Archive of Our Own

“Lord Phainon has such a thick face,”  Mydei hears in the Marmoreal Market one day.

He doesn’t turn, but he does tune out the hawking of the merchants some more to hone in on the conversation.  Phainon is fairly fit, though, he ponders, half amused and half bemused, as he picks up a pomegranate.  Surely if anything, his arms are thicker than his face?

“I don’t know where the Chrysos Heirs get the audacity,” a second voice replies, scorn lacing their voice.  “No shame whatsoever.”

“If you ask me, we ought to do something about those Heirs,” the first voice returns.  “Scurrying around like a bunch of pests.”

There’s a flicker of annoyance that pulses when he keeps listening, but the information may be more valuable the more he listens.

Still though, Mydei wonders briefly how shame and the face correlate.

It’s an idiom, a voice tells him with barely concealed laughter.  

A memory comes swimming up in his mind then, appearing suddenly like a certain clingy Deliverer.

“You’re so cute I could eat you up!”  He remembers Phainon cooing a couple months ago, smoothing out the fur of a soundly snoozing chimera in the Garden of Life.

Mydei had scooped it up and ran with it far away, horrified at how his companion could even think of such an act.  “From now on,” he said gravely when he had returned, “don’t go to the Garden without me.”  Lest you eat all the chimeras.

Phainon, to Mydei’s slight indignation, had simply tilted his head and beamed at him so brightly that the glow of the Dawn Device behind him seemed to dim.  “Of course, of course.  Need my supervision, my prince?”

Mydei sneered, picking up the chimera that had started pawing impatiently at his feet.  “If anything, you’re the one who needs supervision.  I may entrust you to watch my back in battle, but apparently I can’t trust in your restraint to not eat the chimeras.”

Phainon had looked at him like he had just sprouted another head, drawling, “Yes, prin-cess,” and yelped as Mydei kicked his back from where he was sitting on the ground.

Where was he again?

“If you ask me, they shouldn’t even have so much authority.  Just because the Council of Elders temporarily handed over their power…”

Right.  He maneuvers the pomegranate up and down, idly accessing its weight as he eavesdrops, wondering if he should intervene.

“We can’t even have a peaceful day because of that witch Aglaea.  And that damn Deliverer, always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong…”

“I’ll pick up this one for now, Demetria.” He drops the balance coins onto the stall table.  “Thanks as always.”

“Thank you for your continued patronage, Lord Mydeimos!”

He nods distractedly, beelining it for the two he had been eavesdropping on, when a familiar weight settles itself over his shoulder.

“Mydei!  Fancy seeing you here!”  Phainon’s arm slings over him, the fabric of his sun-soaked clothes warm against his skin.

“Deliverer,” he deadpans.  “I thought you were going to be away for two more days.”

“Mm, I came back early.  Finished faster than I expected.  Did you miss me?”

“When did you arrive?”  He ignores the question,  pretending he doesn’t see Phainon toying with his braid.

“When you were still perusing the pomegranates.  You were there for a while, by the way.  Was there some sale going on today?”

Mydei pushes at his shoulder, not to hurt but to guide.  “No.  Go report to Aglaea first.  You smell.”

“I was at a temple of Phagousa, but no matter!  Up for a bath?”

He frowns.  “This early?  Lucid Hour just started.”

“Ah, come on, my prince, humor me, won’t you?” he cajoles.  

“No.” Mydei gives him a flat look and tries to head towards his original goal again.  “I’m busy.”

He stiffens suddenly when an arm wraps around his waist, pulling him back into Phainon’s embrace.  Mydei opens his mouth to protest when his companion leans down to whisper playfully in his ear, “Cas will take care of them.”

He tenses further at the mention of their fellow Chrysos Heir’s name, before shooting Phainon a well deserved glare.  “Explain yourself.”

Phainon simply gives him a sunny, shit eating grin, one that he knows goads Mydei the best.  And it works, with the way he has a sudden urge to throttle him.

Mydei goes to elbow his stomach, but Phainon catches it just before it hits.  “Okay, okay, no need to get so worked up.  I also didn’t know until I saw her in an alleyway close by.”

Mydei tries his best to not tense further from the unfamiliarity of being whispered directly into his ear.  “Stakeout?”

Phainon nods, his bangs tickling the back of his neck.  He shivers despite the warmth between their bodies.  “Kind of.  They have alleged ties to the Cleaners, so she’s waiting until they leave to interrogate.  Wouldn’t want to make a spectacle in the middle of the Marmoreal Market like you were about to, right?”

“So how much did you eavesdrop?” he grunts, shifting over the bag to his other hand.

He hums, burying his face into Mydei’s nape, sighing.  “Enough to hear about how I poke my nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

Mydei allows him to keep his place for a few more seconds, knowing the exhaustion seeping into his bones that comes with the title of Deliverer.  Phainon had mentioned it helped him recharge, and it would help no one if the Deliverer wasn’t in tip top shape.  

Ten seconds, he promised, the first time it happened.  Only ten seconds.  Ten seconds for Mydei to gather his thoughts and the effort being dispersed when he feels Phainon’s soft breaths against his neck.  Ten seconds of praying that Phainon couldn’t feel his heart beat quicker, the thrum of blood pumping in his veins a beat too fast.  Ten seconds that pass far too quickly and far too slowly.  Ten seconds pass before he shoves him away halfheartedly.  “That's enough.  We’re still in public.”

Phainon takes a breath before obediently stepping away.  “Okay.”

They continue their walk around the market in not-quite-silence with the boisterous crowds surrounding them, when Mydei simply cannot take it any longer.

He stops, and because Phainon is Phainon, he notices immediately, halting just beside Mydei.  “What’s wrong?”

Mydei squints at him, before wrenching Phainon’s face to chest level.

“Ack!”

For the most part, Phainon and Mydei are about the same height.  However, one tends to scrutinize things by holding them below eye level to not strain the neck.  Although, something about holding Phainon’s face between his hands as he stares down at him feels a little off, like somehow their position can be misinterpreted in some way, but the new arrangement of their bodies give him a sense of gratification that eradicates the rest of his doubts.

Mydei examines his companion’s face.  Phainon always moves quite a bit, even when they aren’t sparring, whether it’s bounding by his side on their walks or splashing water onto him in the baths, he never seems to still.  Even as he holds him in his hands, he can feel him vibrate slightly with a question in those eyes.  Probably from the effort he’s taking to hold his awkward position.

Mydei frowns, flicking away a stray lash that had fallen on his cheek as he maneuvers Phainon’s head, tilting it up and down, to the right and then the left.  His lips part, and the oddly hopeful gleam in Phainon’s eyes brighten.  Mydei narrows his eyes and says, “Your face isn’t that thick.”

Phainon blinks, his lashes sweeping delicately on his gauntlets, his expression almost doe-eyed.  “...What?”

He huffs.  “I said, your face isn’t that thick.  So don’t listen to the people from before.”

Phainon gives him a blank stare before breaking out into a smile, his hand trailing up to rest on Mydei’s as he pushes his face into his grasp.  “Are you flirting with me?  I thought you said we’re still in public, how forward of you–”

A flare of vexation floods him, and he pulls indignantly on Phainon’s cheeks.  “It was reassurance, Deliverer–”

His hands tap against his wrists frantically.  “Ow, ow, Mydei, your gauntlets!  I give, I give!”

A few days later, Mydei seeks out Castorice.  After all, he’s heard about her poetry.  Who else would know about idioms if not a poet?

He finds her on a rooftop somewhere above the market, a perfect vantage point.  Her legs kick lightly as she gazes down a little wistfully when a dromas passes by.

She turns when he approaches, nodding in greeting.  “Lord Mydei.”

“Lady Castorice,” he responds, a little ways off to the side.  He doesn’t mind her touch, as he can just revive if they accidentally make contact, but she always seems a little hesitant near him anyway.

“If you don’t mind, why don’t you take a seat?  People-watching does wonders sometimes.”

He sits about three arms-length away from her as she continues to surveil the city.  They sit in peaceful silence, both watching the people below them with mild interest.

About a quint passes before she speaks.  “Is there anything you need of me?  Did Lady Aglaea ask for you to seek me out for a new mission?”

He shakes his head.  “No, I just… had some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

She smiles amicably.  “Of course.”

“Is the phrase ‘a thick face’ an idiom of some sort?  Some sort of Okheman insult perhaps?”

Castorice hums, smoothing out her dress.  “To have a thick face means you are not easily ashamed.  It means you are fairly resistant to the embarrassment of being criticized or put into situations in which one would be humiliated.  Shameless, if you will.  Not a bad quality to have, but it certainly can be construed as an insult.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but Castorice beats him to it.  “It’s not a wholly bad thing to be thick-faced.  It also means one is bold in one’s pursuits and endeavors.”

Sounds like a certain audacious Deliverer, he huffs, more than a little amused.  Now that I think about it, I’ve never quite seen him properly… embarrassed.

“Have you ever seen the Deliverer…”  She tilts her head slightly towards him.  “...flustered?  As you knew him prior from the Grove…”

She ponders some more, lazily kicking again, before she says quietly, “No.  Phainon has always been confident to a fault.  I’m sure he understands why, as his position of Deliverer, but it’d be… interesting to see him like that, if at no expense to his standing.”

He leans back, arms supporting him as he gazes at the sky.  An infuriating clear blue.  It reminds him, pathetically, of Phainon’s eyes.  “What do you think it’ll take to make him crack?”

Castorice jerks in surprise.  “Hm?  Wouldn’t you know more than me since you two are lovers?”

Mydei sits up at that, blinking blankly back at her.  “...The Deliverer and I aren’t romantically involved?”

She gapes for a second before attempting to school her expression.  She fails.  “Then why does he look like he’s trying to crawl into your skin half the time?”

He blinks again.  He should invest in some eye drops or something.  Or go to a doctor, because clearly he’s hearing things.  “...Pardon?”

“Sorry, was there another white haired man burying his nose into your neck in public that I should know about?”

“It was off to the side, not in public,” he mutters.  “He’s just like that.  It’s not because we’re romantically involved.”

She bites her lip.  “...Right.”

They sit in silence again, before she says, a little more gently, “Is there a particular reason you want him to… blush?”

Why?

He frowns, thinking.

He wants to see the unruffled facade give way to bashful smiles when Mydei tells him the meal he made that day was catered to him, and him alone.   He wants to see Phainon’s cheeks pinken when he sees the marks on Mydei’s exposed back during their spars, knowing the flaw that lies there.  He wants to see the shy, rare crawl of a blush when he brings Phainon flower crowns, a symbol of Kremnoan triumph.  Mydei… just wants, because he’s never seen much other than the picture perfect Deliverer in front of citizens, or the man who hides in his nape, his weakness not even to be seen by the one he’s seeking comfort from, or even his rival, fighting side by side, spar by spar with him.  It’d be… good, welcomed, even, to see the other sides of Phainon, he thinks.

He opens his mouth to respond, knowing he had paused for a beat too long, but none of the words come out.

“Oh,”  Castorice says suddenly.  “I see.”

He doesn’t ask her what exactly she sees, because he clearly doesn’t (he really needs to schedule an appointment with an optometrist), but she starts to swing her legs again, looking a lot more cheerful.

“I think you have your answer.  Don’t you?”  Her smile is wide, but not unkind.

He gets up to strategically retreat.  He turns back, just before he leaves the rooftop, to see her pull out a thin notebook from out of her pocket and start furiously scribbling in it.

While Castorice did help him think about the reason why he wants Phainon to blush in the first place, she never told him how to.

So Mydei resorts to the only thing he knows.

Kremnoan courting rituals.

It’s not foolproof, but surely even Phainon can recognize what he’s doing?

