Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Mydei’s three thousandth death feels a little like whiplash, and a lot like tumbling down a cliff headfirst.

The Furiae Archer gets him at the tail end of the battle. One moment, he’s twisting the head of a Titankin halfway off its gilded-stone neck; the next, he’s staggering back on unsteady legs, blindsided by a blow so sharp and so sudden it leaves him reeling. Pain sears across his front in a blistering flash. Mydei coughs, splattering blood down his armour. When he blinks through the agony and looks down, he sees it: the glimmer of gold from a thin, deadly arrow, lodged just beneath his collarbone.

But this arrow is far from typical. It shines strangely under the Evernight, its end glowing a violent purple. Even without such a clue, though, the fiery pain now crawling through his veins is a dead giveaway. No regular arrow would be capable of incapacitating Mydei like this—not when the curse of his immortality runs through his blood like oxygen.

This is no normal power, he manages to think, half coherently.

Then he looks up.

Through the haze of pain, the scene around Mydei comes to him in pieces. The crumbling floor of the chamber he stands in is littered with broken Titankin bodies, fresh from the battle, their forms strewn over rubble and stone. The one whose head was in Mydei’s grasp moments ago now twitches at his feet. Before him, ten paces away, stand two Titankin: the Furiae Archer that shot him with its bow still drawn, and a motionless Philosopher at its side.

Both of them radiate that strange violet aura. As Mydei watches, the Philosopher touches its codex then the Archer’s shoulder, feeding energy into its limbs.

Mydei lurches to the side just as the second arrow flies.

In any other situation, it would have been an easy dodge, so effortless as to be laughable. But whatever nasty power the first arrow was imbued with is still throbbing through his blood, turning his body sluggish and his mind murky, and the arrow catches Mydei in the thigh, just above where the bronze of his cuisse ends. Another unnatural explosion of pain tears through his body. He barely has time to bite out a curse before he crashes into a half-collapsed pillar and the whole thing comes crumbling down, pummeling his head so hard he sees stars.

Well then, he manages to think.

This chamber was meant to be the last stop on today’s patrol route, finishing off the near-palatial ruins mapped out in Aglaea’s assignment. What it is not meant to be is the site of Mydei’s morbid death milestone. As it is, he feels the telltale darkness begin to set in anyway.

Three thousand deaths hasn’t made the act itself any easier. First is always the darkness, creeping in at the edges of his vision; then comes the exhaustion, the bone-deep fatigue that pries him away from the world of the living. When he was young, Mydei took to counting his deaths just to keep himself sane, and even now the practice sticks with him, a survival strategy turned habit. Death reaches him more slowly than it does most people. It’s not so much an advantage as it is an inconvenience—especially in the heat of battle, and particularly when he has comrades with him, ones who would benefit more from his quick resurrection than his gradual demise.

Speaking of which.

Across the chamber, between the hulking forms of three Titankin, Phainon jerks his head around and catches Mydei’s gaze.

His eyes widen. “Mydei!” he cries.

If Mydei wasn’t so busy trying not to choke on his last breath, he might’ve found it in himself to be touched at the wild panic in the Deliverer’s voice. Instead, he watches through black-tinged vision as Phainon swings his greatsword, struggling to break past the Titankin surrounding him so he can reach Mydei.

It’s reckless and also wholly unnecessary. For reasons unknown to him, Phainon never seems to remember the fact of Mydei’s immortality—or if he does, it’s only in theory and never in practice, the knowledge prone to flying right out of that righteous head as soon as any true danger befalls them.

But there’s little time to ponder it now, when the darkness is swallowing his mind. Death wraps its arms around him like an old friend. Mydei shuts his eyes, resigns himself to another grueling trudge through the realm of Thanatos, and waits.

☼ ☼ ☼

When he comes to again, Phainon’s peering down at him. His face is close enough that for the first few seconds of Mydei’s three thousand and first life, all he can see is the blue of Phainon’s eyes, so bright he almost reflexively winces away.

“I would appreciate some space, Deliverer,” Mydei rasps. His mouth tastes like blood and sawdust.

Phainon leans back, frowning. “You took longer than usual to return to the realm of the living. I was beginning to debate dragging your body back to Okhema myself.”

“If you think trekking upstream through the River of Souls is so simple a task, you’re welcome to attempt it next time.”

“Tempting, but I’ll leave the honour of that accomplishment for you,” Phainon says. The words make it sound like one of his usual jests, except his mouth is still twisted unhappily, and the way he’s looking at Mydei suggests he believes Mydei will disappear if he blinks for too long. There’s grime dusted across Phainon’s cheek and a smudge of scarlet over his brow, but otherwise he looks remarkably unharmed.

Sensation returns to Mydei’s body slowly. The searing pain is gone, as is the dizziness from the concussion that no doubt came with the hit to his head. His immortality is, as always, reliable as ever—the only indication that he’s died at all is a phantom ache running through his limbs, so faint it might as well be imaginary. He sits up.

The first thing Mydei notices is that Phainon has moved him. They’re near the entrance of the chamber, and he’s been propped up against one of the steadier pillars that doesn’t look a breath away from crumbling. Beneath him, Phainon’s coat has been folded into a hasty square to cushion his upper body, its once-pristine white fabric stained with the dark of dried blood. The man himself now dons only his short-sleeved black undershirt. When Mydei surveys the space around them, grimacing at the crick in his neck, he notes the absence of any enemies, the silence that envelopes the room. It seems that aside from them, the ruins are now well and truly deserted.

The second thing he notices is that Phainon’s holding his right hand, which is noticeably bare.

Mydei stares down at where his fingers are intertwined with Phainon’s. “My gauntlets,” he says, for lack of anything else to say. “Did you…?”

“Oh,” Phainon says, as if he’s just noticed their joined hands himself. He sounds oddly flustered. “I removed them to check for injuries. They’re over there.” He jerks his chin towards the side, where Mydei’s gauntlets have, indeed, been placed in a haphazard pile along with the red fabric of his mantle. “I took the liberty of assuming that even the Crown Prince of Kremnos could do without his finery in a life-or-death situation.” He half-smiles. “Speaking of which, how are you feeling?”

“Alive,” Mydei says dryly. When Phainon stares at him, miffed, Mydei sighs. “I’m fine like usual, Deliverer. No need to fret. What happened to the Titankin?”

“I defeated them, of course. There were only three remaining when you fell.”

That gives Mydei pause. “Three?”

“Yes, three.” Phainon’s brow furrows. “Are you quite sure you’re well, Mydei?”

Mydei doesn’t answer. Instead, he replays the memory in his head: the strange duo that took him down, then Phainon meeting his gaze through the Titankin surrounding him, the ensuing clang of his greatsword against their stone bodies. No, he’s certain that there were exactly three Titankin encircling Phainon. Which leaves the two with the odd purple aura unaccounted for. “What about the pair that shot me down?”

Phainon gives him a blank look.

“A Furiae Archer and a Philosopher,” Mydei clarifies. “They were giving off a strange glow, and the Archer’s arrows were uncommonly powerful, even without factoring in the Philosopher’s help. That was what I fell to.”

“An Archer and a Philosopher,” Phainon repeats, eyes distant in thought. Then recognition lights them. “Oh, I know the two you mean. Except…”

“Except?”

Phainon hesitates. “Except they were already defeated. I saw them crumpled on the ground when I ran over to you, so I assumed—well, I thought you’d managed to take care of them before… you know.”

Any other time, Mydei would’ve bitten back a laugh at how stubbornly the all-powerful Deliverer still skirts around the word death. Now, though, he only frowns. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says. “I didn’t have the chance to do anything before I died.”

Phainon’s shoulders move in the barest flinch. He gives a stiff shrug, jostling their joined hands. “Well, you did say they seemed unusual. Perhaps we got lucky and they took themselves out somehow.”

“They’re divine constructs crafted by the Titans themselves. I highly doubt—”

“Mydei,” Phainon cuts in, voice frustrated. “We’ll include this in Aglaea’s report later if it’s so important, alright? What truly matters is that we’re safe now.”

He’s upset. Mydei squints up at Phainon’s face, at the way he won’t quite meet Mydei’s eyes even as he busies himself with dusting off Mydei’s armour. For all his strength and reputation, the Deliverer’s heart is deceptively fragile, softness wrapped up in a shell so transparent Mydei sometimes wonders if everyone else can’t see it for the facade it is.

