
He hears a quiet voice call his name and purple appears in his vision, a shade he’s grown quite fond of. Castorice appears as calm as ever, like snow endlessly falling, gently covering everything. He rushes to greet her and her lilac eyes bright up a little.
“Hi, Cas. How’s your day going?”
“Quite alright, thank you. Lady Aglaea gave me those.” She brings her hands up and Phainon notices she’s wearing a new pair of gloves.
“They’re beautiful, and suits you. Another magnificent show of talent from the Garmentmaker.” His smile is wide and genuine. “They look soft.” There’s a subtle shift in his motion, like he wanted to touch, see them up closer. All these years of knowing his friend, and he still reaches for her like it would have no consequences.
He doesn’t retract immediately, it’d only make it worse. Castorice notices; of course she does, and hides her hands behind her back and smiles a sad smile. He wishes he could embrace her, not for the first time.
“They are. Like the petals of a lily. Or like— petting a baby droma, I suppose.” She pauses, then changes topics. “So, what are you doing today? Shopping?” She gestures at the bag he’s holding.
Phainon hums. “I’m meeting Mydei later.”
“Oh, so that’s why he also seemed to be in good spirits today. I met him while leaving the Baths.”
Phainon knows what Mydei in a good mood looks like, but asks Cas anyway, just because. “Why do you say that?”
She shrugs. “He looked… excited, like he always does whenever you’re around. Smiled a bit more than usual, and less sharply. And he seemed relaxed, too. He usually doesn’t.”
Phainon’s good mood gets even better. “I see. I’ll tell him you said hi.” He thinks Mydei’s got a soft spot for her, and hopes they will get closer, someday.
Castorice looks a little surprised, but nods. “I’m going, then.”
“Let’s chat a bit more, I’ll come with you.” He offers with a smile.
“Won’t you be late for your appointment with Lord Mydei?”
He checks on his teleslate before replying. “I have time. I think it’ll do me good to walk a bit more.”
Castorice finally smiles back. “Need to buy anything else before we go? Got everything for your date?”
Phainon apparently doesn’t question the choice of words and thinks it through. Castorice looks amused.
“Ah, I know. Wait just a sec.”
He stops at the closest shop to buy some pomegranate juice. Castorice doesn’t comment on it. After all, it would be a waste not to drink it with the Honeycakes.
“Why are you always teasing me?” Phainon mumbles. “If you want me, you could just say so.”
Mydei stares. They’re both drunk under the pretence of a — how had Mydei called it? — celebration feast. It had been one hell of a fight, but most of the soldiers had made it home. Losses are a constant in the Flame-chasers journey, but so are hands shaken with friends and laughing until you’re brought to tears.
This is not the first time they’ve been this close. Mydei’s hands are always pulling at his hair, or Phainon’s fingers are always finding new places to pry. But now something has shifted, and it’s different — his slim fingers are wandering around Mydei’s chest in a dangerous motion. His heart is beating hard against his ribcage, still full of adrenaline, blood pumping in anticipation. When he finally gathers enough confidence to look up and meet Mydei’s eyes, they’re dark and blown out. His breath catches in his throat, a single drop of sweat falls off his chin.
“Stop me.”
Mydei’s swallows. “When have I ever backed down from a challenge?”
Phainon pushes himself against Mydei's chest and kisses him, hard. His hands move from his sides to his broad shoulders to his slender neck until they settle on his face, pulling him even closer. Mydei doesn’t fight him, for once. He lets Phainon have it, and lets himself feel something he hasn’t felt in a very long time — a proximity he craves, affection he rejected because of how bad he wanted it. When Phainon finally steps back, they’re both breathing slowly. None of them break the silence.
Mydei’s mind is a mess, but he also, strangely, feels calm. He observes the man before him, now basically sat on his lap, and asserts the situation like a general would. Except he’s drunk, and pretty much in love.
It’s his turn to cup Phainon’s face and timidly guide it closer to his. He can’t remember doing this before and feeling so affected. Phainon smells like sun and sugar and summer’s air, all things Mydei likes. He kisses him slow and curious, exploring, trying to understand. Phainon also seems to calm down, as his hands slowly come back up and start combing through his hair, undying his already loose braid. If anyone else were to do something like that, he’d beat them to death, but this is Phainon, and now, head clouded with alcohol and soft tissue against his burning tongue, Mydeimos would probably give in to everything Phainon were to do to him.