Thus, that’s how Mydei ends up at Phainon’s door, dragging a Titankin behind him.  Thank the Titans it’s Curtain Fall Hour or Aglaea might have his head.  

He takes the long way back to avoid the Verax Leos that would definitely snitch given the chance and knocks impatiently on Phainon’s door.  His arms are getting sorer from the days away from the city, not to mention lugging back the Titankin nearly double the size of a grown man.

Phainon opens the door soon after, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes.  Now, Mydei doesn’t have a penchant for calling other people cute.  It’s a word far too soft for the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos.  Cute is a word reserved for small, fragile things like chimeras or baby dromas.  Not a grown man who is blinking blearily at him in his stupid yellow-purple chimera themed pajamas.  Damn it all.  Mydei, finding the savior of the world cute?  May Nikador strike him down now.

It makes him irrationally… irritated, like he wants to pull at Phainon’s cheeks like the other day as some sort of vengeance.  He grips onto the Titankin harder, scowling.

“Uh… hello?”  Phainon greets when Mydei says nothing.  “Is Okhema run over by the black tide or?”

“No,” he frowns.  Why would that be his first thought?  

“Um… okay.  What’s up then?” He tilts his head against the doorframe, finally spotting the Titankin.  “Oh, wow.  Is that for me?”

Mydei stares for a second.  Well, that certainly saves him the embarrassment if he already knew.  “Yeah, catch.”

Like he was caught unaware, Phainon sputters and barely manages to catch the corpse with a grunt when Mydei flings it at him.  He looks down at it with a complicated expression.  “Mydei… why are you giving me a Titankin’s corpse in the middle of Curtain Fall Hour?”

“It’s a show of power,” Mydei says blankly, a bit confused by the reaction.  A display of power is a usual Kremnoan courting ritual.  He, too, had been offered spoils of might from suitors hoping to impress him before.  In this case, Mydei had hunted the largest Titankin he could find, which is why it took him several days to get back to Okhema.

“And you got hurt?” Phainon frowns, thumbing over his arm where a cut is still healing, and Mydei hisses in response.  He hadn’t even realized it, like an open wound one doesn’t realize until water seeps into it.  It must’ve been fairly recent too, with the way his body is still knitting his flesh together.  “Is this what you’ve been doing outside the city for these past couple days?”

“I’d like to see you fight off a hundred Titankin and come out unscathed,” he grumbles, only to not have quite the effect he was hoping for.  “It’s going to heal soon anyway.”

Phainon’s lips twist unhappily, and his grasp on the corpse tightens.  “Okay, you win this round, come on, get inside.”

“What?  What round?”  He plants his feet in place, refusing to be dragged in when Phainon pulls on his uninjured arm.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Deliverer, I have my own room–”

“Mydeimos,” Phainon says.  His voice isn’t loud, but the way he enunciates the syllables make his stubbornness known.  “Get inside my room or I’m telling Aglaea you dragged a Titankin’s corpse all over the baths.”

Mydei gapes, almost not registering he’s being pulled inside with a strength that shouldn’t belong to someone who just woke up a few minutes ago.  But then again, is the Deliverer just someone?  “You – HKS, don’t you dare!  How cowardly, underhanded–”

“Try me,” Phainon glares, gaze almost scalding, and Mydei knows with all his being that if the Deliverer says he would follow through, he would follow through, from noble promises of saving the world to petty squabbles like this.  Damn it.  He reluctantly allows himself to be led inside.

Plan strength showoff failed.

Time to switch gears.

(Mydei gets fussed over for the rest of the night and is given a back massage that untangles all the kinks in his back, so he counts it as a tie.)

Mydei sets down the dishes harder than he should.  The plates, thankfully, do not crack.

His recipient doesn’t seem to notice.  “Wow!”  Phainon chirps.  “It smells great.”

“Of course,” Mydei sniffs.  “I made it.”

Phainon’s hands stutter when he smells it, really taking in the scents.  

“You okay?”  Perhaps making these dishes was too much after all.

“Fine.  Just smells a little nostalgic, that’s all.”  Phainon smiles, a little bittersweet.

The dishes he made are traditional Aedes Elysiae cuisine, foods that can be made from crops and plants that were typically grown in the village, like loaves of bread and a myriad of different vegetables.  It’s warm and inviting, sweet like that tiny sleepy village.

Mydei sits across from him, allowing him a few moments to reminisce before pushing a plate to him with less force he had used to set it down.  “It’s not going anywhere.  Eat up or it’ll go cold.”

Phainon looks down at the dishes like he doesn’t know where to begin.  “...Thanks, Mydei.”

“No need.  I haven’t done anything to warrant your thanks.”

“Hah.”  Slowly, Phainon rips a loaf of bread into halves, dipping one piece into the beef stew.  Unconsciously, Mydei tenses.  “It tastes – amazing?!”

Mydei raises a brow.  “Are you suggesting that my usual isn’t?”

“No!  No, it’s – your usual is… hm…”

Mydei huffs, mildly amused, when Phainon nervously shovels more and more food into his mouth.  “Slow down or you’ll choke.  There’s still some fruit for dessert.”

He stares Phainon down, watching every chew being relished, until he looks up, the next bite of food halfway to his mouth and the tips of his ears pink.  

…Pink?

Oh.  Oh!  Is Mydei finally getting somewhere?

“Er… are you hungry?” Phainon asks, a little timid.  “You’re… staring.”

“No,” he dismisses immediately.  Pink, he thinks, a little too smugly.  They’re pink.

Phainon looks a little confused for the rest of the meal, but readily eats everything anyway.

Mydei clears off the dishes and sits back down in front of him.  Phainon raises an eyebrow.

“I…”  I made this meal for you.  I scoured the market for Aedes Elysiae recipes still circulating for you.  I could not reproduce the original, but I wanted to strive for that replica of home, if it would ease your mind even a little.  I wanted to make you… happy.  

The words cling to his tongue, sweet and cloying as honey, and Mydei finds that he can’t say them.  They’re bold, almost shameful, words.  He has never been one to shy away from stating facts, but perhaps this is too much of a burden on Phainon to accept, if he knew?  He wouldn’t show it, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t feel it.  Mydei swallows them down.  Phainon still has a question in his eyes, so he tries to wrack his brain of something to say.

It was nice, though, seeing Phainon eat with so much vigor.  That alone was more than enough evidence that he enjoyed it, at the very least.  He gives him a small tilt of his head and asks a question he already knows the answer to instead.  “Was it good?”

The large, goofy smile he gives Mydei at the end of the meal is more than a resounding answer.

“Your Highness, Your Highness!”

Before Mydei can stop petting the gray purring chimera curled up on his lap, a gentle weight is plopped over his head.

He turns, greeted by three children giggling behind him.  “Your Highness, it’s our gift to you!”

He reaches up to feel around for their present.  Ah.  A flower crown.

“You look splendid, Your Highness!”

“It suits you so well!”

At the eager faces of the children, he offers a small smile.  “Thank you.  I’m sure it’s lovely.”

Demetri puffs out his chest.  “My parents told me what flower crowns represent in Castrum Kremnos!  The warriors wear them when they come back home, so it represents victory and triumph!”

Maia tilts her head.  “Your Highness, were you making one for the chimera?”

Mydei looks down, one hand still buried in the soft fur of the chimera and one in the flowers beside him.  Then, he gets an idea.  He nods.  “This chimera has been working hard for the past several days, so indeed I am.”

The chimera blinks sleepily at him, before twisting and curling its body further into his lap, away from the light and noise.  The children ooh and ahh before Andrick whispers worriedly, “Your Highness, may we touch the chimera?  Will that bother it?”

Mydei plucks a few flowers from the patch on his left.  “As long as you are gentle, there should be no problem.  This one is fairly friendly.”

The children nod diligently, and their hands sink into the chimera’s fur, awkwardly smoothing it out into different directions.

About two quints pass like this, with his fingers deftly looping through stems and petals while the children surround him and the chimera, who had only opened its eyes once to peer haughtily at the kids and went back to sleep.  After another quint, he reminds the kids to head home, as Parting Hour had slowly crept up on them.  They bid him farewell, and once again, it is just him, the chimera, and the flowers.

The wind rustles the flowers gently, before an unnatural crunch makes Mydei look up.

“My, what a picturesque sight.  You look like you’ve jumped straight out of a fairytale, my prince.  May I ask who gifted you such a beautiful wreath, befitting the crown prince himself?”  Phainon’s lips dance with a playful grin as he approaches.

He huffs when Phainon sits down next to him, fiddling with the flowers in between them.  The petals pop out in between his fingers, making it look like his touch blooms them.  “The children gave it to me earlier.  I’m making some to give back.  And to give this one.”

He ruffles the chimera’s fur, who has not moved from his lap since the morning.  Occasionally, he had wondered if it had died, only to poke at it, a little alarmed, and settled back down when it curled around his finger.

“Giving a flower crown to a chimera?” Phainon pouts.  “And what exactly has it done to earn one handmade by you truly?”

“It has worked hard these past few days,” he simply says.

“Where, your lap?  It sure looks comfortable there.  To the point it looks dead.”

Mydei frowns, poking at it again.  The chimera shifts and wraps its body around his finger.  “Not dead.  Don’t say such things.”

“...Right.  Well, I also worked hard these past few days, so surely that warrants a flower crown from you as well?”  He blinks innocently.  Mydei sends him a pointed look, and Phainon turns away to pull at the patch in between their bodies, starting on his own flower crown.

They resume the peaceful silence, with the only noises coming down from below of people saying their goodbyes.  There’s a type of sereneness when Mydei glances at Phainon from the corner of his eye, quietly weaving the stems together.

“...Is there someone you want to gift a flower crown to?” Mydei eventually asks.

“Mm… flower crowns in Kremnoan mean victory and triumph, right?”

Mydei blinks.  Maybe this plan would work then.  “Who taught you that?”

“The kids told me about it.  Were they wrong?”

“No.  On the spot.”  Mostly, at least.

Another quint passes in silence before Mydei realizes Phainon hadn’t answered his question.  It’s fine though, he thinks as he tucks the stems in to make a circlet.  

He turns, putting the flower crown on Phainon’s head.  “Here.”

At the same time, Phainon also turns to him with a rare bashful smile and places the flower crown he had been making on top of Mydei's head, over the crown the children had given him.

The two blankly stare at each other with the garlands on their heads, expressions frozen on their faces, the scene almost comical with the way their arms are still outstretched to each other.

Phainon is the first to recover.  His voice is teasing when he finally retracts his arm, but Mydei can hear the tentative awe.  “A flower crown?  For me?  Aren’t they reserved for your most capable warriors?”

Mydei bites his lip.  “...You said you worked hard, didn’t you?”

Phainon reaches up, and for a moment, Mydei thinks he’s about to take the crown off, but Phainon simply rubs the velvety petals between his fingers absentmindedly.  “So I did.  Does it look good on me?”

“It suits you,” he says, then pauses.  “Are you fishing for compliments again?”

“Ah… now that I’m looking at it, my flower crown looks so shabby in comparison to the children’s…”

He huffs at the blatant change in topic.  “Don’t be foolish.  Appearance doesn’t matter as long as the sentiment is there.”

Phainon collapses onto his shoulder.  He doesn’t say anything, just childishly jabs a finger at the chimera, who had eyed him suspiciously before settling back into Mydei’s lap.  The chimera swats at him furiously, and the chuckle that escapes Phainon and brushes against Mydei’s cheek is light.

“Don’t tease it,” he chides.  “That’s why it’s always unfriendly towards you.”

Phainon makes a noncommittal noise before shifting closer to his neck.  “Mydei.”

He turns to look at him.  Phainon’s eyes are soft around the corners, and an easy, genuine grin on his lips.  The petals dip and intertwine with his hair, tickling the side of Mydei’s neck, the baby blues lacing with the silver strands.  Like this, he looks much more like a fairytale prince than Mydei does.