It’s little wonder he wouldn’t like watching a comrade fall in battle. Even if that comrade is, in fact, capable of resurrecting at a moment’s notice. Mydei’s gaze drops to the coat beneath him again, tracing the way his own bloodstains have ruined Aglaea’s flawless golden stitches.

“I apologize,” he finally says.

Phainon stares at him like Mydei’s just declared his intentions to wed Verax Leo. “For what?”

“For being careless enough to die.”

“You’re apologizing for dying?”

“I underestimated our enemies,” Mydei says, exasperated. “I left you to fend for the both of us against—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Phainon says, so fiercely that the rest of Mydei’s sentence dissolves in his mouth. He leans forward, blue eyes intense. “You’re far from careless, Mydei. You’ve defended my back in battle more times than I can count. I won’t allow you to feel remorse for falling to a powerful opponent, especially not when you’ve just lost your life fighting at my side.”

“My life is intact, Deliverer. It’s quite difficult for me to lose it.”

Phainon looks away. “That doesn’t mean I like watching you die,” he says quietly. The hand that isn’t gripping Mydei’s curls into a fist at his side.

Something prickles in Mydei’s chest. He’s gone about this the wrong way. He exhales, then reaches over with his free hand to cuff Phainon lightly on the ear, smiling wryly when he turns to give Mydei an indignant look. “Get that expression off your face,” Mydei says. “I’m still here, in case you haven’t noticed. If you’re so in need of a pick-me-up, I’m even willing to concede the victory to you this time, although I’m the one who got more kills today.”

That successfully gets Phainon’s attention. “You did not. We were tied before entering this chamber.”

“And I defeated twenty-eight Titankin after we came in.” Mydei arches a brow. “What was your count?”

There’s a beat of silence before Phainon grudgingly admits, “Twenty-six.”

“There you have it, then. The offer still stands.”

“Don’t you know that a victory freely given isn’t a true victory at all, Mydeimos?” Phainon protests, but the strain in his expression has softened a little, and he’s smiling.

Even under the Evernight, his eyes are luminous. The chamber they’re in is as decrepit as the rest of the ruins, which means that the gaps in the crumbling ceiling let in the barest hint of starlight, filtering through the silvery strands of Phainon’s hair. The absence of the Dawn Device is all too noticeable; there’s a chill running through the air around them, and when Mydei leans back and closes his eyes, suddenly struck by a bout of weariness, the stone pillar is icy behind his shoulders.

How long was he out for? Phainon did say his revival took longer than usual. They were meant to return to Okhema by the first quint of Action Hour, but Mydei’s willing to bet that his inconveniently timed death has put a hitch in that plan. He’s about to open his eyes and get up when he pauses.

The weight of Phainon’s hand is still searingly warm in his own, their palms pressed together and fingers interlocked, the other man’s grasp tight enough that Mydei can’t quite find it in himself to wrench away.

“Deliverer.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think you can let go of my hand now?”

There’s a long pause. Then, in a voice that’s half bemused, half something else, Phainon says, “I can’t.”

“While I’m flattered by your attachment to me,” Mydei says, keeping his voice dry even as an odd little shiver runs up his spine, “we do have to start heading back to get Aglaea’s report in on time. Which will be difficult with you clinging onto me like a newborn chimera.”

“No, I mean I actually can’t. You’re the one who’s holding onto my hand.”

Mydei snorts. “I’ve only just returned from the clutches of Thanatos, Deliverer. Spare me the tasteless jokes.”

“I’m not joking,” Phainon insists, and the bemusement is clear in his voice now. There’s a little shake to their joined hands, as if Phainon’s testing his grip. “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s refusing to let go?”

Mydei opens his eyes and frowns at the way Phainon’s staring at him: not with a quirk to his mouth or a glint of mirth in his eyes, but instead with an expression so genuinely flabbergasted that his words can’t be anything but the truth. Dubiously, Mydei tries to tug his hand free.

It doesn’t work. His arm moves, and he manages to pull Phainon’s wrist towards him, but their hands stay clasped together.

Mydei blinks.

“Um.” Phainon’s blinking right along with him. “Can you… let go?”

Mydei tries again, tugging harder this time. It’s in vain: his fingers refuse to budge. The sensation is beyond strange, like some kind of stubborn pressure is keeping his hand locked firmly in place. “No,” he says slowly. “It seems I can’t.”

Phainon stares down at their joined hands. Then he yanks his arm back so hard that Mydei falls over.

“Hey—” Mydei grunts as his elbow scrapes the rough stone floor. He glares up at Phainon, who’s still staring at their hands, wide-eyed. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“You weren’t jesting,” Phainon says, sounding thoroughly baffled. “We’re truly stuck.”

Mydei narrows his eyes. In a burst of childish spite, he yanks his arm right back, making Phainon yelp in surprise as he loses his balance and topples over.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“To make certain you weren’t jesting either,” Mydei deadpans.

“You just bled out before my eyes, Mydeimos! Would I really be in a jesting mood now?”

Mydei ignores his half-whine and glances down. Even with all the jostling, their fingers haven’t been dislodged in the least, still locked together as if they’ve been captured by some unnatural force. He scowls at his useless hand and pulls again, straining his muscles, stubbornly tugging harder and harder until Phainon tumbles over again with a wounded noise.

“Ow, ow, enough—” He reaches over and swats Mydei’s shoulder. “Stop it! I know it may be hard for a headstrong warrior like you to understand—”

“You say that as if it’s an insult—”

“—but brute force clearly isn’t working here. I doubt we’ll get anywhere if we hurt ourselves, Mydei.”

He’s right. Disgruntled, Mydei drops their hands. “Well, what is this, then?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Phainon says, sounding defensive. He glances around with beseeching eyes, as if the answer is going to rise up out of the collapsed rubble somehow. Then he looks down at the stains on his bunched-up coat. “I… don’t suppose your immortal blood has any adhesive capabilities?”

“And I don’t suppose you think before asking your questions,” Mydei mutters. He rubs his temple with his free hand. “No, Deliverer. I imagine that would make combat very difficult.”

Phainon leans down, knitting his brow. “And yet I can’t move my fingers at all.”

“That makes two of us. How did our hands end up clasped together anyway? We were already in this state when I woke.”

At that, Phainon’s cheeks flush. His gaze flits away until it’s fixed somewhere over Mydei’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I might’ve… held on without realizing. While waiting for you to come back, I mean.”

For some reason, imagining it—Phainon hovering over him, gripping his hand as he waits for the life to return to Mydei’s body—makes Mydei’s skin burn. He swallows. “So this,” he says, jerking his chin towards their joined hands, “happened sometime during that?”

Phainon winces. “I suppose? It could’ve been any time after your death.”

“My death.”

“Yes?”

The realization hits Mydei like a body slam from a dromas. “The Archer.”

“What?”

“It must’ve had something to do with that Archer,” he says, grimacing. The memory of the scene flashes in his mind again: the Titankin with its eerie violet glow, then the glint of its weapon, golden under the Evernight, as it drew back its bowstring with strength far surpassing what’s typical for its kind. “I mentioned it, didn’t I? The two Titankin that brought me down were unusually powerful. This”—he shakes their joined hands, annoyed—“must be some strange consequence of that power.”

Phainon frowns as he considers this. “But we’ve been fighting Titankin for ages, and none of us has ever encountered anything like this.”

“It’s the only theory we have. If you’ve got a better one, Deliverer, let’s hear it.”

He doesn’t expect Phainon to take him seriously, but the other man falls silent in thought, eyes roving around the chamber they’re in. After a beat, he says, “What if it’s the ruins themselves?”

Mydei’s eyebrows shoot up. “Elaborate.”

“Well, we all know how volatile the effects of the black tide are, right? Especially in areas that were once host to a Titan’s power, like the fortress at Castrum Kremnos.”

“And you’re saying this is one of those areas?”

“I’m saying it could be,” Phainon says. “It’s not as if Aglaea gives us much detail about the stops on routine patrol assignments, anyhow.” He cuts a thoughtful glance at Mydei. “Remind me where these ruins are situated on the map?”

Mydei wrinkles his brow, thinking back. “We should be in what was once Carmitian territory. The route ended just outside the border of Dolos.”

“Dolos… Isn’t that where Miss Cipher is from?”

“I guess. Why does it matter?”

“Well, Mydeimos,” Phainon says pointedly. He holds up their locked hands. “I’m no Venerationist scholar, but this has Zagreus written all over it, if you ask me.”

