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Mydei and Phainon are rivals.
They’re comrades. They’re partners; they’re… more, at times, as well, and it should suffice; yet Phainon struggles to accept that some things he’ll never be: he won’t be a member of the Kremnoan regiment; won’t be one of Mydei’s clansmen; won’t be the family Mydei pretends he doesn’t miss, and thus, won’t receive the rare caring smiles Mydei reserves for all the people that aren’t Phainon.
It’s fine.
Their relationship doesn’t need such softness: their feelings are best expressed through taunts and challenges and tussling in the wet grass with their limbs locked and calling it sparring — except Mydei’s kindness seeps and extends to others, making sure to never cross Phainon in its path, and Phainon can’t help but chase after it for reasons he doesn’t want to name.
Mydei acknowledges Lady Aglaea for her time whenever they discuss Flame-Chase matters, complimenting her wisdom and hospitality even though his people are still regarded as outsiders in Okhema. He praises Castorice for her extensive knowledge of the ancient ruins surrounding the city and the forgotten civilizations that once inhabited them. He thanks Hyacinthia for treating his unhealed wounds, and even compliments little Ica on days his mood is particularly stellar, and for no reason in particular, too.
“Dinner is delicious as always, Dei,” Tribbie had said the other night, with her mouth full and her plate empty, and the corners of Mydei’s mouth had curved upward as he said, “It’s the least I can do.”
Phainon made a face, commenting on how the content of his own plate carried an aftertaste of cinders rather than salt, and Mydei’s smile had vanished instantly, turning into a disinterested scowl. “Eat what you’re served without complaints, Deliverer.”
So only for Phainon does he reserve his jabs and sneers and his slightly overcooked on purpose food, and while Phainon should be mildly frustrated, all he can think about is how it’d feel for Mydei to give him the same smile he gives others, the same praise.
Phainon’s blade clashes against the last titankin’s marble frame, stopping it in its assault before its sword can slice into Mydei’s ribs. The monster shatters to ashes and dust and a pile of pale stones, marking the end of their mission.
“I saved you, just now,” Phainon points out, face marred with blood and grime.
Mydei looks entirely unimpressed.
“And once more it seems I must remind you of how unnecessary it was,” he retorts, crossing his arms, standing proud and strong in the middle of the battlefield and the heaps titankinds they’ve killed. “In case you’ve forgotten, Deliverer — I cannot die.”
Phainon’s lips purse into a sour smile. Mydei’s immortality is impossible to omit when he uses and abuses it, fighting recklessly and perishing over and over, uncaring for how Phainon’s own heart squeezes in anguish each time he’s made into its witness.
“That doesn’t make your life worth any less,” he counters, forcing his voice to remain light, to not betray how important Mydei’s life is to him especially.
Mydei scowls. This is not the first time they’ve had this exact post-mission talk. Perhaps it’d be simpler to be upfront and tell the prince “I don’t like seeing you get hurt” — but then what would come afterward would be everything but, and Phainon isn’t sure he is properly equipped to deal with it. A cloak and a sword could take him far in wars and battlefields, but in romance? Not so much.
“Make your point,” the demigod cuts, impatience bleeding through his voice.
Again, Phainon thinks of the appreciative smiles Mydei freely gives the other Heirs, or his people, or the travelers beyond the sky; how he himself mostly gets frowned eyebrows and teasing smirks.
He’s not jealous, no. He just- Okay. Maybe he’s a little jealous. So he says, stupidly, because Mydei would never indulge now, battle-worn and still running high on adrenaline:
“I merely believe a Thank you is in order.”
Mydeimos stares like Phainon has just grown a second head, a disbelieving scoff leaving his mouth at the sheer audacity. Then his mouth upturns into a smile, its corners mocking, his disdain obvious:
“Aren’t you thanked enough on the daily? Deliverer.”
“Not by you.”
They stare at each other, refusing to back down. Phainon is petulant, heat kissing the shell of his ear at how childish he’s behaving. Mydei is entirely unamused.
“Fine,” the prince finally says, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile as he levels Phainon with his gaze, every syllable he speaks a dragged-out show of dishonesty, “You have my thanks, Deliverer.”