“Are you proud of me?”  His voice is low, sweet, and just the slightest bit self-conscious.

Mydei’s first instinct is to deny it, but the hopeful anticipation Phainon holds in his tense shoulders refuses to let him.  Right.  He had wanted to make Phainon blush, hadn’t he?  Would the truth be enough?  No, just a sliver.  Enough for comrades; too much would seem excessive, insincere.  It would make him too obvious.

“...I am,” he says, slow and soft.  “You have always been worthy of what it represents.”

They both hold their gazes for a few long seconds before turning away from each other, Phainon retreating deeper into his nape, feeling strangely warm, and Mydei back to the flowers, allowing him this piece of vulnerability.

The smile he feels against his neck is all he needs to know, but even so…

Mydei can’t say that yes, while Kremnoan flower crowns are given to warriors, in the sense of romantic partners, it is a recognition, an acceptance that that person is your life’s rival, your equal.  These crowns are traditionally made with gladiolus flowers, but the forget-me-nots match Phainon’s eyes.  A sign of quiet respect, loud to those who recognize it.

Except the problem is that the intended one doesn’t recognize it.

Which means Plan flower crown has been foiled too.  Back to the drawing board it is.

Mydei isn’t getting desperate.  He isn’t.

“Other planets’ courting rituals?”  Stelle repeats, juggling redsoil feed.  “I’m not very well versed in romantic relationships though.  You okay with that?”

“Even observance is helpful,”  Mydei says.  He definitely isn’t getting desperate.

“Er… oh!  Black Swan and Acheron had that sexy little dance, right?”  She smacks Dan Heng’s shoulder, the stains getting on his coat.  “Even though she looked a little traumatized after.  How about it?  I can teach you to juggle too!”

“...Are there any other options?”

Stelle drops one of redsoil feed to her feet and continues juggling, this time with one foot kicking up another feed in time.  “Well, according to popular media such as That time I got hit by a truck and now I have a harem of fifty two bodalicious babes–”

“What.”

“Kabedons seem to work!  Like, smack against a wall next to their head all dominant alpha, and say, ‘hey baby, heard you like baguettes.  Wanna come over so I can show you a real–”

“Do not continue that sentence.  Please,” Dan Heng interjects tiredly.

Stelle clicks her tongue.  “Vetoed yet again.  How about you fall down the stairs, they catch you, and you guys somehow end up with each other’s tongues in your mouths?  I’ll even help with pushing you down the stairs.”

“I’m trying to make Phainon blush, not end up with an assault charge.”

“Phainon?” She blinks and scrunches up her nose.  One of the redsoil feeds splats on her head.  “Oh, was that it?  I thought you wanted to seduce someone.”

“… And those were your best ideas?”  There is no sarcasm in his voice when he speaks, only pure disbelief.

She shrugs.  “Phainon, huh?  He would take any bait you throw at him.  If I’m being honest, you can just flash him and be done–”

“Are you insane,”  the two men interrupt in unison.

“What?  Mydei already has half his chest out–” –he splutters– “–and don’t even get me started on the amount of times he’s mentioned your conspicuous body.  Let me give you a hint: it’s more days than I’ve been alive.  Are you telling me it won’t work?”

“...Is there seriously nothing besides public humiliation, public indecency, or me getting arrested, injured, or otherwise?”

She brushes the feed off her head and wags a finger.  “Any more of my amazing genius and I’m afraid I’ll have to start charging you.  It’s definitely not because I don’t have any other ideas, by the way.”

In definitely not desperation, he turns to her companion.

Dan Heng looks mildly uncomfortable.  “Well… from where I’m from, some species, as they go through rebirth, lovers would put matching jade pendants in their mouths so they can find their past life’s lover in the next one.”

Stelle slings an arm over his shoulder.  “So like gift giving.  And luckily for you, my biggest brochacho, I have the perfect gift for you to give–”

“Stelle.  Do not give him trash.”

She bristles, far more offended than one should be over actual garbage.  “It’s not trash!  It’s pleasant looking trash, golden trash, literally out-of-this-world trash–”

“When we get back on the Express, I’m confiscating your collection.”

She squawks, devastated.  “You can’t–”

A few days later at their weekly spar, Mydei drops a wrapped something in front of Phainon.  It makes a loud thump on the ground, before slowly rolling to his feet.

He looks at the covered object, toeing it cautiously.  “Hi, hello, how are you?  Were you planning on pulverizing my toes before we spar so I would be at a disadvantage?"

Mydei scowls.  “HKS, I don’t need to hinder you before we even start.  I’ll pulverize your toes fair and square.”

“Sounds lovely.  Then, uh, what’s with the third party?  I may not look like it, but I don’t like to share much.”

He frowns.  “What are you talking about?  It’s for you.”

“...You’re giving me a chance to pulverize your toes?” 

“It’s a gift, Deliverer.  Surely you get them too?”

Phainon’s jaw drops.  “A gift?” he asks, ignoring the last part.  “From you?  To… me?”

“Should I schedule an appointment with Hyacine for you?  Yes, it’s from me.  To you.”

Phainon points at himself, like he just really needs to make sure.  For real, for me?  

Mydei raises a brow, jerking his chin towards it.  For the last time, for you.

With hands that have seen a thousand battles, he picks it up delicately, holding it like it’s something precious.  Slowly, he unwinds the blanket swathing the item.  A narrow jar lays in his arms, with swirling oceans and a free sky, seas of flowers and a crystal throne of blood, complete with little people painted on it – the current Chrysos Heirs.  If one looked closer, they would see that the faces were somewhat smudged and lopsided.

“An amphora?”

“You said you like appraising antiques.  You always seem to be looking at amphora when you go antique appraising.”

“Mydei, no offense, but you didn’t get scammed or anything, right?  This isn’t an antique.  The paint is fresh.”

“I never said it was,” he sniffs.  “I made it.  With Chartonus’s help.”

The amphora almost drops to the ground and shatters when Phainon lets go for a brief second, fumbling for it when it tips out of his grasp.  When he catches it, he hugs it to his body and sits there for a few moments, clutching it like a lifeline.  The silence is almost deafening.

“I brushed my arm against the paint when it was still drying,” Mydei almost feels compelled to say.  “And it almost cracked in the kiln–”

“Even if you ask, I’m not giving it back.”

 He arches an eyebrow.  “I made it.”

“You gave it to me,” he damn near snarls, and Mydei is appalled.  Does he really like the ugly gift that much?

“It’s ugly,” he says flatly, in an attempt to keep himself at bay to not launch the stupidly ugly amphora into Phainon’s stupidly handsome head.

“It has charm,” Phainon argues, arms wrapping around it protectively.  “It’ll be worth a fortune a thousand years from now, just you wait!”

Mydei can already feel a headache rising.  “Just put that thing down so we can spar.”

The closest Mydei has gotten to seeing Phainon blush thus far starts off innocent.

He spots Phainon just outside the Marmoreal Market with a bunch of children hanging off his arms like monkey bars.  One clambers onto his shoulder, surveying the crowds from above.  Phainon teeters when three kids swing on his arm, trying to tug it down, but the unsteadiness is more for the squeal the child on his shoulder lets out than him actually being unbalanced.

Mydei is content enough to simply watch, but a child, pulling indignantly on one of Phainon’s fingers, notices him before long.

“Your Highness!” she yells excitedly, and instantly, all parties whip around their heads to see.

With mild amusement, he watches as all their faces slowly light up.  Like ducklings following their mother, he observes as Phainon bounds over to greet him with the children trotting after him.

“Mydei!” Phainon hurriedly stabilizes the child on his shoulder when he wobbles dangerously.  “You finished your meeting with Aglaea?”

“Mm.  Just a report, nothing too big.”

“Your Highness!” The girl who had noticed him first tugs on his sleeve.  “I want to be as tall as Nico, but Mister Deliverer said we had to take turns.”

She points an accusing finger at the child perched on Phainon’s shoulder, who sticks out his tongue.  She gapes for a second, offended, before turning to Mydei, eyes pleading.

He acquiesces, placing her on his shoulder, and the horde of children still on the ground quickly turn teary eyed.  

“Your Highness…”

“It’s not fair that Lydia gets to be that high!”

Ah, so it’s not a matter of who they’re on, but rather how high they can be.

Luckily, Phainon races to placate them.  “Alright, you guys, don’t fight over him.  You might not be as high, but I can lift some of you up with my arms, okay?”

Immediately, all crocodile tears dry up.

Together, Mydei and Lydia watch with interest as Phainon lifts his arms, muscles flexing with every movement as he elicits about five delighted yelps with every hoist.

He’s so engrossed in Phainon’s movements that he had nearly forgotten Lydia was still on his shoulder when she says, “Mister Deliverer sure has a nice body.  Right, Your Highness?”

“Hm.”  Then he looks at her.  What.

“Those muscles… I wonder how he got them so toned,” she continues, almost talking to herself.  “He’s not overly muscly, but he’s not too lean either.  That balance is hard to get, forget about maintaining.”

She turns to him, very serious.  “Your Highness, do you know anything about his habits?  Like how many reps he does, or maybe what kind of exercise he does.”

“... I’m not sure what he does in his free time besides antique appraisal, but we do spar together every week.”

He must still have a question in his eyes, because she grins.  “Hehe, my father is an athletic trainer.  But if what you said is true, then all I need to do is… start sparring with you?”

“There’s no rush to build a good body shape.  You still have your whole life to.”

She swings her legs a little.  “You’re right.  Muscle should be gained slowly but steadily.  My father said I’m already on the right path.”

They watch for a little longer before she pipes up again.  “But seriously, what does he do to get that kind of muscle?  His muscle to fat ratio is so perfect.  I want to touch it at least once.  Maybe he’ll give me tips for weight training.  Alas, Mister Deliverer is so popular, I don’t think I’ll even get one pull-up on his arm before it’s someone else’s turn.”

She turns to him again, familiar puppy eyes turned up to eleven.  “Your Highness, can you please get me his training regimen?  If you can feel out his muscles for yourself, that would be even better.  The other kids have no idea what I’m talking about, so I can’t ask them.  Please?”

“...I’ll see what I can do, but if it’s something like killing twenty Titankin in an hour, you mustn't follow his example.”

She beams.  “Of course!  Hold on, I’ll distract the other kids to get you two some alone time.”

“That really isn’t necessary–”

“Everyone, listen up!” she shouts.  The kids’ heads snap towards her, some curious, some vaguely annoyed, but everyone stops what they’re doing, including Phainon for some reason.  “It’s almost Parting Hour, and guess what His Highness just told me?”  

At the mention of his title, the other children’s attentions are all on her.  Including Phainon again.  Who, for some reason, suddenly looks extremely interested.

Her chest proudly puffs out.  “He said if we’re good kids and get home before Curtain Fall Hour arrives, he’ll make pasteli for each and every one of us here the next time we see him!”

Mydei raises a questioning eyebrow, but she ignores it in favor of giving him a not so subtle wink.  Or rather, a mismatched, scrunched up blink.

He huffs an amused sigh and ruffles her hair just before she hops off his shoulder.  “Don’t worry your parents.  Go straight home.”

The horde of children salute him, all looking a little silly as they do so.  “Yes, Your Highness!”

They scamper away, and Mydei snatches a certain someone’s cape before he can leave.  “Not you.  Where are you even going?”

“Hm?”  Phainon turns back to face him, jesting smile in place.  “I thought I’d get some of your pasteli if I went home too.”

“Enough of that.  Hold out your arm.”

Obediently, Phainon does, but seemingly just to fuck with him, he asks, “Why?”

“Just making sure you didn’t pull something when you were lifting the kids.”  Mydei squeezes his bicep.  Firm.  Like he’s trying to squeeze a rock.  That isn’t too surprising.  After all, he does need the muscle to lift his sword.  