It does make a certain amount of sense, Mydei concedes. A bit of irritatingly pointless mischief like this is just what the Trickery Titan is known for. He sighs. “What’s your theory, then? That these ruins were once inhabited by Zagreus themselves?”

Phainon shrugs. “Or their disciples. Perhaps it’s a temple of some sort that was abandoned to the black tide?”

“Zagreus has no temples or altars to their name, Deliverer. If you’d bothered to pay any attention to Tribbie’s history lessons—”

“An encampment or meeting place, then! The nature of these ruins isn’t the important part. What is important,” Phainon goes on, dropping their hands and meeting Mydei’s skeptical gaze with determination, “is that we return to Okhema as soon as possible so we can explain the situation to Aglaea and the others. Don’t you agree?”

He punctuates this with another shake to their joined hands. Mydei looks down. Whatever strange curse they’ve been hit with, he doubts it’d be noticeable even to an observant eye—the clasp of their hands looks deceptively natural, fingers intertwined, Phainon’s thumb settled lightly against Mydei’s skin. Phainon’s hand is calloused from battle like his own, but his palm is warm and soft and just the slightest bit sweaty where they’re pressed together, his grip tight enough that to anyone else, it might look as if he’s simply unwilling to let Mydei go.

Heat prickles up Mydei’s spine. He has to resist the urge to try and pull himself free again.

“You’re right,” he concedes. “We can’t fight off any enemies like this.”

Phainon grins. Mydei can tell he’s still flustered, but he’s hiding it well. “See? Admitting I’m right wasn’t so difficult, Mydei.”

“Don’t push it. Come on, let’s leave this place.”

“I’ll race you to the exit,” Phainon says automatically. Then he frowns at their joined hands. “Oh. Or not.”

Mydei snorts. He pushes himself up, tugging at Phainon’s hand until he does the same, then stands. It’s awkward with their hands attached, but Mydei manages to straighten. He picks up Phainon’s bloodstained coat from the ground and holds it out to him. “You’ll have to see if Aglaea can do anything about this.”

“Or I’ll wear it as a badge of honour,” Phainon muses, accepting the bundle. “The blood of the undying Mydeimos on my garments, preserved for all eternity. Surely there’s some esteem to be gained from such a thing?”

Mydei rolls his eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Deliverer. And hand me my gauntlets.”

Phainon bends down and tosses one of them over, failing to consider the fact that Mydei is now limited to one hand. With said hand still passing over Phainon’s coat, Mydei can’t quite manage to catch the gauntlet, and it hits his chest before falling to the ground.

The clang of bronze against stone is loud in the silence. Phainon’s head snaps back. “Sorry,” he starts to say, turning around far too quickly, and Mydei can see the exact moment his foot lands on the train of the coat between them and he trips. “Whoa—!”

Phainon stumbles and falls. Mydei, of course, goes down with him. He tries to regain his balance, but it’s impossible with his hand still glued to Phainon’s. They end up crashing into a graceless heap on the ground, limbs entangled, heads knocking together, Mydei’s chest colliding with Phainon’s shoulder hard enough for them both to grunt.

The ensuing silence is deafening.

Eventually, it’s broken by Phainon’s cough. “Um, my bad,” he says sheepishly. “Let’s try that again?”

Mydei blows out a breath. Both his arms ache. His left leg is trapped beneath Phainon’s. And it seems that despite all the movement, their hands are still bound together every bit as tightly as before.

This, he thinks as he stares up at the crumbling ceiling, is going to be a very long journey back indeed.

☼ ☼ ☼

“Well,” is what Aglaea says at last. “This is certainly… a predicament.”

Her voice is as unreadable as ever, so it could mean anything from this is manageable to this is a disaster the likes of which the Flame-Chase Journey will never recover from. As things stand, Mydei is more inclined to believe the latter.

He shifts uncomfortably where he’s standing next to Phainon. Aglaea’s impenetrable gaze still hasn’t left their joined hands, ever since they returned and Phainon took on the task of explaining their situation. Behind her, Castorice hovers five paces back, her brow furrowed in concern, her eyes flicking between them like she’s attempting to piece together a particularly difficult puzzle. The triplets crowd in the middle, trading whispers among themselves while they poke at Mydei and Phainon’s fingers.

At the very least, Mydei thinks wryly, they’ve gathered in a private chamber in Marmoreal Palace—which means there are no civilians here to witness the baffling scene of two Chrysos Heirs holding hands while determinedly not looking each other in the eye.

Beside them, Tribbie finally pops up from where she’s been studying their locked hands. “What Snowy said is true!” she proclaims in a voice far too cheerful for their current situation. “He and De are one hundred percent stuck to each other.”

It’s not exactly the type of thing that requires a thorough examination to confirm, but because it’s Tribbie, Mydei keeps his mouth shut.

“I see,” Aglaea says slowly. “And this happened at the final stop on your patrol route?”

Phainon nods. “In the unidentified ruins just outside Dolos.”

“Where, according to your account, Mydei perished at the hands of two unusually powerful Titankin—a Furiae Archer aided by a Philosopher?”

“That’s right,” Mydei says, when Phainon takes a beat too long to reply.

“I see,” Aglaea says again. Finally, she raises her blank gaze, expression troubled. “This is indeed cause for concern. Even putting aside the peculiarity of the situation itself, we haven’t received any recent reports of abnormal Titankin behaviour, and I must confess I’ve never heard of their attacks resulting in such… curious consequences.”

“Neither have I,” Castorice murmurs.

From where she’s still prodding at their joined hands along with Trinnon, Trianne declares, “We haven’t either!”

If even the high priests of Janus haven’t witnessed anything like this, Mydei doubts anyone else in the Holy City will have much insight to offer. “It seems we’re off to a strong start,” he says dryly.

“Let us not despair so soon.” Aglaea gives him a wry smile, then glances towards Tribbie. “What are your thoughts on this, teacher?”

Tribbie hums. “Well, we definitely think this carries the scent of a Titan’s power.”

“Snowy reeks of it!” Trianne announces. “De too, but less so.”

As Phainon frowns and discreetly tries to sniff himself, Mydei squints at the triplets’ bright red heads. “That seems odd. I was the one who got struck by the attack, not him.”

“But it’s true,” Trinnon says. “We sense a greater concentration of power on Snowy’s side.”

“It’s possible the problem wasn’t with the Titankin themselves,” Phainon offers, though he also seems more than a little bemused. He looks over at Aglaea. “I suppose we don’t know much about those ruins?”

Aglaea shakes her head. “They’ve remained unidentified for many years. There’s reason to believe they were constructed by the authorities at Carmitis, given their location, but any relevant records would have been lost after the city fell to the black tide.”

“Speaking of location… they’re also quite close to the border of Dolos, aren’t they?”

“We thought Zagreus might have something to do with this,” Mydei says by way of explanation.

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Aglaea agrees. She turns to the triplets again. “Are you able to determine which Titan is the source of such a power?”

Three identical shakes of the head. “Too difficult,” Tribbie says in a mournful voice, and shivers. “We can feel the black tide too. The power’s all corrupted.”

“If it offers any reassurance, I’m fairly certain this isn’t Thanatos’ doing,” Castorice says quietly.

Even with the safeguard of his immortality around him, Mydei supposes there’s a certain amount of relief in hearing that whatever this may be, it has little to do with the Death Titan. Judging by the way Phainon’s grip around his hand relaxes, just slightly, he must feel the same way.

“Thank you, Cas,” Aglaea says. She glances at Phainon and Mydei. “Are you two feeling physically well? No discomfort or adverse effects as of yet, I presume?”

“I feel fine.” Phainon looks at him. “Mydei?”

“Fine as well.”

“Then I suppose the Zagreus theory does hold some water after all. To my knowledge, relatively harmless mischief such as this is quite characteristic of them.”

Mydei wrinkles his nose. “Is this a common trick of theirs? Perhaps there’s some record of it in the past.”

At that, Aglaea’s mouth thins. “I’m not sure,” she says dryly. “Of course, I imagine it would be helpful if the bearer of Zagreus’ divine authority was available to offer her opinion. Unfortunately, seeing as she comes and goes as she pleases, we have little way of reliably reaching her.”

“Perhaps Professor Anaxa knows something? We could contact the Grove,” Phainon suggests, then looks as if he instantly regrets doing so.

“That won’t be necessary.” Aglaea’s voice is cool. “I trust that we’ll be able to resolve this without resorting to such measures.”