Phainon shakes his head, shrugs. Pretends he doesn’t feel thoroughly defeated and unsatisfied. That he’s not thinking it can’t be that hard for Mydei to simply be nice. “Let’s head back,” he sighs.
Mydei ‘s smirk remains for the entire trip home.
A party is thrown in their honor. An extravagant banquet, courtesy of Aglaea, and a barely disguised attempt at quelling the Okheman’s lingering distrust toward their former enemy. Wine and mead flood freely, and the food is the freshest, finest catch the hunters tracked down today. Phainon spends most of his time surrounded by citizens thanking him for protecting the Holy city and complimenting his hard work — and throwing not-so sneaky glances at Mydei all the while, wondering if the prince has heard, and if he agrees.
Mydeimos stands unconcerned.
He’s alone, purposefully isolated in a corner of the fete, aware of his reputation. No matter how many titans he’d slay, the people of Okhema would rather see him as a terrifying beast and spread rumors he’s a monster who bathes in blood and laughs in the face of death. Phainon frowns. Despite Aglaea’s efforts and his own propaganda, the people can’t seem to see Mydei the same way they — he — does: the strength he uses to protect rather than to lay the world to ruin, the tender warmth concealed beneath the cold appearance.
Part of him is disappointed… and part of him is secretly glad he gets to safekeep the facets of Mydei he appreciates the most to himself. He groans, silently admonishing himself for harboring such selfish thoughts; a concerned elderly citizen asks him if anything is amiss, noticing the growing crease between his elbow, and Phainon gives a smile and reassures the man that he is fine (he isn’t) thank you very much. The man pats Phainon’s arm and praises him for his hard work and his courage today, yet even as he thanks him Phainon can’t help but search for Mydei again, looking for an approval he doesn't find.
It takes him a while to manage to slip out of the people’s attention to finally join Mydei in his self-imposed solitude.
“Here, for you,” Phainon offers with a sheepish smile, handing the other Heir a cup of pomegranate juice.
The party is still loud and ongoing, the people’s boisterous songs and laughter a chorus to their quiet. Mydeimos eyes the glass, generously pretending he isn’t already holding one, then Phainon, and there’s a beat before he says, slow and deliberate, “Thank you, Deliverer.”
A whole shiver runs down Phainon’s spine. The words are a lot softer than how Mydei said them just a few system-hours prior on the battlefield. They’re pronounced with some harsh remnants of Kremnoan accent sticking to vowels, compensated for by a tone much gentler than what Phainon is used to hearing. His cheeks heat up, and his heart skips.
“Of course,” he manages, the reply struggling to emerge from his throat. “You’ve done well today.”
Mydei’s gaze is focused on Phainon and nothing else — and Phainon finds it exhilarating and too much to handle, so he turns to the rest of the party. Mydei shifts at his side, crossing his arms and relaxing against the cold marble pillar he spent the whole party with. His eyes are still trained on Phainon, his face lit orange and red by the dancing flame of nearby torches.
“So have you,” he replies. Still bearing that devastating softness in his voice Phainon isn’t used to, the very one he’s been looking for. The gentle, unguarded tone he uses with all the other Heirs - never with him. “Your skill with a sword remains impressive.”
Phainon is pretty sure the heat has gone from his ears to his cheeks by now, and he hasn’t had enough alcohol to put the blame on his empty glass. “Well- I-,” he carelessly meets Mydei’s gaze again and grows even redder. The prince’s eyes pin him with quiet understanding and something too gentle to be shared in public; a look he sometimes gives Phainon when he allows him to wash his hair at the baths or when they're both falling asleep in each other's arms and the prince snuggles closer, pretending to be cold. Metal gold melts into the sweetest honey, captivating and sickly-sweet.
“You’ve done exceedingly well,” Mydei continues, his voice a low purr that winds around Phainon and probes for the weaknesses in his defenses. “As always.”
Phainon coughs, trying to whisk away his embarrassment. “You needn’t flatter me.”
“When have I ever?” Mydei gives a quick laugh. Phainon’s head spins with how much Mydei is allowing him to see; the rare smiles that more often than not get swallowed by the screams of the battlefield. “With your skill, it’s no wonder why the people blindly put their faith in the Deliverer of the prophecy.”