“I feel fine though… Mydei?  Are you listening?”

“Other arm,” he demands, and Phainon holds it out to him.  It’s still stone hard, but a tad flabbier compared to his dominant hand.  Also not too surprising, but Mydei has seen Phainon use his non-dominant hand to spar.  “Make a fist.”

“Are you drawing my blood?” he asks, but complies anyway.  “Wanna compare muscles, Mydei?”

“Later,” he replies absently, and squeezes his bicep again.  It’s still a little less solid than the other arm.  Nevertheless, compared to a regular man… “Titans, what do they feed you for you to have this physique?”

“You feed me, Mydei,” Phainon says, a little dryly.  “Did you forget you make all the meals for the Chrysos Heirs?”

“Do you mind if I touch your thighs?”

The silence after he says that sentence is clear enough to him that he had said something wrong.  

“Just making sure you didn’t pull your hamstrings or quads in our earlier spar,” he tacks on quickly, and immediately cringes.  Even to him, that reason couldn’t possibly–

“Sure,” Phainon says, if not a little weak, and sits down on the grass.  

Furrowing his brows, Mydei kneels next to him.  Kneading his thighs, he finds, to his surprise–  “What training are you doing?  How did you get them this firm?”

Phainon doesn’t respond, nor does Mydei look at his face for his expression, far too distracted by the firmness of his thighs.  “How often do you exercise your legs?  Our missions are around the same difficulty, so unless you’re purposefully putting more time into it…”

After a few more minutes of fascinated squeezing, Mydei is unexpectedly pushed away.

Catching himself on the soft grass, he watches in bewilderment as Phainon scrambles to his feet.  He only has a glimpse of a faint dusting of red over the tops of Phainon’s cheeks before Phainon runs away at top speed.  Distantly, Mydei thinks that he’s never seen Phainon run that fast in their competitions, nor even in the throes of battle.  It’s almost as if he’s about to start flying, he thinks in awe.

He’s left stunned on the grass, watching as Phainon’s figure grows smaller and smaller, so small that he’s no bigger than a spot in the far distance.

It’s not until Phainon has completely disappeared when Mydei’s lips move.  “What the hell.”

Saying Mydei was pissed would be an understatement.

After the shock of Phainon running away from him like he was a glass and Mydei was the chimera about to swipe it off the table, Mydei had a stress induced cooking spree, making entirely too much pasteli for the children that night.

He had knocked on Phainon’s door with some of the extra pasteli in a bag after confirming with Aglaea that no, Phainon had not taken on any new missions.  After three entire quints, he hung the bag on the doorknob before stalking away.  Fine.  No big deal, he had resolved to ask questions during their weekly spar anyway.

Come a week later.

Phainon hadn’t even shown up to the spar.  Not even a flutter of a blue cape, nor a stir of snowy locks mussed up by the wind or the ever present smile.  There wasn’t even a sign that Phainon was still in Okhema.  The pitiful looks that the triplets had given him was three times more humiliating when he had asked them where Phainon was.

“Phainon?  He just came in before you,” Trinnon had murmured.

“Forgive us, De,” Tribbie had said, holding up a sympathetic hand.  “But, maybe, right now, are you missing Snowy?  Is that why you’re looking for him?”

Miss him?  No, nothing as trivial as that.  Mydei was furious.  Not only is Phainon refusing to even come to the dining hall, but he’s also been skipping their spars.  

He’s not even coming to drag Mydei to the baths twice a day anymore, the behavior so odd it is only rivaled by the time that Phainon had somehow gotten sick to the point of being bedridden, and even as he was being nursed back to health, had complained nonstop about not being able to go to the baths.

So, it’s not that he’s preoccupied, per se, but when Mydei rips the head of a Titankin off its neck and claws out the eyes of another, he does wish it was Phainon he was sparring with.  Does wish that he was not being avoided because of a reason that hasn’t even been communicated to him.

Unfortunately, he gets distracted long enough to forget that Phainon cannot duplicate himself, so he hears the unsteady step of a warped enemy behind him a beat too late.

He dodges, but the damage has already been done.  A Black Tide Council.  No wonder he didn’t sense its presence before.  Its dagger pierces through his shoulder, through flesh and bone, through his body and thoughts.  It rips through him, leaving a searing feeling of agony in its wake.  His vision goes spotty at the edges, and he staggers.  The black tide infects his skin, slower than it would be on a regular human.  His body will be too busy trying to fight it off to heal his torn arm.

With a drop of his blood, his blood-crystals erupt from the ground, holding the enemy in place.  Mydei slams it to the ground, crushing its skull with his legs, ignoring the twinges in his shoulder as he stands.

The sound of his panting fills the room and he wipes the sweat off his chin.  His legs still work, but his arm is dangling at a strange angle.  The time it takes for the black tide to hopefully recede from his body should be less than the time it takes to get back to Okhema.  Enough to get to the Twilight Courtyard, and hopefully before he can die from blood loss along the way.

As he trudges back to the city, he notices that the blood has gone from outright gushing to steady flows, staining the minimal bandaging he put on.  It’s not much, but some healing is better than none.  In any case, he can’t afford to change the bandages at the moment.

Eventually, he sees the city gate, opulent and… sparkling?  Was Okhema always this shiny?  Maybe it’s the Dawn Device, but the white spots wink in and out of existence every time he blinks are starting to grow on him.  Mydei can’t help but mumble a soft apology as his blood splatters against the otherwise clean pathways to the civilians as he tries to remember the fastest way to the Courtyard.

He’s just outside the clinic when his vision vignettes, and a chimera with a bandaged paw resting nearby tilts its head in confusion when he lurches, his uninjured arm outstretched to find a nearby wall.  He can’t feel his fingers anymore, as his arm had long since gone cold.

“Mydei?”

Oh.  That painfully familiar voice.  The one that had been missing for the past few weeks from his life.  The source of his anger, his pain, his muddled up mass of feelings he refuses to call love.

His legs give out from underneath him, but he doesn’t fall onto the grass, but into fabric, someone’s arm bracing him, carefully away from his injured arm.

A sharp cry breaks through the still peace of the clinic, terror laced in the cracks of his voice.  “Hyacine!”

It seems like in just a blink of an eye that Mydei had been stumbling along the streets of Okhema to him waking to the Courtyard’s peeling ceiling.  He may have swam back up the River of Souls, but that part’s always a little fuzzy.

He tries to flex his injured arm, and this time, it obeys, along with his fingers and a painful twinge in his shoulder.  Still not totally healed, though it does feel more dulled.  Courtesy of Hyacine then.  He lifts his arm to examine the damage, a rustle of fabric sounding as he does so, when someone by his bedside shifts and gently pushes his hand back down.

“Hey,” Hyacine whispers with her familiar smile.  “How you feeling?”

“...Not on the verge of dying at least.”

“Because you did.”

He tries to sit up and she eyes him sternly.  “Pardon?”

“You died,” she clarifies, tucking the blanket back up.  “Your heart stopped beating a while ago.  Blood loss.”

He slumps back down.  “I see.  Sorry to bother you yet again.”

“No sorries needed.  Your body’s still fixing your arm, so I gave it the necessary treatment to help heal it faster–”

She’s interrupted by an impromptu cough, and she frowns before he can apologize, turning to the door.  “Lord Phainon, can I trouble you to bring a pitcher of water?”

Phainon?

“The Deliverer is here?”  He strains to sit back up, and this time, Hyacine helps him to lean against his pillow.

She gives him an odd look.  “Yes?  He’s been here for several weeks now, helping me out.”

When footsteps grow louder at the entrance, he’s prepared to give Phainon a piece of his mind, but the words die in his throat when he sees the tired look on his face and messed up hair.

“You look… worse for wear,” Mydei offers, voice tight.  Testing the waters.

“I’m fine,” Phainon says, tone carefully flat, as he pours water into the waiting glass on the nightstand next to Mydei’s bed.  His cape and jacket are off, leaving only his black undershirt.  Mydei can smell the tang of blood off him.  Probably his, when he passed out in his arms.

The air is tense as Mydei stares at the glass before taking a small sip.

Hyacine slips off her stool, seemingly not wanting to take part in the atmosphere.  “Oh-kay.  I’m going to go organize some supplies.  Shout if you need me.”

The two watch her almost flee the room, before Phainon silently takes her seat, back ramrod straight.

They sit in taut silence before Mydei sighs and breaks it first.  “So?  What’s gotten you in this mood?”

Phainon doesn’t answer him.  “What happened?”

Mydei looks at him.  There’s no pity in his eyes, only a question and something unreadable.  Something akin to self loathing.

“Nothing,” Mydei says, fingers twitching, wanting to swipe the worry off Phainon’s lips.  “I was just careless.”

Because it wasn’t Phainon’s fault that caused Mydei’s misstep, not really.  

“It snuck up on me,” he continues. “and I didn’t realize until it was too late.”

Phainon still stares at him with those deep seated anxiety-filled eyes.  Mydei, in a fit so unlike him, speaks before he thinks.  “Even if I die, I’ll come back.”

The comfort that usually comes with his words of his ability don’t placate Phainon, instead serving to agitate him further.  A crease appears over his forehead, and Mydei aches to soothe it away.

“Stop saying that.”  His hands, clenched into fists on his lap, faintly tremble.  “You—you may treat death as an inconvenience, but I can’t.  I won’t."

Mydei says nothing.

Phainon glares, but it looks less intimidating, more like he’s about to cry.  “Do you know that your blood is still on the ground outside?  A whole trail, Mydei.  I can see the entire route you took from the temple you were at and back.”

Oh, his Deliverer and his beautiful, fragile heart.

Losses are a constant on the Flame-Chase journey, among which even life itself holds little value.

What, when that phrase is the motto of their journey, can Mydei even say that would ease his mind?

Mydei contemplates for a second.  To Kremnoans, actions are always stronger than words.  Something soothing, something placating, something saying, I’m alright.  

Slowly, he reaches out to gently pat Phainon’s head.  His hair pokes out in between his fingers, tickling them as he ruffles his hair in lazy circles, making a larger mess of it than what it had been when he had stepped inside.

Phainon’s face crumples, but the tears still remain unshed.

“You worry too much,” Mydei says quietly, awkward, though not unkindly, as he brushes Phainon’s bangs out of his eyes, lingering a little too long on his face.  “I’ll be fine.”

Phainon stares at him with that unbearably sorrowful look before dipping his head to Mydei’s uninjured shoulder.  A gentle weight, not too much pressure.  Ever the worrier.  Mydei continues to thread through his hair, arm bending awkwardly as he occasionally scratches his scalp.

The two stay like that until Hyacine cautiously announces, on the side that’s a little too loud to not be deliberate, that she’s coming in to change his bandages.

Phainon, luckily, has stopped avoiding him after he had gotten injured.  If anything, he had gotten more clingier.  As if to make up for how he had acted, he smiled and laughed on the verge of too much.  If his normal energy was at a ten out of ten, his current would be at a fifteen.

Mydei had all but forgotten the incident that had caused the change in the first place, but he had seen the look on Phainon’s face while he helped him bathe for the weeks after, finger trailing just under his sutures, just on the cusp of wistful, before moving along to work on the rest of his body.

Mydei, at first, had found Phainon’s burst of energy to be a little silly.  He had refused both a shirtless spar and a third daily bath, no matter how wilted Phainon’s nonexistent puppy ears got.  (He has a sneaking suspicion it’s so Phainon can check on the healing on his shoulder, which is usually covered by his clothes… but then again, he could just check during their usual bath times, so perhaps Mydei’s doubts are unfounded.)