In the brief, awkward silence that follows, Mydei takes the opportunity to glance down at his hand in Phainon’s. True to his observation earlier, their grip appears natural—easy and familiar, as if they’ve done this a hundred different times on a hundred separate occasions. No one would have any reason to suspect the truth of the situation. He attempts to move his fingers again, more out of a force of habit than anything else. They don’t budge. Whatever the nature of this curse is, it must be powerful enough to suppress any sort of movement, regardless of the strength of its chosen victim.

The thought makes him press his lips together. There are worse people to be bound to than Phainon, he reminds himself. Even if the other man runs so warm that his hand in Mydei’s feels like sunlight made flesh. Even if, long after Mydei’s looked away, the image of their fingers fitting together still refuses to leave his mind.

Aglaea is the one to break the silence again. “In any case,” she says with a sigh, “this is a uniquely difficult situation, and we’ll have to do what we can to address it. The ruins you patrolled may very well be what holds the answer.” She looks towards Trianne. “I’m aware it’s a lot to ask, but if you’re able to open a Century Gate to examine the location…”

“No problem!” Trianne puffs out her chest. “It’ll be easy peasy. Leave it to us, Agy.”

Aglaea smiles. “Thank you. And in the meantime, I’ll try to speak to certain experts and scholars I’m acquainted with in the city—discreetly, of course. They may have further insights to offer. There are also a number of historical texts on Zagreus and their antics in the Librarium, so I’ll look into them as well.”

“I can lend my support with those,” Castorice offers.

“That would be much appreciated.” Finally, Aglaea directs her gaze towards Mydei and Phainon. “As for you two…”

They both straighten.

“I suppose there’s little you can do except go on with life as usual.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Then Mydei says, flatly, “You’re not serious?”

Aglaea arches an eyebrow. “Perfectly serious, I’m afraid,” she says, the barest note of amusement in her voice. “I understand your current circumstances are far from ideal. However, until we’re able to ascertain the cause of your predicament, all we can do is hope this is a temporary affliction that’ll wear off before long.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Phainon asks. He sounds just as perturbed as Mydei feels.

“Let us hope it never comes to that. But in that case, I imagine you would have to learn to adjust to each other’s presence as best as you can.”

For a moment, just a heartbeat, Mydei entertains the thought. Being bound to Phainon for the foreseeable future would leave them no choice but to do everything together: eating meals, conversing with others, walking from one location to another—not to mention undressing and bathing and sleeping in the same bed. Mydei’s mouth goes dry as the reality of their situation sinks in. Even if he assumes that the others’ efforts will produce a solution by Entry Hour tomorrow—which is optimistic, to say the least—it’s likely that he’ll have to spend at least one full day by Phainon’s side, linked to his hand, never more than two paces apart.

Titans above.

One look at Phainon is enough to see that he’s reached the same conclusion Mydei has. “There’s no way,” Phainon protests, voice weak. “Surely there’s something we can do? I don’t—I mean, we can’t possibly just—”

“Aw, Snowy,” Tribbie says soothingly. “Don’t worry so much! I’m sure De will be a very nice companion.”

Phainon glances at Mydei and snaps his mouth shut. His cheeks colour.

Even with the heat crawling up his own neck, Mydei can’t quite resist raising a brow in challenge. “What? Don’t tell me the almighty Deliverer can’t handle the idea of giving up his solitude for a few days.”

“It’s not that! It’s because it’s…”

“Because what?”

Phainon’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, before he says, haltingly, “I don’t like that we won’t be able to compete with each other like usual.”

Aglaea lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “I’m quite certain you two will find a way regardless.”

“But this situation is ridiculous! Is there truly nothing else we can do?”

“Short of severing your hands at the wrist, I imagine not. A Titan’s power is not so easily overcome.”

Phainon turns his imploring gaze on Mydei. “Are we even sure a Titan is responsible for this? It could be part of Mydei’s abilities. Perhaps when he revived, that indestructible body of his caused some complications—”

Mydei snorts. “Having my limbs forcibly attached to those around me is not a consequence of my immortality.”

“I’m just proposing a theory,” Phainon says, defensive. “We should try to consider every possible scenario when solving a problem.”

“Are you dense, Deliverer? I already said—”

“That’s quite enough,” Aglaea cuts in, and they both fall into reluctant silence. She crosses her arms. “I think we can all agree that, aside from taking drastic measures that would likely result in grievous injury, there’s not much we can do except investigate for now.” She nods towards Mydei and Phainon. “I trust that you two will be able to handle this in a manner befitting your stature.”

Her voice is meaningful in a way that implies it’s more of a command than anything. “Fine,” Mydei says grudgingly, at the same time Phainon mumbles, “Of course.”

“There’s no reason to fret. I assure you we’ll do all we can to find a solution as quickly as possible.” Then Aglaea pauses, gazing down at their joined hands again, eyes narrowed. “That being said, I wonder…”

The pause stretches on.

“Agy?” Trinnon ventures. “What’s wrong?”

Aglaea’s expression clears. “No matter,” she says. “I’m sure I’m mistaken. Thank you, everyone—I believe we can consider this meeting adjourned for now.”

As Castorice and the triplets take their leave, the former with a sympathetic glance and the latter with a chorus of “Good luck, Snowy and De!”, Phainon clears his throat. His gaze flicks towards Mydei, his expression determined even as his ears tinge pink. “Well, Mydeimos, you heard what Aglaea said. We should try not to make this more troublesome than it already is.”

Mydei scoffs. “I rather think you’re the one who should be reminded of that, not me.”

“I can handle this perfectly well,” Phainon says unconvincingly.

“Is that why you still refuse to look me in the eye?”

Phainon bristles. He turns and deliberately aims his unblinking stare right at Mydei’s face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Careful, Deliverer. You’ll hurt your eyes if you strain yourself any harder.”

“Mydeimos, Phainon,” a voice calls, and they both look over at Aglaea, whose usually impassive mouth has curled into an amused smile. “A moment, please. I do have one request for you two before you go.”

Mydei grimaces. He’s sure it can’t be anything good.

“What is it?”

“Please refrain from disclosing the nature of your situation to anyone outside this room. If you’re asked, offer whatever pretext you can to avoid the truth.”

“Why?” Phainon says, blinking.

Aglaea’s smile turns weary. “Because the two strongest warriors in Okhema being incapacitated is no small matter—especially when the Council is searching for any reason to seize power from the Chrysos Heirs. If this information gets out, I imagine Elder Caenis, in particular, will waste no time in devising a way to use it against us.”

That does make sense, Mydei thinks. Except—

He holds up his and Phainon’s joined hands, incredulous. “How should we explain this, then, if we can’t say anything resembling the truth?”

“However you wish,” Aglaea says. There’s definitely a hint of mirth in her eyes now, hidden in the midst of all that blank sea-green. Her lips quirk up, almost imperceptibly, as she adds, “I’m confident you’ll be able to think of something.”

☼ ☼ ☼

Parting Hour has begun by the time they exit the meeting chamber. It’s located in a more private wing of Marmoreal Palace reserved for the Chrysos Heirs, just beside the Hero’s Baths, so they make it all the way down the hall without running into a single person. Right at the staircase leading down to the public floor, though, Mydei stops. Through the walls below, he can hear the muffled noise of drunken revelry, the faint laughter and clinking glasses that always fill the halls of the Palace at this hour.

“So,” he says.

“So,” Phainon echoes. He shifts on his feet. “What now?”

Mydei turns to face him. Phainon’s meeting his gaze now, which is an improvement, but the way he’s looking at Mydei with those wide, unsure eyes still makes him seem more like a lost puppy than a hero destined to inherit a Coreflame. Unable to resist, Mydei reaches out with his free hand and flicks Phainon’s forehead.

“You tell me, Deliverer,” he says, over the noise of protest Phainon makes. “Weren’t you the one so convinced you could handle this perfectly just now?”

Phainon frowns at him. “We’re in this predicament together. We should make these kinds of decisions together, too.”

“You make it sound as if we’ve merged into one being.”

“Close enough,” Phainon says wryly, giving a pointed shake to their joined hands. He heaves a sigh. “Perhaps this is some sort of twisted plot against the Chrysos Heirs. Do you think Elder Caenis is a secret disciple of Zagreus?”

“Your theories are getting worse and worse by the minute,” Mydei says, voice dry. “That professor of yours over at the Grove would be appalled.”

“Professor Anaxa allowed me to graduate, so he must approve of me in some way.”

“Lucky for you that he isn’t here to retract that decision, then.” Mydei turns. He almost crosses his arms by habit, then realizes he can’t anymore and grimaces.