Phainon pulls slightly back. “You’re gonna kill me,” and Mydei almost laughs cause that’s how he has been feeling. It's not so different from fighting with Phainon, he thinks, but this is more, and it’s somehow even better. How lucky is he to have such a worthy opponent and partner.
“Ever doubted it?” But he’s lying. He won’t say that out loud, not yet, but he wouldn’t mind dying by his hand. He forces himself to let those thoughts go and focuses on stupid blue eyes and a stupid choker covering an even stupider sun tattoo. His hand is around it in seconds.
Phainon smiles and surrenders. Their lips are soon touching again, Mydei closes his eyes and loses himself in the Sun. Maybe he’s intoxicated, but the only thing the alcohol does is bring him closer to his truest desires. The seed had already been planted; the sprout has now been watered. What will come out of the ground? Fire and lightning are the main dancers on the stage, and he feels every shift in the air like shivers on his skin.
“You were so fucking reckless.”
Mydei is injured. By now Phainon has seen him die and come back a few times, but it never gets easier. Rather, he hates it more every time. He’s obviously grateful he can’t die, but he loathes the concept of Mydei’s life being less valuable because it’s expendable. Being immortal doesn’t make him immune to pain. He knows Mydei gets angry when he’s scolded, but he’s too hurt to care about that. They’re probably gonna fight.
Mydei doesn’t reply. He stares at the ceiling, eyes barely open, tired. Phainon thinks, I hate this man, I hate how terrible he makes me. He almost feels guilty.
“There was no need for you to go alone. If you’d have just waited for me—” He tries his best not to raise his voice. “Maybe you wouldn’t have fucking—” died.
“I did what I had to do. The rest of the army was able to get through the enemy lines, thanks to that. I didn’t fail.”
"Titans, of course you didn’t— fail. If that’s how you want to call it. But you— you can’t spend your life like that, like it’s a frivolous thing, like it’s nothing.” Like it’s not everything to him. He’s trying really hard not to shout, not to show how much he worries. He doesn’t like to hide that he cares.
Mydei winces. “I always come back.”
“Yes, thank goodness you do. I would go crazy if you didn't. But you were hurt. You’re hurting now. How many scars are already carved on you? How many bones have been shattered?”
“I don’t mind the pain.” Mydei says quietly. “It’ll pass.”
They're silent for a long while, until Phainon asks, his voice slightly cracking, “The pain. Does it ever stop?”, and Mydei’s world shifts.
Does it ever stop? No, it doesn’t. He’s now a mournful pile of bones rearranging themselves, a lion with no teeth and a broken jaw, crushed by neverending wars. But true warriors do not falter due to a lost weapon, and they fight wearing all of their soul. He’s never been a coward who hides behind a shield. He will grab his spear again, and command his people with bravery. That is his purpose. That is his doom. He will endure.
He feels like he’s going to cry, and he’s too close to letting it happen. He’s about to crumble in Phainon’s arms. It is terrifying. It feels like he could have it. Maybe he trusts Phainon enough.
“Is this the glory you seek?” Phainon asks at last, and Mydei sees it.
Glory has long decayed, and he’s tired. A body immortal may never fall, but tears of pain still flow in his heart. Phainon sees it in his eyes, and he knows Mydei won’t apologise about this (he doesn’t really want him to, he just wants him safe, as safe as they can ever be anyway); he shuts up, gets under the blanket with him, and rests his head over his healing shoulder, careful not to push down on it. Mydei lets him without complaining. He needs it.
Phainon speaks again after a while. “I’m sorry. I was afraid,” he says softly, pressing a small kiss over his hot skin. His head is now comfortably resting between Mydei’s neck and shoulder blade. He feels at ease, even though he’s still hurting. “Try to understand what your recklessness does to the people who love you. What it does to me.”
Mydei moves his head a little, so he can leave a kiss between Phainon’s hair tickling his neck. “I know,” I was afraid too. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” I’m here, I’m sorry. I’ll happen again, but don’t leave.
Phainon hums softly, a gentle sound engraving itself into Mydei’s heart and ears. Mydei wishes, not for the first time, that he could stop time. This room, this person, this moment, this hurt too— he aches for it, he loves everything about it. There’s nothing he can do to keep it all safe. Only fight, and die in the process.
“I miss it too, you know.”
They’re wandering through the Strife Ruins, taking counts of every hit like they always do, but there’s not much to do by now. Phainon feels this is just an excuse to spend some time together, alone. He remembers how happy Mydei had been when he’d shown him around the first time they’d been there.