But then Phainon started acting… different.  Like he was glass, or something equally as delicate.  Like tugging him out of harm’s way on their missions, even though he himself needed the help far more than he did, or not bringing up as many foolish competitions, like who could polish the most swords in the weapon room or how many pets their chimeras could tolerate before scampering away.  The last straw was him hesitating to swing his blade in one of their spars, a fatal second that had ended with Mydei’s win, but no amount of cajoling nor teasing had convinced his anger to subside.  It laid bubbling under the surface, ready to pop in that stupid Deliverer’s face.

When Phainon follows him after their duel like a lost puppy, Mydei snaps, spinning around to face him with all his wrath.

“I don’t need your protection, Deliverer,” he spits the word out like it’s something to be ashamed of.  “I don’t need you to go easy on me, I don’t need you to hold back for my sake.  It is insulting.”

“Oh,” Phainon pauses, then wilts.  “My apologies.”

I don’t need your apologies, Mydei thinks, already stalking away.  I just want the normal you back.

“Mydei.”  Mydei doesn’t know who stopped and who stepped forward, whether it was him or Phainon or both of them, but all of a sudden, Phainon is back at his side like he never left.  “I’m not doing this because I think you’re under me.  I’m just… trying to make up for my inadequacy for being unable to guard you like I should’ve been.  Please grant me that honor, at the very least.”

With half lidded eyes, he tentatively takes Mydei’s gauntlet-clad hand, intertwining their fingers slowly like he’s afraid he might get thrown off, and Mydei allows their hands to tangle together, making it harder for him to separate them if he wanted to (he doesn’t), Phainon kisses the back of it as if Mydei was a god and Phainon his simple worshipper.  “Won’t you?  My benevolent crown prince.”

He doesn’t ask, why?  He doesn’t say, but there isn’t any need for you to.  Instead, Mydei raises a brow, huffing as his hackles relax slightly.  “You are not under my rule.  I am not your crown prince.”

Phainon shakes his head, smiling lightly like he has long expected this response.  His hand starts slipping away from Mydei’s, but Mydei doesn’t allow it, gripping Phainon’s hand like they’re about to arm wrestle.  “However, I thought we have long established that you have proven yourself worthy, time and time again, that you are more than capable of guarding my back.  You hardly need my permission.”  He crushes their fingers together.  Phainon doesn’t flinch, instead looking more ecstatic by the second.  “But, if you ever hold back in our spars again, there will be consequences.”

So, the next day, they are set to have another duel.  

Mydei is waiting by their usual spot on the rooftops, yawning as he stretches.  At the corner of his eye, he spots movement, and assuming it’s Phainon, he turns.

Instead, he is greeted by three Kremnoans, all dressed neatly.  Their clothes are far more revealing than the usual, putting their muscles and by proxy, their strength on display, hard earned and battle-scarred.  They aren’t here to antagonize him, not necessarily.  Suitors.

They all greet him with the proper amount of respect, but one of them doesn’t look away from him, keeps his eyes roving over his body without a lick of shame, lingering unabashedly down to his chest.

“Your Highness,” he says, after a beat.  “If I may be bold, how are your injuries from your last mission?  I heard there was a lengthy trail of blood throughout the streets.”

“They’re healing fine,” Mydei replies neutrally.  “What of them?”

“Then,” the suitor leans forward, meeting his eyes.  A challenge.  “May I suggest myself as your aide when you bathe?  To help Your Highness, of course.  Surely managing your wounds while bathing is a task below someone of your station, not to mention irritating to do alone.”

Huh.  It seems as though he doesn’t even need Phainon to be present to get dragged into yet another bath.

Mydei snorts, flicking a disinterested hand.  “I am not an invalid.  My wounds are not so severe that I need assistance to cleanse myself.”

He really doesn’t, but for some reason, Phainon keeps begging to help change his bandages while doing so, insisting that Mydei couldn’t possibly reach his back.  His competitiveness had reared its head at that, but seeing Phainon’s forlorn look, he had begrudgingly relented.

One of the other suitors makes a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp, elbowing the brazen one in the ribs, hissing, “I told you His Highness had a lover!  The flower crowns were proof enough, yet you didn’t believe me!”

Mydei, who had been rubbing his temple, looks up at the mention of his supposed lover.  “Pardon?”

The suitor squares his shoulders before bowing at a perfect ninety degree angle.  “I apologize for my presumptuousness if I was mistaken, Your Highness.”

“No, no, what did you see that would lead to that assumption?”  Mydei makes an impatient noise.  “Raise your head.”

The suitor obeys.  “The other day, in the middle of Action Hour, I saw Your Highness with the children and chimeras.  The children had gifted you a flower crown.  A white one with yellow middles, something like daffodils.  A little while later, they left.”

Okay.  Not too far off so far.

“Around Parting Hour, I spotted Your Highness walking to the Marmoreal Palace, adorned with two flower crowns.  One was the daffodil one, and the second was made from some kind of red flowers.”

Okay.  Phainon had indeed given him a flower crown composed of some red flowers, so perhaps this suitor really had seen him that day.

“Your Highness reminds all the children to get home before Curtain-Fall Hour, so it seemed unlikely that others would come to you in between those times.  So somewhere in between the children leaving and spotting you on your way to the baths, I… assumed Your Highness and your lover had a rendezvous, where they had given you a flower crown.   After all, the meaning of Kremnoan flower crown giving is…”

A pregnant pause.  Mydei’s head is throbbing.  Maybe Phainon had hit it too hard the day before and he has some unchecked concussion.  Perhaps this is why a rampant thought runs through his mind.  When they had left each other that day, Phainon had not known the romantic version of the flower crowns.  Surely, if he found out, he would be embarrassed to the nines.  Perhaps enough that he would be red from head to toe.

Not only that, but suitors like these wouldn’t approach him anymore if there was talk of a lover.  The idea gets more and more appealing as he thinks.

“Yes,” Mydei eventually decides to say.  “You’re right.  I have a lover.”

Collective gasps, the widening of eyes.  The areas beneath the rooftops go strangely quiet.  Was it really that surprising?  Even the suitor that had initially brought it up looked shocked that he was right, not to mention the ugly, displeasured look the most audacious one has.

“Lover?” the latter spits out with just enough vitriol to make his opinion known without overstepping too much.

“Yes.  I tried to keep our relationship private for their sake.  No matter who they are, people would have something to say about them, so I thought it best to keep them on the down low.”

“But Your Highness–”

“Mydei!”  Speak of the devil.  Phainon finally makes it to their rooftop, hair wind-tangled but otherwise put together.  “Sorry, I was held up–”

His gaze finally lands on the suitors, stopping in his tracks.  They eye him with mild interest as he makes his way towards Mydei.  A hand snakes over his waist.  Too close.  The suitors are still staring.  “Were you bored enough that you started sparring with others?  My apologies, it won’t happen again.”

The last suitor clears his throat.  “Your Highness, please–”

Mydei raises a hand.  A clear dismissal.  “As you can see, I’m rather busy.  Please make your ways out.”

The three suitors exchange looks and stare at them again.  They inexplicably back away just after the hand on his waist tightens imperceptibly.  However, when Mydei turns to look at Phainon, he finds that there’s something like… a pout on the Deliverer’s face.

“So?” Phainon still isn’t letting go of him, instead wrapping himself around him tighter like those animals Stelle called koalas.  She found them fascinating because apparently the young eat their mother’s feces, or something like that.  He tuned her out once she started talking, with far more fervency than expected, about how most of them had a venereal disease.  Anyway.  “Who’s your lover?”

He sighs, and allows himself to be suffocated, looking at the far distance as he does so.  Kephale is looking especially bright today.  “So you were here long enough to hear that.  When exactly did you arrive?”

“You’re not answering the question,” Phainon glowers.  “But if you must know, I arrived just as you said you had a lover.  Who is it?  Do they spar with you too–”

Mydei grunts, peeling off Phainon’s hands.  “Yes, I spar with them.  Yes, they’re very charming.  Yes, I find them attractive.  Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Mydei–”

He successfully extracts himself from Phainon’s grip, stretching.  “The day isn’t going to wait for us.  Let’s spar like we came here to do.”

Phainon’s face falls, but he starts warming up, a little despondent.

To the side, Mydei smiles to himself.  He can’t wait to see the face Phainon makes the day he realizes who his supposed lover really is.

“You don’t think…”

“Surely not…”

“Shh!  His Highness gave us that look that said not to say anything about it!”

It’s when Mydei is at the Twilight Courtyard helping out Hyacine when he gets his grand revelation.  

Hyacine has just finished tying up the bandage on her last patient for the day, and as she was looking especially exhausted as she watches them flounce away, Mydei sets down a tub of water for her to wash her hands.  “I admire how hard you work, Lady Hyacine.  You work so tirelessly, and you’re the first person who everyone comes to if they need support.”

Hyacine waves a hand.  “Lord Mydei, you give me too much praise.  I hardly did anything.  Plus, it’s my duty.”

“Nonsense.  We all rely on you, and for good reason.  You are good at what you do, so it shouldn’t be so readily dismissed.”

Hyacine fans her face, which has gone as pink as her hair.  “Such praise is too high for me.  I’m just a simple healer.  Everyone helps a lot too.”

He frowns, bemused.  “Are you… embarrassed by hearing about your capability?”

“No!  No, it’s just,” she trails off, fiddling with the end of one of her twintails.  Her cheeks are starting to blend in with her hair.  “You hardly compliment anyone, so it comes a little differently from you, that’s all.  Good different, I swear.”

“Oh.”  He flops back onto an empty bed.  He thinks for a second and immediately stands back up.  “Lady Hyacine, you might be a genius.”

“Well,” she smooths out her dress, but the faint tinge of red still lingers on her cheeks.  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You are very knowledgeable in your fields, but that’s not what I meant.  I just got an idea on how to make Phainon blush.”

“... Please don’t tell me that’s why he came and moped around here for weeks,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows.  “When I pressed him all he said was that he messed up somehow.”

“No,” he says distractedly.  “He came here after I started touching his thighs.”

Hyacine mutters something in response, something that sounds suspiciously like, Aquila strike us down now, but it’s too soft for Mydei to catch properly.

“Right,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag.  “What’s this I’ve been hearing about you having a lover?”

“Rumors and gossip tend to run rampant here, I’ve noticed.”

“So it’s not true?”

“Was there any evidence to back the claim up in the first place?”

“Word on the street is you yourself said it to a bunch of suitors on the rooftops,” she deadpans.

He opens his mouth.

“And a suspicious white haired fellow who happens to be my classmate was seen wrapping his hand around your waist.”

He furrows his brows.

“Also, a Verax Leo said you said something about flower crowns?”

He closes his mouth.

“Very strong, very charming, very attractive,” Hyacine counts on her fingers, listing monotonously.  “Did I miss anything?”

When he makes a noise of protest, she sighs.  “You may have never said a name, but really, Mydei, people can make assumptions.”

A fluffy white head abruptly pops into the room.  Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  “Hyacine, is Mydei –  oh, Mydei, you’re here.”

“Deliverer.”  He stalks across the room, a lion on the prowl.  Definitely not because he doesn’t want to address Hyacine’s suspicions about his lover, of all things.

“Hm?  What’s with that intimidating look–”  Phainon backs into the wall, not looking scared, just vaguely confused.  “Wait–”

Mydei slams his hand into the wall next to Phainon’s head, albeit a little too hard with the way it shakes under his palm.  He’s lucky there aren’t any patients at the moment.  “You.”

Phainon blinks, pointing at himself.  He isn’t taking this seriously.

Mydei grinds his teeth, forcing out the next words.  “Your eyes… remind me of the sky.”

Phainon’s hand falls to his side and he blinks again, this time with his mouth agape.  He swallows back his response of any wider and you might find a creation nymph in there.