“Anyway, to answer your question, I’m not sure what there is to do, either. I usually get in some training or head to the baths before Curtain-Fall Hour, but…”

Phainon trails off. They both hear the unspoken words: in this state, there’s no chance they’ll even be able to don armour or properly wield a weapon, much less partake in the kind of training regimen typical for the Chrysos Heirs. And as for the baths—Mydei shuts down that line of thought before it can go too far. He’s well aware they won’t be able to avoid such a thing, but they’ll cross that hurdle when they come to it.

“Are you hungry?” he finally asks.

Phainon blinks at him, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me you’re still planning on cooking in this state?”

“Of course not. I was going to suggest we go to Marmoreal Diner.”

“Marmoreal Diner…” Phainon’s voice falters. “You want us to visit the market like this?”

Mydei glances back at him. “Yes. Unless you know another place that’s still open at this hour?”

For a moment, Phainon doesn’t reply. Mydei watches him chew his lip, clearly hesitant about something, and has to resist the urge to flick his forehead again. Something about their newfound proximity has made the idea of touch more familiar than before, and it’s disconcerting. He curls his hand into a fist.

“Alright,” Phainon finally agrees. He takes the first step down the stairs, pulling Mydei’s hand along with him. “Let’s go, then.”

So Mydei follows.

When they entered Marmoreal Palace upon returning to Okhema earlier, they’d been in a rush, almost tripping over each other in their haste to report to Aglaea as soon as possible. Now, though, Phainon’s steps are slow, almost uncertain. He keeps stealing glances back at Mydei as they walk, as if Mydei’s going to mysteriously vanish somehow when they’ve been bound together by a Titan’s power. At the very least, the drunken state of the Palace’s visitors means no one takes much notice of them as they make their way outside.

They’re not so lucky by the time they reach Marmoreal Market. From the moment they enter the square, Mydei can feel the eyes on his back, then hear the way the conversations around them quiet as people turn to look. It can’t be helped, he supposes—any Chrysos Heir tends to draw attention even at the best of times, so two of them walking hand-in-hand is bound to be a spectacle for the public.

He doesn’t notice Phainon’s steps faltering until they’re walking side by side. Then Phainon says, quietly, “Mydei…”

“What?” Mydei says, not stopping.

“Are you sure you want to—”

“Lord Mydei!”

Mydei pauses and turns. There, right by an alleyway, waves Aspasia, the young woman who helps out at Demetria’s fruit and vegetable store. “I don’t often see you at this hour!” she calls, beaming. “What brings you here today?”

Not wanting to be impolite, Mydei makes his way over, pulling Phainon along with him. “Miss Aspasia,” he greets, then looks around the stall. “Is Mrs. Demetria not here today?”

“No, she went to check on a shipment of figs coming in by dromas earlier. She’ll be so sorry she missed you! She’s always saying how we owe most of our pomegranate sales… to you…”

Aspasia’s voice trails off as she notices his and Phainon’s joined hands. Then she stares, dumbfounded.

When the silence stretches for a beat too long, Mydei clears his throat. “Please send her my regards as usual,” he says pointedly, and Aspasia’s eyes snap up. “You know you’ll always have my business. Unfortunately, we’re on our way to Marmoreal Diner, so I won’t be able to stay and chat today.”

Aspasia’s face flushes pink. “Of course!” she hurries to say, sounding flustered. “I wish you a good meal, Lord Mydei, Lord Phainon. And, ah… congratulations…?”

Congratulations? Mydei barely suppresses a frown.

“Thank you,” he says instead, offering her a polite nod, then tugs Phainon away again.

They wind through the stalls and shops in silence for a while—it’s not until they reach a quieter stretch of the market, just before the path that leads to Marmoreal Diner, that Mydei feels Phainon’s steps begin to slow behind him again. At first, he ignores it and keeps walking, but then Phainon comes to a complete standstill. It forces Mydei to stop as well.

Mydei sighs and looks back. “Deliverer, what—”

He pauses.

Behind him, Phainon’s staring determinedly at the ground, shoulders hunched, head bowed, his face burning so red that the blue of his eyes is more brilliant than ever against his skin.

“What’s up with you?” Mydei says, incredulous.

Phainon’s gaze darts up for half a second before it returns to the ground again. He turns, raising his free hand to cover his flushed face, and says something muffled that Mydei can’t quite catch.

“What?”

“I said,” Phainon mumbles, dropping his hand, “that you cannot possibly be this dense, Mydeimos.”

He’s so caught off guard by how mortified Phainon looks that it takes a beat for his words to process. Then Mydei narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Phainon makes a noise that’s half groan, half whine. “Don’t you see? This is why I wasn’t sure about coming to the market. We’re drawing far too much attention like this.”

“Are you so afraid of the public? How unbecoming for the so-called saviour of Amphoreus.”

“That’s not it! Since we can’t tell the truth about this”—Phainon shakes their joined hands in emphasis—”people like Miss Aspasia are bound to end up making their own assumptions. However wrong they may be.”

Mydei squints. Then he thinks back to Aspasia staring at their hands, her flustered expression, the hesitant congratulations she’d said when Mydei mentioned their dinner plans—

“Ah,” he says lamely.

“Oh, so now you understand.”

Mydei huffs. “Does it matter?” he says, even as heat starts to spread across his own face. “Let them assume what they want. It’s of no concern to us.”

Phainon presses his lips together. “Of course you would say that.”

They don’t have time for this. Mydei exhales, then steps closer, lessening the already scant space between them. “Come on,” he says lowly, as Phainon stiffens. “Neither of us have eaten anything since we left to patrol the ruins. I know you must be famished.”

“I am. But—”

“Of course, if you really want to, we can head back.” Mydei arches an eyebrow. “If you’re willing to admit defeat, that is.”

Phainon stares at him. For a moment, Mydei thinks he won’t take the bait—that this is too obvious of an attempt even for him. But then Phainon’s eyes narrow, and Mydei catches the spark of competition there, as familiar to him by now as the set of Phainon’s jaw or the way his hand wraps around the hilt of his greatsword, steady and sure. “Fine,” Phainon says, voice sharp. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

“Are you certain? If you’re not feeling up to it—”

“I already said fine, didn’t I?” Phainon steps back and inclines his head, cutting a defiant glance at Mydei. “Lead the way, Mydeimos.”

Mydei has to bite back a smile as he turns.

When they finally reach Marmoreal Diner, it’s well into Parting Hour, and the small seating area behind the shopfront is almost deserted. Kyros looks up from unpacking a crate of supplies as they approach, and a smile breaks across his face when he spots them. “Lord Mydei, Lord Phainon,” he greets, standing up. “Welcome! It’s always an honour to serve you.”

Then his eyes drop to their joined hands. Mydei braces himself—for Kyros’ reaction or for Phainon’s, he isn’t sure—but all the restaurant owner does is blink. When he meets Mydei’s gaze again, though, his smile has turned a little more knowing.

“Please,” he says, gesturing behind him. “Have a seat anywhere you’d like. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Mydei nods. “Thank you.”

He leads Phainon over to the innermost table, as far away from the prying eyes of the market as possible. The only other patron besides them is an old man who chews slowly at a bunch of grapes and doesn’t even seem to notice their presence. Mydei goes to sit, pulling at Phainon’s arm until he slides into the seat across from him, then hesitates.

Their arms are caught awkwardly between them, stretched beneath the table. Mydei makes a split-second decision and drags their joined hands up, laying them across the table instead in a more natural position.

“See?” he says, still keeping his voice low. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

Phainon gives him a look that Mydei can’t quite read, still with that challenging spark in his blue eyes. He opens his mouth and pauses, as if thinking.

Then he places his other hand over Mydei’s.

The sudden warmth of Phainon’s skin makes Mydei jerk in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Just letting people assume what they want,” Phainon says. There’s a teasing note to his voice, but his smile is sharp at the edges. “It’s what you said, after all. You don’t mind, right, Mydei?”

“What are you playing at now?”

“Nothing.” Phainon’s fingers curl around Mydei’s wrist. “I’m simply here to enjoy a meal with my dear friend.”

“I don’t see how taking my hand in both of yours is relevant to that.”

“Oh? I’m only making the best of our difficult situation.”

Mydei’s face is starting to feel hot. “Enough of this foolishness, Deliverer,” he grits out. “If you’re so set on being—”

“Sorry to keep you two waiting!”