He should keep the conversation even, dredge on political grounds — retort with a well-prepared, so do the Kremnoans their prince, and not make further a fool of himself. He doesn’t; he turns to Mydei, takes in once more how beautiful he is, in the eternal dawn, emanating radiance like a crowned sun, and Phainon suddenly understands the need for a man to kneel and pray and worship. “What of you,” he breathes out, dizzy with his own audacity. “Do you trust me as well?”
Whether they trust each other is not truly what Phainon means to ask. You don’t turn your back mid-battle to someone you don’t believe able to protect it, and Mydei does so doubtlessly, instantly; exposes his weak point over and over and over with no hesitation, no fear Phainon might fail him, and later allows him to trace over each of his tenth vertebrae when they lay together in bed, to sink his teeth in and leave bruises that take longer to heal, circling a red perimeter over where the secret to his immortality lies.
“You should ask me what you really mean to,” Mydei replies, because he knows that, too. It’s been a while since he’s known, Phainon understands; perhaps even longer than Phainon himself. But he’s been waiting patiently, like a true hunter would, for his prey to reveal itself — and Phainon has walked right in the trap, finding him here on his own with no place to run to.
An Okheman’s timely interruption manages to save Phainon from his predicament. The citizens return to drag him back to the festivities, and Mydei’s smile disappears and turns to a Kremnoan-forged metal mask.
“Tonight,” Mydei calls, his stare never leaving Phainon as they’re forced to part, “Wait for me in your quarters. We’ll resume our talk then.”
Phainon’s cheeks set ablaze at being claimed so openly in front of everyone else, when their relationship has been on the secret end of things — but he appreciates it, his chest warming up nicely in the same manner his face does, and he nods, reassured if not thoroughly embarrassed.
The exhaustion catches up with Phainon quicker than the prince does; the pillow they share smother his lowering eyelashes, the alcohol he’s been pressured into drinking treacherously aiding his body to relax and give in no matter how he tries clinging on to consciousness, and he drifts to sleep cold and missing Mydei.
He wakes up to smoldering heat. A low, slumbery moan escapes his lips before he can even think, tugged between dream and reality. The heat keeps him hovering in a semi-conscious state where all he can think is Feels good, his limbs heavy and mind adrift.
His eyelids are shut; still the world comes into focus around him as he blinks, everything sharper until he realizes — the weight above his lap is familiar, angry and close and personal, and it comes with low, relaxed grunts, and a pair of naked, tattooed, muscled legs he’s held onto many times-
Mydei.
Through his half-peeled eyes, Phainon catches hints of blurry red and gold, and he’s taught in the secrecy of his own quarters that the only time the demigod of Strife kneels is to ride him to completion.
The thought is dizzying; it makes Phainon’s stomach contract with pleasure and privilege, his cock slick and sliding in and out of the demigod like it belongs here. His head sinks. He’s vulnerable but the defenselessness adds to to the intimacy; knowing Mydei could do anything with him while he was sleeping yet chose to pleasure him instead — no, to use him, he realizes with a shaky moan, each slow drag of Mydei on his shaft coaxing him awake.
“You almost made me wait,” Mydei murmurs, his voice thick with lust and his body crested atop of Phainon’s, glistening with sweat and the oil smeared across his thighs.
In his eyes is buried precious, shimmering gold, and in his voice an affection he only rarely shows.
His cheeks, the top of his chest, and his shoulders are grazed by a flush red like bruises and as bright as his pulsing tattoos, entangling with them, the pulsing glow mesmerizing as it mirrors his rhythm.
He rolls his hips slovenly, letting Phainon feel each inch of velvety, unbearable heat, lowering himself until Phainon’s entire length is buried inside him, reaching to the deepest parts. Mydei looks so satisfied then, sharp teeth gracing his smirk, seeing that all Phainon can do is throb and anchor his hands to the demigod’s narrow waist.
“What’s the occasion,” Phainon manages to mumble, his words half-coherent, slurred by remnants of sleep. Despite his best efforts he fails to hold back his moans, and Mydeimos’ fond smile when he watches Phainon’s head lull into the pillow does unspeakable things to his sanity and self-control; his orgasm looming close already.
“I thought you longed for my thanks,” Mydei murmurs, the flat of his hand resting upon Phainon’s stomach for support, blunt nails grazing at Phainon’s skin — and the other pumping around his own cock lazily, tugging in within his fist, milking dribbles of precome that spills over his knuckles. The sight is so openly obscene Phainon comes a little.