“As you know, I was thrown into the Sea of Souls when I was young,” he goes on.  “But every time I passed out or died from my wounds, I would drift along the waves and see the sky, and that was all I needed to know that I was alive.  That I needed to push on.  That I came back to the waking world.”

The words are only a little embarrassing to say aloud, but they are no less true.  “You remind me that I am still breathing, that I am living, even when you steal my breath away.”

Like during our races, or sparring, or with every smile you give me.

“Your energy is infectious.  Whenever I’m by your side, you make me want to strive for the best.  That is why I never give in.  That is why I always fight like my life is on the line.  Because the next day comes, and I will see the brilliant sky that reminds me why I fight to protect this beautiful world.”

He pauses, and corrects himself.  “No.  Why I need to fight to protect this world.

“You often make me forget my duties as both a Chrysos Heir and a crown prince whenever we spar.  My mind goes blank besides the desire to fight and win.  Yet even more than that, I am reminded of… how fun it is.”

“Okay.”

It’s Mydei’s turn to blink.  “Okay?”

“It’s okay, so…” Phainon glares at him, but the effect is made dull by the red coloring his cheeks.  Like a gladiolus in full bloom.  “So you don’t have to say anything else.”

They lock eyes.  The cogs turn, finally clicking in place.  Mydei raises his chin, leans in a little closer, and says casually, “I like your hair.”

Phainon doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing.

“The color reminds me of the worlds outside of this one, the brightest ones that shine when the sky grows dim.  The stars, the galaxies; they are far in the distance.  They seem unattainable, but you are always within reach.  It’s reassuring, that it is something that can be obtained because you are.

“I like your hands.”  At his sides, his fingers spasm as if on cue.  “They’re scarred and calloused, yet hold the weight of your greatsword effortlessly.  They also hold children’s hands and delicate flower petals.  But they never crush them.  They hold the world in them.

“That is why I admire your strength.  You’re so careful to not shatter others that you nearly forget you have the weight of the whole world on your back, yet you are still careful not to fall.”

With every word that coats his tongue, the Deliverer proceeds to get redder and redder until he’s about the hue of a pomegranate.

A rising sense of glee starts to swell and he can’t seem to hold back the smile that writes its way over his mouth.  “Oh?  Is the Deliverer perhaps weak against compliments?”

Phainon glares at him, looking extremely wronged, yet all Mydei wants to do is tug on his flaming red cheeks.  He’s almost distracted enough to almost get knocked to the ground when Phainon lunges, hand extended as if he could rip the words right out of Mydei’s mouth and for lack of better words, make him shut up.  Alas, his ambush was unsuccessful.  They stare at each other, both at a loss when Mydei’s reflexes force him to dodge.

“Did you just try to grab me?” Mydei asks after a beat.

Phainon’s mouth tenses into a thin line, and he swipes for him again.  

This time, Mydei sees the movement before he reacts.  Dodging again, he quickly surges forward, catching one of Phainon’s wrists.

Despite being half immobilized, Phainon doesn’t let up, batting his hand away when Mydei tries to get the other one.

Soft grunts leave their mouths, accompanied by the smacking of skin when they engage in a childish fight of knocking wrists aside with sharp slaps when the other gets too close, their arms reared back when one poses to grab.

The brawl closes when Mydei manages to snatch Phainon’s remaining hand at the risk of noseplanting at the wall, hair askew and wrists slightly sore.

“Why,” he lifts his chin, victorious, and with one swift motion, lets go of one of his hands and yanks on Phainon’s choker.  He hears the soft intake of air when Phainon’s breath hitches as he’s pulled down, yet he doesn't move to grab him again.  “If I wasn’t as informed, I’d think you were embarrassed.”

He watches with interest as he sees the flush crawl down to Phainon’s neck before he snaps back to his face.

Phainon narrows his eyes.  “It’s not funny.”

“On the contrary, in fact.  I’m incredibly amused.”  A slow, smug smirk settles over his lips, the one that has only spelled trouble for Phainon.  Though, at this moment, Phainon just looks further aggrieved.  “Want me to stop?  Well then, you’re going to have to catch me first.”

Before Phainon can respond, Mydei’s fingers slip out from under his choker and push his chest, making him nearly collide back into the wall.  He takes off, bolting out of the clinic.  He knows Phainon won’t half ass this, no matter how bewildered he might be.  It’s a competition of his pride after all.  He starts hard, his heels barely touching the floor as he veers and darts away.

He can picture the disbelief on Phainon’s face, before he hears the telltale thumps of his Deliverer following behind him.  A gloating smile breaks over his face.

“I like your smile,” he tosses over his shoulder.  “You smile so brightly sometimes that even Kephale’s Dawn Device seems to pale in comparison.

“You always give it your best in everything, from helping grandmas cross streets or fighting Titans with little other than your sword.  That is always an admirable trait.”

Mydei weaves between stalls in the Marmoreal Market, past the rushing water of the Marmoreal Palace, past the bemused citizens watching the chase, sweet words spilling out of his mouth like prayers.

If one had taken a look past the blurs the two Chrysos Heirs were, they would’ve seen the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos singing praises of the Deliverer throughout Okhema as he ran with a taunting smile, with the subject of his flatteries close behind, rosy cheeked and a hand outstretched like he couldn’t bear to hear even a second more.

“Your Highness!” someone calls out suddenly as he runs past a Verax Leo.

He doesn’t have time nor the energy to look back when his equal is on his heels, but the person yells anyway–

“Is that your lover?”

No doubt Phainon had heard it too, with the way he hears Phainon’s steps falter, and he throws back a reckless glance behind him, just in time to see Phainon – still red as a beet –  almost tripping and barely catching himself.  The second he steadies himself, he continues his charge at Mydei with renewed vigor.

“Mydei,” he hears someone behind him weakly say.  Someone bemoaning their existence at this moment.  “Mydei, you can’t be serious.”

Mydei can’t help himself – he throws his head back and laughs. 

“Your muscles are so well defined,” he cackles, as he vaults over a staircase and hears a scandalized Mydei!  “You never gave me your training regimen, by the way.

“I like your voice,” he wheezes past half-panted out giggles.  “Whenever you call out my name, I am not His Highness, nor Mydeimos, but Mydei.  I am someone who enjoys cooking and sweets; someone who likes to watch the chimeras work.  Someone who enjoys sparring with you.”

It’s at the Garden of Life, amongst flowers and chimeras, that he feels a sharp pull on his cape and his breath catches.  A hand clutching the fabric and yanking, and in the next second, all he can see is the brilliant sky that Kephale lights up.

How beautiful.

He falls, a little less than gracefully thanks to Phainon’s fist balling up his cape, but nonetheless he laughs.  He laughs until he can’t breathe, until his stomach hurts, until, surely, everyone must be looking at them sprawled on the grass and being nosed by curious chimeras.  He laughs like the world doesn’t need to be saved and like his people don’t need a king.

He sighs, a content smile finally settling on his lips as he wipes his eyes and turns to Phainon, who is looking at him with an unreadable expression, with the only emotion Mydei can place as fond.  His own expression, surely, must be mirrored.

Laying in a field of flowers, the most vibrant ones by his head almost framing his face like a crown… Phainon truly looks like a prince straight out of a fairytale, far more than he probably did on the day he gave Phainon the flower crown.

So he says as much, and seemingly for the umpteenth time today, Phainon scowls at him, the heat of it having gone fully to his red-stained cheeks.  Mydei’s grin widens.  “What, still not done with your teasing?”

Well.  If Phainon doesn’t believe him, there’s little else he can do.  He shrugs, still satisfied with his win.  Mydei had just spewed out seven years worth of compliments, yet Phainon thought them all insincere.  What a foolish man.  (He loves him.  So much his chest feels like it’s overflowing with it sometimes, with his mouth nearly breaking at the seams to contain the words.)

“Still,” Mydei sits up, the tips of his fingers brushing the ends of Phainon’s hair.  “For someone who receives compliments on the daily, I didn’t think that my words would affect you to this extent.”

“You don’t get it, Mydei,” Phainon pouts at him.  “Your smiles are as sparse as your praise, so when you combine them, I don’t know how to react.”

“Aren’t you the reigning debate champion?  Use your words.”

He turns glumly onto his side.  “You’re making fun of me again.  Did you just do all this to make a fool out of me?”

Well.  There isn’t any harm in being honest after he has already achieved his goal.  “I wanted to see what would make you blush.” 

Phainon stares at him like he’s officially gone insane.  “You’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking?  I even tried Kremnoan courting rituals, but you just accepted it and moved on.”

“I what?” Phainon asks weakly.

“I gave you that Titankin.”

“You were expecting me to focus on the corpse when you were actively bleeding?”

“I wasn’t,” Mydei says defensively.  “Anyway, the flower crown I gave doesn’t just mean victory.  It’s for those who recognize an equal.”

Romantically, at least.

“Wait, that’s why even the Verax Leos were talking about your lover with a flower crown?” Phainon asks, going pale.  “Is that why Krateros looked like he was about to have a heart attack when he saw me on the day you gave me it?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he dismisses.  “I’ll speak to him if necessary.”

“It doesn’t matter – It matters because you gave it!  You gave it to me!”  Phainon flops onto his other side, ruffled.  He goes quiet, before saying indignantly, “You could’ve just asked.  It would’ve been a lot more simpler than having me chase you all over Okhema.”

Mydei raises an incredulous eyebrow.  “Ask you to blush?  Are you listening to yourself?”

“Yes–no–I don’t know!” he groans, and starts mouthing words into the flowers like they could somehow salvage his dignity.

“Still,” Mydei playfully tucks a flower behind Phainon’s ear.  “I didn’t know that the great Deliverer would be this flustered over mere words.”

“Of course I’m going to be flustered when the person I have feelings for keeps complimenting me!” 

Mydei’s hands freeze, every thought in his head coming to a halt.  He shakily sucks in a breath, the exhale coming when his first thought comes back.  The first one being–

“What.”

Phainon’s body immediately goes stiff, his hands coming over to cover his face.

“Deliverer.” Mydei pushes his shoulder so they face each other, though all he can see are Phainon’s hands.  “What did you just say?”

Slowly, with the demeanor of a man on death row, Phainon sits up, pointedly not looking at him.  The flower drifts back onto the ground.  His cheeks are flushed.  Despite himself, Mydei smiles.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Phainon says petulantly, fidgeting with a flower between his fingers.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve just won.  Like you’re amused by my reaction.”

Like you’re in love.

“You didn’t have to lie and compliment me like that just to see me blush,” Phainon continues indignantly.  “You don’t even mean any of it at the end of the day.”

“Who said I was lying?” Mydei asks, affronted.  “Tell me, when have I ever said anything that wasn’t true or didn’t mean?”

“You told them I was your lover?” Phainon shoots back, aimed like evidence but phrased like a question, like even he wasn’t totally sure.

“I never said it was you specifically,” Mydei says, and there’s a pang of something like betrayal that splashes over Phainon’s face.  He furrows his brows.  “But I did have you in mind.  The circumstances were also… favorable in that direction.”

“So it is me,”  Phainon brightens.  “Even the circumstances even willed it.”

“Yes.  Which contradicts your earlier point of me lying.” Mydei huffs when he catches Phainon’s crestfallen look of having lost a competition.  “You should know by now I don’t say or do things I can’t take responsibility for.”

His head jerks up to finally, finally look at him.  “Wait, does that mean–”

Sighing, Mydei motions him to come closer.  

Inch by inch, Phainon obeys.  He falters when Mydei continues to gesture for him to draw nearer, even when they’re nearly back to chest, but ultimately obeys, hooking his chin over Mydei’s shoulder, pressing their bodies together in a mock back hug, though his hands remain obediently on either side of Mydei’s thighs, and watches him loop flower stems together.  Something reminiscent of Phainon’s… eccentric way of recharging.