Mydei snaps his mouth shut. Kyros appears by their table, two chalices of water in his arms, and sets them down before them. He gives a curious glance towards their hands, where both of Phainon’s are still enveloping Mydei’s in a way that feels far too intimate for a public setting. “What’ll it be today, Lord Phainon, Lord Mydei?”

“A Classical Platter for me, please,” Phainon says. He’s still smiling pleasantly, and the hand that isn’t locked in Mydei’s tightens.

Mydei’s ears burn. “The same for me as well.”

“Of course! Will that be all?”

“An extra napkin, too, if it’s not too much trouble? I think Mydei is missing his.”

“Of course, Lord Phainon,” Kyros says. The curious look in his eyes doesn’t fade as he turns, but at least he’s polite enough to not say anything. The moment he’s out of sight, Mydei steps hard on Phainon’s foot under the table.

“What are you doing,” he hisses over the yelp Phainon lets out. “Are you truly so childish?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Phainon says stubbornly.

Mydei reaches over and tries to pry Phainon’s hand off, but Phainon’s clamp is firm. For a few seconds, they struggle in a silent standoff as they glare at each other, then are forced to stop as Kyros appears again.

“Your napkin, Lord Mydei,” he says, holding it out. He looks at Mydei expectantly, clearly waiting for him to take it.

Mydei hesitates. Kyros is standing on his right and Phainon’s left, which means he’s on the side closest to both their bound hands. If this were a normal situation, Mydei would simply untangle his hand from Phainon’s to accept it—but of course, their situation is far from normal.

So he reaches over awkwardly to take the napkin with his left hand, almost straining his shoulder as he does so. “Thank you,” he says stiffly.

Kyros’ eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Mydei doesn’t blame him. To an unknowing observer’s eye, he’s sure that he and Phainon look ridiculous, as if they’re one of those overly affectionate couples who refuse to let go of each other even in public. The thought makes heat crawl anew up his neck, and he can’t quite meet Kyros’ gaze as the man steps away again.

One glance at Phainon shows that he’s realized how they must look too—he still has that placid expression on his face, but he’s blinking a little too quickly, and there’s a telltale flush of pink spreading across his cheekbones.

“Well?” Mydei mutters. “Are you ready to put a stop to this nonsense now?”

Phainon glances at him. Then he leans forward, closer. “Does that mean,” he says, voice pitched low, “that the all-powerful Mydeimos is admitting that coming here was a bad idea?”

Mydei stares at him. Phainon stares right back, one eyebrow cocked in challenge, his reddening cheeks doing nothing to temper the glint in his eyes as his fingers squeeze around Mydei’s wrist.

Mydei’s eyes narrow.

Fine then, he thinks. Two can play at this game.

When Kyros returns with their food, Mydei doesn’t try to pull away again. Instead, he leaves their joined hands on the table in full view of everyone, then awkwardly picks up his fork with his left hand. They’re both right-handed, which means Phainon has gotten the better end of the deal with the curse: he digs in right away, picking up a golden egg roll from the platter and barely bothering to chew before he swallows.

There’s a crumb stuck to his chin. As nonchalantly as possible, Mydei reaches across the table and brushes it away, making sure to let his fingers linger on Phainon’s face.

“You eat like a child,” he says, voice a murmur.

Phainon freezes. The colour in his cheeks deepens. He gapes at Mydei for what feels like an eternity, his mouth open, before he snaps it shut again and sets his jaw. “Thank you, dearest,” he bites out, eyes defiant.

Mydei arches an eyebrow and ignores the lurch in his chest. “Of course, darling.”

They eat in tense silence for a while after that, the clink of their utensils the only sound between them. Then, just as Mydei cuts into a piece of rocklamb steak, Phainon leans over and swipes his hand across Mydei’s lip. Mydei almost drops his knife at the touch of warm skin. Phainon trails his fingers slowly, maddeningly, pressing his thumb into the corner of Mydei’s mouth before sitting back with a triumphant air. He brings his hand to his own mouth and darts his tongue out, licking away the drop of sauce on his finger.

“You had a little something there,” he says by way of explanation, tilting his head.

Heat pools from Mydei’s face all the way down to his gut. “I see,” he says through clenched teeth. “Thanks.”

“No need.”

Unwilling to lose, Mydei stabs his fork into the piece of steak on his plate. He holds it out to Phainon. “Here,” he says, not quite able to conceal the taunt in his voice. “I think I received the fresher cut of meat between us today. You should have a taste.”

He holds Phainon’s gaze, challenging. The forkful of meat hovers between them.

Phainon glowers at him. Then he leans forward and wraps his fingers around Mydei’s wrist, pulling his hand closer. Without breaking eye contact, he brings the fork to his mouth and bites into the meat, chewing slowly. After a beat, he swallows, and unbidden, Mydei’s eyes follow the bob of his throat.

“Delicious,” Phainon says in a voice that makes it sound like anything but.

“I told you so.”

“You should try these, too.” Phainon picks up a slice of honey-soaked apple from the center of his platter. He offers it to Mydei.

Mydei raises his brows. “You do know I have the exact same thing on my plate?”

“Please, I insist,” Phainon says. The gleam in his eyes is still there, an unspoken dare as obvious as if he’s said it aloud. “You wouldn’t turn me down, would you, my love?”

It’s ridiculous. The endearment drips saccharine sweet from Phainon’s mouth, the goading note to it clear—and yet Mydei still feels something like a current run down his spine, as if he’s been struck by a thunderclap from Strife itself. He grits his teeth and leans forward, taking the apple slice into his mouth and barely resisting the urge to bite Phainon’s finger off.

Phainon’s smile curls, victorious. He picks up a second piece. “Another?”

“Don’t be absurd. I have my own.”

“Oh? How cruel. I wouldn’t have thought you’d deny me the chance to feed you by hand, sweetheart.”

“Your sweetheart,” Mydei says acidly, “is attempting to actually eat his own meal, so—”

“Lords Phainon and Mydei?”

They both whip around. Kyros stands by their table, avoiding eye contact, a flush on his face. “I’m very sorry to interrupt,” he says quickly. “I just wished to ask if either of you would like a refill of water.”

“No thank you,” Phainon says, at the same time Mydei says, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Alright. And, ah… if I may speak candidly…”

Phainon frowns. “What is it?”

Kyros hesitates. His eyes flick around them, embarrassment clear in the lines of his face. Gradually, Mydei realizes the scene they must make: their hands interlocked on the table, Phainon still holding an apple slice to Mydei’s mouth, their faces close enough that there’s barely space for a breath between them.

“If you two would like me to reserve a private table for you in the future, I’d be more than happy to do so,” the owner of Marmoreal Diner finally says, expression still painfully awkward. He leans down and lowers his voice to a hush. “I can guarantee that such an arrangement would be suitable for your more… intimate occasions, my lords.”

☼ ☼ ☼

Marmoreal Palace is mercifully quiet when they finally return, all traces of its drunken patrons gone this close to Curtain-Fall Hour. Even so, Mydei can’t help feeling a little on edge as they cut through the Court of Seasons once more—but thankfully, the only people they run into are a few half-conscious stragglers, and the odd attendant who merely gives a respectful bow in their direction before returning to their work.

The two of them are silent as they ascend the first staircase. Then, from behind him, Phainon says, “Do you think Kyros will be inclined to charge us extra the next time we return to the Diner?”

Mydei gives him an incredulous look. Phainon’s tone is joking, lighthearted in a way that doesn’t match the faint flush still on his face. He’s been wearing the same expression since Kyros left them to finish their meal in silence: clearly embarrassed, but doing his best to hide it. If Mydei didn’t know him so well, it might have worked on him.

“And whose fault will it be if he does?” he says dryly, turning back around.

“Come now, Mydei. I daresay we both played an equal part.”

“You should reacquaint yourself with the definition of ‘equal,’ Deliverer.”

“Surely you don’t mean that. As I seem to recall, it was you who—” Abruptly, Phainon cuts himself off. “Where are you going?”

Mydei comes to a stop. They’ve wound their way through the Hall of Respite by now, and just before them stands the entrance to the Overflowing Bath, far less busy than usual but as grand as ever. He turns to face Phainon, pulling at their joined hands, and says, “Where do you think?”

“Mydei…” The joking lilt to Phainon’s voice is gone, and he suddenly sounds much more hesitant than before. “You don’t mean…”

Mydei raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you were planning on turning in for the day without heading to the baths?”

Phainon stares at him, speechless.

“You must be aware that the Hero’s Baths aren’t solely for relaxation. The waters are imbued with Phagousa’s blessings for good reason, and their healing properties would do us some good after that stint in the ruins.”