“Your thanks, you say-” Phainon starts, but Mydei sits up, still slow and deliberate, and Phainon’s eyes snap to where their bodies are connected, oil dripping out of Mydei’s hole onto his own thighs and groin; the rest of his sentence comes out thick and hoarse, “-I haven’t done- anything.”
The prince chuckles. “Oh but you have,” he all but coos, tilting his head sideways; sticky strands of hair getting in the way of his eyes. “You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?”
Phainon whines Mydei’s name, heat burning within his body, coiling and trailing all the way to his throat to constrict it with pleasure and want. His hips thrust up to meet Mydei’s, chasing his release, and the prince’s eyes glimmer with predatory delight. “That’s it. Give it to me, Deliverer.”
It’s too unlike the way he usually speaks; not a vindictive taunt, not a tired retort. Not the devious grin he gives Phainon, all combative and full of rivalry and challenge, but something much too tender. Appreciative. Lethal — Phainon’s:
“Good boy.”
Phainon shivers and spills at the praise, and Mydei rides him through it, milks him until he’s over sensitive and spent and all he can do is gasp breathless ahs, his fingers gently scraping against Mydei’s sweat-slick skin, his stomach riveting.
Mydei leans down over him, body sensual and slow as it traps Phainon’s underneath his, and he gives Phainon’s ear a light bite before whispering against its tinted shell,
“See? You’ve filled me up so nicely.” He takes hold of Phainon’s hand, guides it to the place over his stomach where it swells with Phainon’s shape. “Can you feel it? Can you tell how good you make me feel?”
All Phainon can tell is that he’s about to lose his mind; throw the prophecy, the Flame-Chase, and the titans out of the window and pledge his whole life and being to the demigod instead. That he’s being praised by royalty — by divinity; by the man he desires most; that he’s spilled inside him— inside the crown prince of Kremnos, and he feels his cooling spend as Mydei rocks his hips above him — strips everything else of its meaning.
“Mydei,” he tries, but Mydei is moving still, and the pleasure is so good it hurts, “Hold on- Fuck-”
He’s sinking into the bed, trapped between the smooth sheets and Mydei’s heady weight with no other place he’d rather be, and he slings an arm over his elbow as his whole body is used and even his moans aren’t his anymore.
“No,” Mydei pants, a smirk shadowing his voice. “You can take it, can’t you?”
Phainon whines again, his voice unsteady, his muscles twitching under the onslaught of pleasure. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I?”
“Is that what you dream of? How telling,” Mydei keeps on torturing him, if anything increasing his past as he chases his own orgasm, licking his bottom lip as he watches Phainon like he’s nothing but prized possession. “Perhaps you’re not as good as I thought you were.”
“‘m very good,” Phainon slurs, his cock throbbing again, oversensitive yet hardening and - he might just die here; out of breath as if they’ve just finished a harsh, prolonged spar; rasping, flushing violently and unable to stop neither the moans nor Mydei’s name from leaving his mouth. “Mydei,” he sobs, his body so twitchy it rages against his skin, “Mydei-”
Mydei barely waits. “What is it, pet?”
“Need a minute,” he begs. “Please, just-” Their hips slap harshly against one another and he cries out, back aching off the bed, toes curling in the sheets, voice strangled and high and urgent, “Please, please, wait-”
“Haven’t you made me wait enough?” Mydei asks, but he’s merely teasing, halting to a stop, straddling Phainon’s lap with scorching, wet thighs.
“Only a minute,” Phainon pleads, all shame and embarrassment forgotten. He’s so excited he might just combust, his every nerve roaring in delight, his own body too much for him to handle. “Use my mouth instead.”
Mydei looks at him with interest, something like pride flaring up in his irises. “Should I?” he asks with a brazen twinge to his voice; the one that only surges when he’s almost there and needs Phainon’s help and rough, calloused hands to get there; the one that has him say yes to things he’d otherwise say no to.
He shifts the angle of his hips before Phainon can answer, his eyelashes dancing as he lets out a throttled whine, his voice a low, unrestrained, fluttering song. Phainon can feel him clench, impossibly tight around him; can see the way his dick bounces up and down, pink and delicious. He bites his lower lip, so wracked by sudden thirst and hunger for the familiar weight of Mydei’s cock weighing on his tongue he almost forgets his own aching body.