(This way, he might start talking.  There’s no one besides them and the chimeras who have spontaneously started butting heads, as the citizens who had watched their chase had long walked away.  It works.)

“I thought you’d be disgusted by my confession,” Phainon admits quietly, in the warmth of Mydei’s body.

“Does it look like I’m disgusted?” Mydei replies mildly, pushing back against Phainon’s chest with a shoulder, not to deter but to prove a point.

“Not really, no.”  Though his arms stay where they are, Phainon’s chin digs into his shoulder.  “I just didn’t want you to see me losing my composure like that.”

“I liked it though,” he responds unabashedly.  “You were cute.”

Phainon relaxes into him like he wants to meld their bodies together.  “Can I put my arms around you?”

He scoffs lightly.  “Is that all you want to do?”

Phainon wraps his arms around his waist, movements tentative.  “Maybe a little more.”

“After I finish this.” Mydei lifts the crown for him to inspect before continuing to twine the stalks together.

He hums.  “Who’s it for?”

“I wonder.”

So, a quint later, in the midst of an ever-sunny, warm day, surrounded by flowers and awooing chimeras (and a suspiciously high HKS! mixed in with the bunch), Mydei is hardly surprised when Phainon’s head slumps against his neck.

He pauses in his craft to look at the man.  Phainon’s looking a lot more worn out at this hour than usual.  Probably unrelated to the emotional and physical rollercoasters that took place not too long ago.  Nevertheless, the sun itself seems to be entranced by him, flecks of light making his hair shine brighter, the Dawn Device’s glow casting warm light onto his face. 

He really does look like a prince.

He stirs when Mydei shifts under him, trying to position him away from the greedy sun, and he blinks sleepily at the finished wreath, then at Mydei.  

“Pretty,” he offers, voice hoarse from sleep.

Mydei snorts softly.  “Glad you think so.  It’s yours.”

He blinks dopily when Mydei turns to put it on him.  “Does this one have a hidden meaning too?”

“Mm… I suppose it’s my confession.”

Phainon blinks again.  Perhaps both of them need to see Hyacine.  How long has it been since a checkup?  Regardless, he looks a lot more awake now.  “Confession?  Of guilt?  Do you need help burying a body?”

He rolls his eyes.  “Of love, genius.”

“To me?”  Phainon’s voice pitches high, incredulous.  A stray petal sways and dislodges from the crown when he trembles.  “You’re in love with me?”

He takes a deep breath.  “I deeply desire to kiss that stupid look off your face.  Does that answer your question?”

Phainon simply sits there, looking more shellshocked by the second.  “Am I still dreaming?  You – did you just say you wanted to kiss me?”

“No, I said to drop and give me fifty,” he deadpans.  “Yes, I want to kiss you.”

“I’ll drop and give you a hundred if you want.” 

“Do you want to be kissed or not?” he asks impatiently.

“I think I need to sit down,” he says breathlessly.  “My heart might explode.”

“You’re already sitting down,” Mydei points out dryly.  “If you’re feeling unwell, get up and we can go to Hyacine.”

“Then you won’t kiss me.” Phainon tilts his head, making the flora rustle.  “Don’t you still want to?”

He huffs.  “Very much so.”

They simply look at each other, drinking in each other before Phainon cautiously rests a hand on Mydei’s nape, fingers playing with the baby hairs there, before half pulling, half leaning into a clumsy kiss.

It’s sweet, intimate, swathed in warmth – indiscernible if it was from the sunlight or the other person.

Mydei feels his own fingers tangle into Phainon’s hair, crushing petals and leaves, tugging him closer until he nearly drowns into the fog of his own barely working thoughts.  Through the haze of his head, he vaguely registers a soft noise, from him or from Phainon, he doesn’t know.

His other hand trails down the expanse of Phainon’s back, and Mydei smiles when he feels the shoulders wound up with tension.  There’s something in him that tells him to push harder, tells him to bite and nip and take more, and no, that noise is definitely coming from Phainon.  

A tongue brushes along the seam of his lips, and Mydei opens his mouth, eager.  Yet suddenly, the soft pressure rips away from him, and he is left with blinding light and a barely caught breath.

Phainon looks surprised too, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink as he pants.  Away, away from their space of gentle kisses, of something more that could’ve been born from it.  “Sorry, sorry, you probably didn’t want–”

Mydei tackles him to the ground, not dissimilar to their spars, as anger sparks through his veins.  Phainon gazes at him from below where he is caged by Mydei’s arms, wide eyed.

“Do you want to continue or not?” he snarls.  “If not, I will get up right now and leave.”

Of course, if Phainon was truly uncomfortable and didn’t wish to continue further, Mydei wouldn’t be offended.  But he knows him.  Well enough to spot the flush deepen high on his cheekbones, to notice the hands hovering over his hips.  Mydei knows him well enough to recognize this as cowardice.

Phainon exhales a shaky breath before choking out, “You look so beautiful above me, Mydei.  Kiss me?”

He grins, fisting Phainon’s collar and pulling him into a much messier, much sloppier kiss.  Heated breaths tangle desperately, the finesse from their last kiss gone, as their tongues slip past mouths to intertwine together.  The warmth, though, is closer to a blazing fire now; any expanse of skin Mydei makes contact with is feverish, nearly to the point of worry.

There’s a whine somewhere, he thinks hazily, distracting him, and the sharp tang of blood floods his taste buds when he nips the corner of Phainon’s lip.  At this point, Phainon’s grip on his hips might leave marks on him, and he can’t help the surge in his chest in hopes of it.

Though his knees start to buckle, Phainon adjusts them, pushing both of them up to a sitting position, giving them a short moment of repose.  Mydei can just see his too-wide pupils reflected in Phainon’s eyes for a second before the latter tugs him impatiently into another searing kiss.  He can feel an arm possessively around his waist and a stray hand slipping to his back, thumbing the small of his back.  

He jolts with a gasp that’s quickly swallowed when Phainon’s hips buck into him.  Phainon pauses against his mouth when he jerks, but Mydei doesn’t give him the chance to stop again.  He grinds down onto Phainon, and is rewarded with a low, throaty groan and a healthy squeeze of his hips.

When Phainon weakly pushes against his chest, he goes obediently, dizzy.  Eyes glazed, Phainon pants, chest nearly heaving with the effort, yet looking reluctant to part.

“As romantic as confessing and kissing in the same place where we exchanged flower crowns that had a meaning I didn’t know existed,” he croaks.  “I’d prefer not to have sex in public.”

Mydei wipes the string of saliva off his chin, feeling no less put together than Phainon looks, and settles back on his haunches.  “Is that what we’re about to do?”

Phainon sits back up, hair and clothes rumpled.  Miraculously, the flower crown is still intact.  “If you’ll still have me.”

Mydei barely remembers the walk back to his quarters, but when he crosses the threshold, he’s being kissed so hard that he can barely remember his name, much less the walk.

When they part for air, Phainon murmurs, “You have no idea how much I wanted this.”

“Actions over words, Deliverer,” he merely says, and it sounds far more levelheaded than he feels.  The two stumble into his bedroom, lips still sliding against each other’s, hands roaming hungrily over each other’s bodies.

Phainon pulls away briefly, eyes hooded and still staring at Mydei’s lips, before clearing his throat and looking away, frantically looking around the room.

“Are my quarters really so interesting?” Mydei isn’t exactly offended, but he sweeps a finger over and under his choker, resting just over where his pulse thrums.  “Focus.”

Phainon swallows hard.  “I just wanted to set your flower crown down somewhere.  So it doesn’t get ruined.”

Not for the first time, affection swells his chest.  “Fine.  Just place it on the dresser.  Open the first drawer and get the small bottle while you’re there.”

In the meantime, Mydei works on removing his clothes.  He has just taken off his pants when he hears a sharp intake of air.  He turns to see Phainon, flower crown-less, fingers brushing over a different, dried garland.

“You kept the flower crown I gave you?” he asks quietly, bangs falling over his face.

“You didn’t know what it meant,” Mydei replies, a little helplessly.  “And I took what I could.”

“I’ll give you all of me, if that’s what you want.”  Phainon takes off his jacket, familiar container in hand.   Mydei’s mouth goes dry, the anticipation building in his stomach.  

They climb onto the bed, mouths seeking the other’s.  There’s a clash of teeth with tongues laving over wounds to soothe.  Mydei is vaguely aware of being pushed onto the pillows and a body settling between his legs.  He has half a mind to rip off the shirt under his hands, but Phainon pulls away before he can put his plan into action, eyes overly bright.

Then, Mydei sees it.  Thick and obscene and straining against his pants.  And more importantly, the tip is leaking against his bare thigh where his legs are around Phainon.

“That’s not going in me,” he says immediately, and Phainon’s face falls.  “Do you see yourself?  There’s only so much of – of me that can accommodate you.”

“It’ll fit,” Phainon sulks.  “We just need to prepare you.”

“‘We’?” Mydei’s voice goes tight with incredulity.  “Last time I checked, preparation was a one-person activity.”

“I can help,” he whines, opening the bottle, only for it to be snatched away.

“No need.”  Mydei removes his last piece of clothing before pouring out a bit of oil onto his hand and raises his knees.  The angle is a little awkward, but he reaches down and prods anyway, curling his fingers.  It’s uncomfortable, but if it gets the job done, then it gets the job done.

He’s only done this twice, both after spars.  Once after Phainon had pinned his arm behind his back and whispered hotly in his ear, Yield.  The other was after Mydei had straddled his hips and had felt the outline of Phainon’s cock twitch underneath him.  Both times he was left unsatisfied, using his front to take off the heat.  But he imagined taking it.  Imagined taking it from the back, so much that he tried using his fingers to help him along the way with whispers and touches that never happened.

He takes several breaths, closing his eyes as he concentrates.  He can’t help squirming, his legs clamping around Phainon’s waist, as he tries to focus on stretching, ignoring the restless rustling in front of him.

“Can I touch your arm at least?” a voice comes, pleading.

Mydei opens his eyes, attempting to see through the blur of involuntary tears.  A burning hand wipes his lashes, catching the dew along with it.  He makes out Phainon’s pitiful face, antsy to help.  “Which one?”

Phainon looks down at one arm, still slick and trying to work himself open, and then to the other, where it has moved from his back to digging nails into his forearm.  “Up to you?”

Halfheartedly, Mydei rolls his eyes, releasing his fingers from Phainon’s arm in favor of presenting it to him, hand limp and trembling. 

Instantly, Phainon kisses each fingertip, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.  Mydei turns his head, pretending to busy himself with stretching himself open.  He hears Phainon’s breath leave in a breathless hah.

Soon enough, he turns back to Phainon, who’s forcing his knees back higher as he peppers kisses along Mydei’s wrist, the back of his hand, his palm, his forearm.  Trying to reach his shoulder, it seems.  Immortality aside, he isn’t a contortionist.

He snaps back to attention when he hears a low voice.  “Your hand stopped.”

A simple remark, as if commenting about the weather.  Mydei continues his endeavor with gritted teeth and renewed vigor.  His hand is starting to cramp and he shifts again, but trapped between Phainon and the headboard, he can’t quite get the angle right.

At his frustrated, choked off noises, Phainon, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, says, “You look like you’re struggling.  Want some help?”  

“I would be having a far easier time if you weren’t pressed up against me,” he grunts, and squirms against his fingers again.  

“Isn’t your hand cramping?  I can do it for you.” Phainon presses closer, his hands kneading at Mydei’s waist.  “Just say the word and I’ll take over.”

At this point Mydei can barely move his hand anymore, being trapped between their bodies and straining to stretch the entire time.  His wrist might’ve fallen asleep.  He has just about lost all his energy and they haven’t even started yet.  “Fine, whatever.  Can you stop pushing me into the wall now?  Any more and I might lose circulation to my hand.”