Phainon’s mouth opens and closes before he says, haltingly, “Surely there won’t be any dire consequences if we skip a day?”

He’s clearly flustered. Mydei frowns. “It won’t be the first time we enter the same bath,” he points out. “Are you truly so opposed?”

For a moment, he thinks Phainon’s going to refuse. He’s still looking at Mydei with that self-conscious expression on his face, the line of his mouth tight with something Mydei can’t quite read.

But then it clears and he nods. “Never mind,” Phainon says. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

The usually hectic chamber of the Overflowing Bath is empty when they enter—their steps echo almost eerily off the walls, and the whir of the platform as it descends, usually quiet, is near-deafening in the silence. As they take it up to the Hero’s Baths, Mydei chances a glance at Phainon. He’s chewing his lip absentmindedly as he stares out at the baths below them, eyes distant in thought like the Grove scholar he very much is not.

“You’ll have to figure out what to do about your clothing,” Mydei says, and Phainon startles.

“What?”

“Your clothing, Deliverer.” When Phainon just blinks at him, Mydei huffs. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our situation. How are you going to remove your shirt when our hands are bound?”

“Oh,” Phainon says, as if he’s just realized it himself. He frowns down at his outfit. He’s still in only his black undershirt, his usual coat long taken away to Aglaea’s workshop after they brought it back covered in Mydei’s blood. “I suppose I’ll just wear it in the baths?”

Mydei stares at him. “You’re not serious?”

“It’s not as if I can just cut it off,” Phainon says defensively. “I won’t have anything to wear on the way back if I do, and it’s far too late to bother Aglaea.” The platform comes to a stop, and he steps off, tugging Mydei by the hand. “Come on, Mydei. Let’s be quick about this.”

Undressing is an excruciatingly awkward affair. Considering his usual choice of attire (or lack thereof), Mydei should be in a much better position—he’s free to pull his robe and mantle off his left side, if a little gracelessly, and his trousers and cuisses are difficult but not impossible to remove with one hand. He hasn’t donned his gauntlets since Phainon took them off for him back at the ruins, and his bare hands make things easier, although the sensation is more than a little strange after so many years of wearing them near-constantly.

Even so, it doesn’t stop the process from being uncomfortable. Undressing himself while his dominant hand is locked to another person’s is an experience Mydei would be glad to never repeat. At the very least, he’s doing better than Phainon, who keeps stumbling and losing his balance as he tries to disrobe.

The third time Mydei has to reach out and steady Phainon after the other man almost topples over, he snaps, “Your sense of balance is horrendous.”

“Well, my apologies for never having trained for this sort of situation,” Phainon protests. He’s leaning down and struggling to pull off his left boot with his right hand, and what Mydei can see of his ears is tinged pink. “We can’t all go around wearing nearly nothing on our bodies, Mydei.”

Mydei sighs. Then he half-kneels in front of Phainon, placing his free hand on his ankle.

Phainon tenses up immediately. “What—”

“Relax. I’m helping you.” Mydei glances up at him and raises an eyebrow. “Unless you want to be here all night?”

Phainon’s quiet as Mydei carefully unlatches the buckle on his boot, then loosens the strap so he can ease it off Phainon’s foot. With Phainon standing and Mydei on one knee, their joined hands are stretched awkwardly between them, fingers pulling at each other where they’re stuck. Phainon’s hand is even warmer from the humidity so close to the baths. For a moment, Mydei wonders how it’ll feel once they enter the water, how much hotter Phainon’s skin will burn beneath all the steam.

He taps Phainon’s ankle once he’s done, letting him know to raise his foot. Then Mydei pulls the boot off and tosses it near the pile of his own clothing. “There,” he says. “Congratulations, Deliverer. You must be the first person of your age in Okhema to have someone do that for you.”

“Thanks,” Phainon says, his voice strange.

Mydei doesn’t dwell on it. He stands and dusts himself off. “Come on. The sooner you finish undressing, the sooner we can go in.”

Of course, it takes Phainon no less than four attempts to pull off his trousers, but eventually he manages. The moment they finally step into the bath, Mydei can’t quite hold back a relieved exhale. Phagousa’s blessings are as potent as ever—the gold-tinted water laps at his skin as he lowers himself to a seat, seeming to leech the tension straight from his bones.

Close beside him, Phainon sits as well. Their joined hands sink below the water as he tips his head back and sighs. “Wow,” he says. “Perhaps this was a good idea after all.”

“Of course it was,” Mydei says, mildly disgruntled.

“Hey, you can’t fault me for being hesitant. Our situation isn’t exactly normal.”

Mydei looks over at Phainon, who—true to his words earlier—is still wearing his black undershirt. It’s soaked with water now, plastered tightly to his skin, and the hard lines of muscle beneath the fabric are more obvious than ever. Traitorous heat rises to Mydei’s face. He looks away and mutters, “You’d do well to remember Aglaea’s words. We’re meant to go on with life as usual, are we not?”

Phainon gives a noncommittal hum. Then he sinks even lower into the water, letting out a groan so loud and guttural that Mydei’s gut burns.

“Must you be so shameless?”

“We’re alone,” Phainon points out. “Let me enjoy this while I can. It’s rare that the baths are so empty, after all.” He pushes a wet strand of silvery hair out of his eyes, blinking away the water, and adds, “It’s a shame we didn’t think to retrieve any bathing oils from the lower floor before we came here.”

Mydei glances at him, bemused. “Why?”

“Well, we’re still stuck. Perhaps applying oil will help encourage our hands to separate?”

Mydei barely even wants to dignify that with a response. “If it were possible to defeat a Titan’s power so easily,” he says, voice dry, “I imagine we wouldn’t have gotten into this situation in the first place.”

“Hmm.” Phainon pulls himself up a little. He lifts their joined hands out of the water, eyes curious. “I wonder how this really works.”

Mydei follows his gaze. Not for the first time, he’s struck by how natural their hands look clasped together, Phainon’s fingers intertwined with his own as comfortably as if they’ve done this a million times before. Heat from the bath rises from the water, bringing a flush to their skin; like he predicted, Phainon’s hand is a searing weight in his own, so warm Mydei’s sure he would have long flinched away if they weren’t locked together.

It makes him notice how close he and Phainon really are. With their hands bound, there’s little possibility of keeping a respectable distance away. The space between them is so small it might not exist at all, and Mydei can feel Phainon’s soft breaths hitting the skin of his damp wrist, the heat from the other man’s body pressing against him like a physical force.

It is, Mydei realizes, terrifyingly intimate.

Phainon’s eyes flick up and meet his. They hold each other’s gaze for one heartbeat, two—then Phainon clears his throat and looks away, shattering the strange tension between them.

“Well,” he says, coughing a little. “I suppose Aglaea and Tribbie are doing their best to find out as we speak.”

Mydei has to swallow around the sudden dryness in his throat. His voice is hoarse when he replies, “Right.”

“Speaking of Aglaea—do you think she’ll be angry with me if she finds out I wore her handiwork into the baths?”

“You say that assuming she doesn’t already know. Have you forgotten about those threads of hers?” Mydei gives him a sidelong look. Phainon’s shirt now looks like ink against his chest with how soaked it is, clinging to his shoulders. Mydei’s gaze trails up to his neck, and he frowns and reaches out, hooking a finger under the leather of Phainon’s choker and pulling, just slightly. “A better question, Deliverer, is why you never bother to take this off.”

His knuckle rests just against the hollow of Phainon’s throat, so Mydei can physically feel the way the other man’s breath hitches. For a second, Phainon’s head tips forward, following the force of Mydei’s pull. His blue eyes go half-lidded, wet lashes lowering against pink cheeks.

Mydei blinks. Phainon blinks back, the flush on his face darkening.

Then he jerks away and dunks his head under the water.

Mydei jolts back from the ensuing splash. He stares, incredulous, at the shadow of Phainon’s form beneath the rippling surface. “Deliverer, what—”

Just as quickly, Phainon emerges again with a gasp. He shakes his hair dry, scattering droplets of water everywhere, and coughs again.

“Are you a dog?” Mydei snaps. He wipes away the water from his brow, grimacing.

Phainon’s voice is a rasp. “Sorry.”

“If you want to clean your hair so badly, wait until we’re back in the—”

“I don’t,” Phainon mumbles. When Mydei glances at him, he’s staring determinedly down at the water, his dripping bangs plastered to his forehead. He’s back to sitting again, but now he’s scooted about as far away from Mydei as he can possibly be with their hands still linked. “Let’s just stay a while longer and then go, alright? I’m more than ready to head to bed by now.”