“Deliverer,” Mydei pants, his voice barely audible over the wet noise of his riding. “Deliverer-”
He’s so close Phainon can feel it as if it were his own orgasm building up, tiny twitches wrecking havoc along his muscles, voice growing louder and more desperate as he chases his release and fails to reach it — but still it hurts, Phainon’s body tensing all the way to his shoulders, unable to even meet Mydei’s hips without wincing in pain.
“Mouth,” he rasps, before his soul leaves his body entirely; before things he should never say go past his lips, “Now.”
Mydei chuckles yet complies, removing himself. “So demanding,” he murmurs, scrambling forward onto the bed to straddle Phainon’s face.
One of his hands guides his dick to Phainon’s mouth while the other caresses his cheek, much too tender. Phainon gives a keening moan from the back of his throat and gives Mydei’s length a kiss before parting his lips in invitation, eyes locked in Mydei’s and never straying — and Mydei finally indulges him.
It won’t take long, Phainon understands with a pang of disappointment. Mydei is close already, his hips loosely thrusting forward to get more of Phainon’s mouth on him. “You look so good like this,” the prince hums, the hand cradling Phainon’s cheek roaming to play with strands of silver hair. “It’s a shame I have to share you with everyone else.”
The sentiment is reciprocated; Phainon makes it known with a swirl of his tongue, that gathers all the salty precum and the taste of Mydei’s as it sits inside his mouth. Mydei’s cock is fat and impossibly hard and stuffing him full, bumping against his palate, and he eagerly moans around it. The demigod’s knees jerk, coursed by shivers, his lips parted in divine moans as liquid desire pools in his pretty eyes. “Deliverer,” he moans, eyebrows pinched and nipples hard, “Phainon-”
Mydei usually fucks like he fights: fast and brutal, and turning everything into a competition. Who will orgasm the most. Who will come first. Who will lose.
Phainon will gladly be defeated if it means he can dig his thumbs into the fat of Mydei's ass and take his time teasing his name out of the prince with his tongue; if he can kiss both pleasure and his very existence into Mydei until he’s sure Mydei will never forget—until Mydei is as hopelessly smitten with him as Phainon is.
He crooks his neck, bobbing his head forward until he can feel the demigod of Strife pulsing down his throat; Mydei lets out a long, keening noise, barely has the time to say “coming” before he is, his head tilted downward in pleasure, his eyes locked with Phainon’s, glazed over and loving.
His cock gushes thick, liquid warmth, and Phainon milks it, mouth tightly wrapped around his shaft to wring up to the last drop of pleasure until it’s lost down his throat. Mydei’s stomach shudders, then his thighs follow suit, and he gasps, empty and content. His usual frown is replaced by a mix of infatuation, lust, and pride, and, blessed by the gaze of his god, Phainon comes in turn, soaking his stomach with wasted semen.
Mydei’s grasp inside his hair turns to a soft caress, something he’ll only give when all curtains are drawn and the streets outside are quiet; a touch too loving to be a warrior’s, much less a wrathful god’s; a touch worth a million words he’ll never say.
His other hand goes to rake over Phainon’s belly, gathering thready and thin semen over his long fingers, and he brings them to his mouth, tastes Phainon’s spill over his fingertips. “What a waste,” he muses while Phainon makes a choked-out sound, “You should have released it within me.”
“I can remedy that” he retorts, already swelling in interest and arousal.
“Can you, now?” Mydei murmurs, fierceness dulled by his orgasm.
Phainon surges forward, sitting up so they’re chest to chest and their heat bounces between their skin, one arm sliding around Mydei’s waist and his mouth goes to nip at Mydei’s throat, earning a shiver of delight.
“Deliverer,” Mydei gasps as Phainon guides his cock against his softened entrance, a palm anchored at his hip and furious at how narrow it is and how exposed, in the eternal daylight, when Mydei strolls around for everyone to see. The thought is reduced to ashes when Phainon is inside him again, the heat returning, smoldering, destructive.
“Keep talking,” he murmurs, his voice lost in the tanned skin of Mydei’s throat.
“You feel so good,” Mydei complies, his hands still threading through Phainon’s hair, “So good for me only. So pretty.”