Phainon brightens immediately, moving back to give him some space to lie shivering and boneless more comfortably on his bed.  Then, he promptly takes the hand that Mydei had used to work himself open and sticks two of his fingers into his mouth.

Mydei’s hand seizes, the feeling of a tongue dipping between the two digits foreign.  “What are you–”

Phainon doesn’t stop – no, the man takes him in deeper.  Mydei can feel his fingertips brush at the back of his throat.  He feels like a man responding to the call of a siren, utterly entranced by the sight, the soft noises Phainon makes; he’s unable to take his eyes off of him.  He tests a bit further, curling his fingers ever so slightly, and scrapes gently along Phainon’s palate.  

It’s a little strained and messy, but Phainon grins, his eyes curving into crescents.  Then, he takes the fingers out of his mouth as quickly as he had started, spit dripping at the corner of his mouth.  “Oh, I nearly forgot.  Let’s prepare you, shall we?”

His eyes narrow.  “Deliverer–”

“I’ll make it feel good for you, I promise.”  He pushes Mydei’s legs apart, then looks at him with a question in his eyes.  Okay?

He sighs, letting his head fall back to his pillows.  “There’s hardly any point in asking for permission now.  Go on.”

Phainon dips his head, kissing and sucking along his inner thighs.  There’s a bite that makes him jerk, but with large hands still holding him open, he can’t do much but grip Phainon’s hair like it’s his anchor to reality.

Then, Phainon fits the tip into his mouth.  

Immediately, Mydei’s legs attempt to clamp down Phainon’s neck.  He can’t think – whether to push away from the pleasure or pull the slick warmth closer.  A high noise escapes his throat, and his hold on Phainon tightens.  If he notices, he doesn’t show any indication except moving further down and looking up at him through misty eyes, lips stretched obscenely over his length.

The pleasure is cut by a finger trailing along his perineum.  Aghast, Mydei looks down, where Phainon’s finger is now prodding at his entrance, slick with oil.  “Wait–”

A thick finger bullies its way into him, punching out the air in his lungs and making his legs thrash.  The one Phainon had let go of slams into the side of his head; Phainon doesn’t stop, just bobs his head until he hits the back of his throat, and adds another finger.  The dull burn of his fingers contrasts the crashing waves of pleasure at his front, and Mydei can’t do anything but take it, twisting away from the back to only meet ecstasy in its fullest in the front.

“Slow down or I’ll rip your hair out,” he hisses, slurred, when Phainon sucks just on the side of painful, his tongue lapping harshly on the underside.  His fingers don’t move to imitate pleasure; they only stretch him full and explore, and if one happens to catch over his prostate, making his keen turn high and his hands scrabble for something to claw down, neither of them say anything.

When Phainon gently drags his teeth over a vein, Mydei's climax hits him hard, sending him shaking and twitching, a whimper forced out between clenched teeth.  His hands fall away from Phainon’s hair and he lays there shivering as Phainon pulls off and out of him.

Swallowing, Phainon says, voice rough and a little too chipper, “Well.  A little lacking in the stamina department in bed, huh?”

“Shut up,” he says hoarsely.  “Are you going to continue or not?”

“Waiting for you to recover.” Phainon kisses the back of his hand.  “Your patience is also a little lacking, my prince.”

“Phainon.”

He looks up at the sound of his name, a fond smile gracing his lips.  “Yes.”

“If you don’t start moving right now, if I don’t have aches for days on end, and if I don’t have your semen dripping down my thighs once we’re done,” Mydei hooks him by the choker and pulls, deadly look in his eyes.  “Then you’re never setting foot back in my bedroom again.”

Phainon’s jaw goes slack, his hands freezing over his body.  There’s a familiar gleam in his eyes, one that has always threatened Mydei’s peace.  “You want me to get you pregnant?”

Mydei’s brows raise incredulously.  “Were you even listening to me?”

There’s an ominous look in his eyes now when Phainon pulls him closer, pushing apart his legs.  “How many kids do you want?  Two?  Three?  I don’t mind being stuck in here for the rest of the week.”

“The week just started.  And I said I wanted to be aching, not unable to walk for the next few days, Deliverer–”

“I’d like it if they looked like you,” Phainon continues dreamily.  “Golden hair like yours.”  He brings a strand of silky hair to his lips.  “The color of the wheat.  Your pretty amber eyes—”

“HKS, your eyes are prettier,”  Mydei cuts him off swiftly.  “Are you backing down or what?”

“Oh, right.  You said you liked my hair and my eyes.” Phainon lines himself up to Mydei’s entrance, slicking himself up with the leftover oil, and he in turn tries not to salivate.  “Then let’s try our best, shall we?”

Mydei has something like intuition that pops up at the most oddest of times.  It was the deciding factor between him getting eaten alive in the Sea of Souls or catching a meal himself, to leading his soldiers to glory or to defeat.  Rarely has it ever led him astray.  And right now, all of that so-called intuition is screaming at him to run or he’ll get eaten alive.

But he thinks he has done enough running for the day.  All he does is arrogantly peer at Phainon beneath his lashes, spreads his legs a little wider, and loftily says, “Do your worst.”

Phainon simply grins, and that’s the only warning he gets before he presses in.

It’s a different sting this time, one that makes Mydei clutch onto Phainon’s shoulders and tenses his body before he forces himself to relax.  One that makes him seek out Phainon’s face past the blur of involuntary tears.  One that rips a soft moan from his lips, only choked off when Phainon gives a short thrust to jolt him.

He blinks past tears and the overwhelming feeling of being split open, and Phainon slowly comes back into view, his prior grin having softened into something sweeter.  

“Mydei,” he calls, sounding unbearably affectionate.  It isn’t at all different from the other times he’s ever called his name, but the emotion that has always lingered in the lilt behind his name has finally been named.  Adoration.  “Do you want to stop for now?”

His mouth gapes as his body slowly adjusts to the sensations, and with a shaky hand, he reaches down and gropes where they’re connected.  Phainon makes a soft noise when his hand glides over him.  Barely halfway in.  And Phainon has the nerve to ask him to stop?  He lifts a hand to yank at Phainon’s hair.  “What happened to our children?  Your eyes, my hair?”

His voice sounds ruined.  Phainon has the audacity to laugh, and he tugs halfheartedly at his head.  “We can always make them next time.  Even if you won’t invite me back into your room, you’re always invited to mine.”

Phainon shifts like he’s about to pull out, but Mydei secures his legs around his waist before he can.  “What, are you chickening out?  Don’t look down on me.  I can take this much, so as I said, do your worst.”

He punctures the last sentence with an experimental roll of his hips, shivering when Phainon’s cock brushes his prostate.

“Alright.” Phainon’s hands grab his waist, bruises blooming across like flowers.  “Let’s make our children tonight.”

With one strong thrust, he slams himself all the way in.  

A strangled wail tears itself out of Mydei’s throat, soon cut off by Phainon’s lips.  His hands draw beads of blood down Phainon’s back, already marred by previous scratches and battle scars.

“Relax.” Phainon slides a hand down his back, gliding over the bumps of his spine, over his weak spot.  The keen that comes out of his mouth only serves to further color Phainon's face.

He squirms, trying to adjust, trying to reconstruct his thoughts.  Before he can do so properly, Phainon rocks his hips again.  He chokes on a moan – trying to push away or down, he can’t tell – before a loud sob accompanies his sudden release.

“You feel so good, Mydei,” Phainon gasps as he continues to thrust into him feverishly.  “You’re so tight that not even a drop of my seed would drip out of you.”  He groans low when Mydei clenches down tighter, dizzy with overstimulation.  “If your wish is for it to drip out though, then I’ll just have to pump you full.”

He wants to say that he wouldn’t break, even if Phainon were to go harder, faster, filthier than his words and fantasies.  So, despite his pride, he croaks out, “Feels good.”

Phainon’s hips slows, hands still roving hungrily over his body; they trail the tattoos winding him, giving a harsh squeeze to his chest before brushing away a stray strand stuck between his lips and the tears streaking down his face.

“Move.” Mydei’s voice cracks, but he bares his teeth, snarling.  “Or I’ll leave and find someone else.  Someone who will fill me up better, someone who will fuck me better—”

Phainon stills completely, and when Mydei writhes, he pins down his hip with something darker than possessiveness.  He barks out a short laugh, pushing a hand through his hair.  “Fill you up better?  Fuck you better?” he echoes dangerously.  “Who?  Your lover?”

Mydei struggles futilely when Phainon pulls out completely, leaving only the tip kissing his hole. “You think you’re the only one who wants to fuck me, Deliverer?  Then I’ll go find those suitors from last time on our rooftop.  One of them was eyeing me like a chunk of meat at a butcher’s shop.  Maybe all three of them–”

When Phainon’s eyes flare a burning gold and the hands on his hips turn bruising, he knows he’s said too much.  His mouth goes dry and his legs move to close, but they’re held open with a pair of scorching hands.  “It seems as though you don’t really want to leave this room.”

He doesn’t give Mydei a chance to respond, shoving tip to hilt back in, fucking into him like it’s a punishment.  Perhaps it is, with the way he refuses to give Mydei any sort of reprieve, pulling him closer until they’re chest to chest, ravaging his neck, his chest with varying amounts of tongue and teeth.  He kisses him with a fervor that leaves them both of their lips bloody and swollen and gasping for air.

Mydei goes limp, his hands not even having the energy to grip onto Phainon anymore, his fingers slipping against hot skin.  His head spins, heady with arousal and the manic look in Phainon’s eyes that he can’t look away from even if he wanted to.  The pleasure builds in his core, the frisson of sensation, not even registering it as too much or too little, just greed for something he isn’t sure is pleasure but wants with his whole being, coalescing into something that intensifies and threatens to snap.  

Eventually, something in him lets go, and his orgasm overwhelms him to the point of a fresh wave of tears.  His spend smears over their stomachs and distantly, he feels something trickling out of him.

Phainon gathers his slack body onto his lap, his lips sliding over his jaw and neck as Mydei twitches and shivers intermittently, still finding himself able to bite harshly along Phainon’s tattoos.

“You’re blushing, princess.” Phainon kisses his cheek, coaxing him to look at him.  “Red’s a good color on you.”

Surprisingly, he lets up, a complicated, contrite expression forming as he looks down at their sticky joined bodies.

“More,” Mydei demands huskily before Phainon can overthink himself into oblivion, and the look melts away like snow in the face of the sun.

“Who am I to refuse you?”  Phainon’s smile is blinding when he licks away the tears on his cheeks.  “As you wish, my prince.”

The two are at their usual rooftop.  The chatter below is familiar, as is the heat beaming down on them.

Mydei’s back is turned as he stretches like a cat sunbathing, preparing for their next spar.

He turns when he hears something akin to a noise a dog would make after its tail being trodden, followed by a fit of coughing.  He sees Phainon staring at him, more specifically, at something a little lower than his face.  He grins, turning fully to face him.  “You don’t look so well, Deliverer.  Something bothering you?”

From his neck down to his chest to the v of his hips, lay a litany of bruises and bites, barely hidden by his meager amount of clothing.  

And if Phainon took off his shirt to match, he undoubtedly would be in the same state as him.  As much as he tore into him, Mydei had repaid him.  If he squints, he can see a smattering of marks that the choker couldn’t cover up.

Phainon does not look like he wants to match.  In fact, Phainon looks like he wants to walk right off the rooftop.  “Are you allergic to putting on a shirt?”

He walks towards him until their foreheads nearly touch and their lips almost brush.  Phainon graciously tries not to look down.  “I’ll think about it if they’re maternity clothes.”

When a full flush blooms over Phainon’s face and he reaches for him, Mydei simply dodges and runs, another boisterous laugh adding to the lively hubbub of the city.