The Kremnos Arena is dark, no memory of the violent place where warriors once used to battle. All is decayed and fragile, but maintains a certain dignity, even in its cries of despair. He sees in Mydei’s eyes the homesickness of a city that sent him away.
“What?” Mydei snaps, but he’s figured out what Phainon’s talking about.
Phainon ponders his answer, and simply says, “Home.”
“I don’t miss home. For me, home has constantly changed. It has no limits and no constraints. What I miss are my people, and the glory of a city that wasn’t always in ruins, where I could be free.”
“You make your own freedom. There's more than one road to follow.”
Mydei doesn’t get angry. “It is my legacy. It is my destiny.” That kind of void can’t be filled, but Mydei likes to think it’ll get better with time.
“Your destiny is yours to decide. Do not make it a curse. Prophecy and all. What matters is not the end goal, but how you get there.”
It is his curse, and Phainon knows that as well. They’re both cursed. So why would he say it anyway, like it doesn't mean anything, like it isn’t killing him? “You don’t understand, Deliverer.” Phainon looks sad, and it makes Mydei’s skin crawl. He can’t stand it, and he knows he’s going to hate the words that will come next even more.
“Apart from Kremnos’ traditions, what do you have left?”
Mydei lets out a rugged breath. He should get angry, draw his sword out and see it pressed against Phainon’s throat in less than a second. He should consider this an affront, an offence, wipe it out. But this is Phainon, and Phainon doesn’t strike to hurt, he strikes to make it make sense. It hits Mydei that he can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, that he’s been praying under a sky that doesn’t look down and that his grief has been growling for recognition, and Phainon knows.
“What else belongs to me?”, which really just means, What else am I? and What else is left for me? and Who can I run to when I don’t know what to do with myself?
Surprisingly, but not really, Phainon is the one who takes out his sword and directs it towards Mydei’s chest.
“Let’s spar.”
It’s a peace offer as much as it’s a challenge. Mydei feels the angles of his mouth curl up. His sword soon hits Phainon’s. It feels good, familiar, safe. Maybe that’s because he’s been raised to be a warrior before being a king, maybe it’s because he’s come to associate sparring with Phainon to time ticking happily.
“Any final goodbyes you want to share? This might be your last chance.” The hero asks.
The prince laughs. “I’m exactly where I want to be. I shall ask you the same question.”
The hero comes right for his face. The sounds the blades make when they come in contact are short euphoric symphonies, the songs he hears when their fingers touch under tables at banquets. The rebound of each hit sends bolts of pleasure straight into his veins. He feels settled. He feels holy. He feels home.
He doesn’t know how long the fight lasts, he blinks and he’s sitting down, his back pressed against the ruins, a hot body next to him. Neither was able to score a single victory, and conceded not a single defeat. Damp white hair blind his vision and make it harder to breath as he’s catching his breath. It also makes it easier and Mydei’s lungs are filled with so much more than air.
Phainon gets closer, and they breathe together. A few minutes later they’re all over each other. Phainon’s fingers trail over his side, and he shakes a little.
“I love that you’re ticklish.” Mydei scoffs, fondly, then Phainon adds, “You look like a child.” He does it again, and Mydei lets him just to hear his laugh.
It’s everything, he knows now. It’s finding out his bed is never cold when he slips under the blanket with Phainon. That sordid loneliness of always being on the hunt, seeking for a land he could call home, slowly making itself smaller when he’s with Phainon. It’s fighting and not feeling like he’s going to betray himself if he loses. It’s this, someone seeing him, caring for him, and showing it, loving him loudly.
He thinks, if he could be gone for good, if his body was able to rot– when he's ten feet underground and the worms consume his decaying flesh, all that would be left would be his devotion, still running like blood, staining the ground, making sprouts grow and buds open into forget-me-nots.
He remembers Phainon telling him, “May triumph always be yours, Mydeimos”, and he knows that he’s already won.
Maybe he’ll always stay a king with no kingdom. Maybe one day he, the greatest conqueror, will get his land back. But now, he has found what he cares for, and the more he cares, the more he aches. But he would still entrust all of his weaknesses to Phainon. He’s found where he belongs.
He kisses Phainon’s hair once more. “When I build one, come with me to my library, please. My home will have no locks for you.” He finds his hand, then carefully touches the palm where he’s already placed a key in his dreams.
Phainon says, “You mean everything to me. You won’t have to ask me again. It would be my greatest pleasure.”