Mydei decides to throw him a bone and not point out how he doesn’t look tired in the least. He sighs and shuts his eyes. “Fine.”

They sit in the water in silence. When enough time has passed, Mydei opens his eyes and chances another look at Phainon. His eyes are closed, and his hair is still wet despite his earlier efforts, locks of silver-blue plastered to the side of his face. The heat paints a flush over his skin, rosy pink spreading down his chest and beneath his soaked undershirt. Rivulets of water run along the smooth expanse of Phainon’s neck, settling in the dip of his collarbone where his sun marking ends. A droplet catches there, and those gold lines glimmer, dawn-bright.

Mydei nearly hurts his neck with how quickly he looks away. Uncomfortable desire sparks low in his abdomen, hot and insistent. He grits his teeth. He wants to pull Phainon closer. He wants to push him away. He wants to put enough distance between them so he can clear his head, cool himself down, anything to rid his body of this ache at its core—

But of course, he can’t. Phainon’s hand is still locked tight in his, burning so warm it might as well be a second Dawn Device.

This, Mydei reflects as he settles deeper into the water, may not have been as good an idea as he’d initially thought.

☼ ☼ ☼

On their way out of the Overflowing Baths, there’s a brief moment of confusion when they reach the exit: Mydei heads one way, Phainon heads the other, and it takes their joined hands stretching their arms almost to the point of pain for them to stop in their tracks.

They stare at each other. Then the realization hits them at the same time. “Right,” Phainon says, blinking. “We have to…” He trails off.

Mydei exhales. “Well, Deliverer,” he says dryly, almost crossing his arms before realizing, once again, that he no longer can. “What’ll it be? Your chambers or mine?”

Phainon winces. “Do you have to say it like that?”

“How else should I say it? It doesn’t change the situation.”

“Fine, fine.” Phainon chews on his lip as he thinks, and Mydei has to resist the urge to pinch his face to get him to stop. “You don’t have a preference?”

“I don’t,” Mydei says, which is the truth. Phainon sleeping in his bed and him sleeping in Phainon’s bed both seem like equally bad options when he imagines them: either way, they’ll have to share a space so small there might as well be no distance between them at all, spending the remainder of Curtain-Fall Hour breathing each other’s air, their bodies always close enough to touch. The baths already seemed intimate, but lying side by side in the same bed is another matter entirely. Not for the first time, Mydei reminds himself that there are worse people to be bound to. He’d rather have Phainon than anyone else in Okhema; that, in the end, has to count for something.

“Let’s head to yours, then, if you don’t mind? I still have a few antiques awaiting appraisal stored in my room, so there might not be enough space for both of us.”

There’s a subdued quality to Phainon’s voice that’s been there since they emerged from the baths. Mydei lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t acknowledge it. “Fine by me,” he says, and turns. “Let’s go.”

The walk to his chambers is quiet. When they get there, Mydei unlocks the door and leads Phainon inside, nodding in the direction of his bedroom. “This way,” he says, pushing open another door, and pulls him in by the hand.

He watches Phainon’s eyes rove around the space. It’s not the first time Phainon’s visited his chambers—in fact, he often knocks at Mydei’s door, whether it be to fetch him for one of Aglaea’s meetings or challenge him to a spar—but it is the first time he’s entered his bedroom. The area is sparsely furnished with a large bed, a wardrobe, and a pair of stools around a trapeza. His personal belongings are minimal: a rack of weapons by the door, a bronze mirror, some texts Tribbie recommended stacked on the nightstand.

“Make yourself at home,” Mydei says wryly. He turns and, catching sight of Phainon’s still-damp shirt, frowns. “Do you need to borrow any sleep clothes?”

Phainon shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“You’re really planning on wearing that the entire time until we’re freed?”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Phainon says. “I’m sure Aglaea will understand.” He gives an exaggerated yawn, stretching out the arm of his free hand, and drops down onto the bed, nearly pulling Mydei off balance. “Finally. I’m exhausted.”

Mydei shoots him a look. “At least undress yourself properly,” he mutters, beginning to unbuckle his own belt. “I won’t have you dirtying my bed even under extenuating circumstances.”

Phainon turns around a little too quickly. “Of course.”

Methodically, Mydei removes his shoes, his cuisses, his belt then his trousers, leaving him in his underwear. It certainly takes him longer than usual with one hand, but he manages. He’s kept his mantle and robe off since the baths; he places those on one of the stools, not bothering to fold them, then lifts his heavy necklace over his head and lays it on the nightstand by his bed.

When he turns, he finds that Phainon’s watching him from the bed, already down to his own shirt and underwear. His eyes flicker up Mydei’s body, settling on his face, and he asks, “Are you not going to take that off, too?”

It takes Mydei a beat to realize he’s talking about the earring. He furrows his brow and touches the gold-framed gem. “This? No. It’ll take more effort than it’s worth with one hand.”

Phainon’s silent for a moment. Then he reaches up. “Here,” he says quietly. “Let me.”

Mydei blinks at him, surprised.

“Come on, Mydei.” Phainon’s smiling, a little teasing, a lot sincere. “I won’t bite.”

So Mydei goes, carefully kneeling down on the bed across from Phainon. Facing him, Mydei’s left ear is aligned near-perfectly with Phainon’s free hand. He turns his head to give him better access and waits. Phainon inhales, and then there are soft, barely-there fingers at his ear, almost hesitant as they touch the clasp of his earring.

They’re so close he can feel every one of Phainon’s breaths against his face. Mydei keeps his eyes on the sun on Phainon’s skin, the damp strands of hair curling at the base of his neck, and tries to slow his thrumming pulse.

The earring loosens and drops into Phainon’s hand. “There,” he says.

Mydei turns back around, ready to take the earring, but pauses. Phainon’s still holding it in his palm, staring down at it as if it’s one of those antique artifacts he cherishes so much.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Phainon’s gaze meets his. There’s the jewel in his hand, and there’s Kephale’s light spilling beyond the window across an endless sky, but somehow Phainon’s eyes are still the bluest thing in the room. He looks down at Mydei’s earring and says softly, “I was just thinking this colour suits you.”

For reasons he can’t explain, Mydei’s mouth goes bone-dry. “Stop chattering about inane things,” he says, looking away. “Let’s go to bed.”

He can hear the faint smile still in Phainon’s voice. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

It’s not as awkward as it could be, lying down next to Phainon. Perhaps they’ve already gotten used to the closeness after nearly a full day of it, the intimacy coming almost naturally with time. They settle on the bed back-to-back—Phainon facing the window and Mydei the wall, their joined hands lying curled in the space between them. Like this, Mydei’s bare shoulder is brushing Phainon’s, and they’re near enough for him to discern the slight rise and fall of Phainon’s chest.

Mydei clears his throat. “Tomorrow at Entry Hour, we can check in with Aglaea and the others. Even if they haven’t yet found a solution by then, they might have some useful information to offer.”

Phainon hums. “Alright. Sounds like a plan.”

“Who knows? If we’re fortunate enough, we might wake up to our hands freed,” Mydei says wryly. “After today, even the almighty Deliverer must be keen for some alone time by now.”

There’s silence for a while. For a brief moment, he thinks Phainon’s already fallen asleep.

But then Phainon says, quietly: “It wasn’t too bad. I felt a little like a child again, being held onto all the time.”

His voice is wistful, heavy with the undercurrent of an emotion Mydei can’t quite name. Mydei’s chest tightens. He knows only bits and pieces of Phainon’s life before the Chrysos Heirs, but it’s more than enough to understand the things that still eat away at him. Aedes Elysiae; his home, his family. The memories of his youth, tainted and stolen by a tragedy that aches to this day, as tender as a bruise that refuses to heal.

Mydei opens his mouth but finds himself at a loss for words. What could he say, he wonders, that could possibly begin to mend an age-old wound like that? What could he say to let Phainon know—or rather, believe—that he’s no longer alone?

He’s saved from having to think of something when Phainon yawns. He shifts, jostling their bound hands, and settles into his pillow, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the bed.

“Good night, Mydei.”

Mydei shuts his eyes. In his mind, he sees fingers intertwining with his own, water shimmering off the golden lines of a sun half-filled.

“Good night, Phainon,” he says, before he can think better of it, and he’s close enough to feel Phainon’s breath catch at the use of his name.