Phainon lets out an unholy sound he buries in the crook of Mydei’s collarbone. His thigh quiver, and his balls tighten, but he stays still and obedient, only coveting the breathy moans spilling out of Mydei's lips; lets him move the way he sees fit, aware it’s not quite hitting where it needs to for that one sweet spot buried under Mydei’s stomach to burn and melt sweetly.
This time Phainon shifts his hips, angles where he knows Mydei will love it best.
“Ah,” the prince moans, and it's such a tiny, quiet, broken sound he attempts to keep it in like he's trying to hide a wound, Phainon stomach clenches. “Fuck- You feel so good-” Mydei’s grip tightens just barely — “So good for me. Will you make me come- Make me come just like this?”
“Yeah,” Phainon grunts, “Yeah, fuck-”
“Yes you are,” Mydei croons, the roll of his hips making Phainon’s eyes prickle behind his eyelids, “Good boy.”
He tilts Phainon’s head with the fingers lost over his nape, forcing their gazes to meld into each other/ He looks close too, again, brow riddled with sweat, smile replaced by a feverish, yearning look.
“You’re mine,” he says, the same way he says simple, unchanging truths (I can’t die, Deliverer) and Phainon’s eyes narrow in relief, light and unburdened, and Mydei thumbs at his cheeks , caressing skin with ownership, “And I’m yours.”
He leans down enough for his lips to meet Phainon’s in a kiss. The taste is addicting: pomegranate and blood, sour yet still so sweet, and Phainon moans into it and tilts his head to demand more.
“I’m close,” Mydei tells him, and obediently one of Phainon's hand go to tend to his shaft, stroking it in the same motion he’s seen Mydei do, “Yeah, just like that-”
“Is it good?”
“It is.” He’s granted another kiss, and another, and another; enough for him to drown into, all sweet like dreams that should never end. “You’ve been so good- ah-”
He comes with a low moan and a splatter of warm come over Phainon’s stomach, his forehead drooping to rest against his, and Phainon watches, forgetting how to blink; taking in how vulnerable Mydei allows himself to be and to be seen in this very moment, with his eyes closed and his words honest. It doesn’t take much more for his own orgasm to follow; Mydei kisses him through it; kisses that say You’re mine, kisses that say Stay here, kisses that don’t say anything because they speak for themselves, needy yet languid and oh-so precious.
Mydei chuckles against the corner of Phainon’s mouth. “That parry of yours, back there,” he murmurs, exhaustion finally catching up with him. “It was completely unnecessary.”
Phainon mirrors his laugh. “Maybe so, but was it impressive?”
“Very,” Mydei says, and he laughs like he means it, and like he’s happy.
-
It’s only a few days later that Phainon truly understands.
They’re at the baths, surrounded by people since it’s still quite early in the afternoon; and a man he’s seen in passing touches his bicep and thanks him for protecting the city. He doesn’t think much of it; it’s a common occurrence, after all — but he notices the way Mydei’s gaze darkens a little, tracking the point of contact where the man’s fingers rest on Phainon’s naked arm.
“You were jealous,” Phainon realizes.
Mydei’s scowl grows impossibly deep, the fire in his eyes about to smite Phainon on the spot, and rather than being impressed or vaguely concerned for his own self-being, Phainon beams: “You were!”
“I’m getting out,” Mydei says coldly, already leaving the water, not even sparing the time to dry himself. Phainon stalks behind him, almost slipping on the wet trail Mydei is leaving behind him.
“Wait, wait, hold on, Mydei-” his grin can be heard in his voice but all he cares about is the cute blush prickling the back of Mydei’s ears. “Were you really? Jealous over little old me?”
“You are insufferable.”
“This isn’t what you said the other day, is it?” He ignores Mydei’s scowl, pretending he’s trying to remember something, as if the words weren’t forever imprinted in his mind. “Didn’t you say I was yours?”
Mydei’s mouth opens and closes. He mutters something in Kremnoan, a new insult for Phainon to try and decipher — and quite long, this one; it might even be a full sentence. “I take it back,” he mutters. “Everything.”
“No you don’t,” Phainon grins, laughs; and if some curious onlookers wonder what’s the reason behind his sudden glee, well, they don’t need to know.