Archive of Our Own

The air hangs thick with heat and humidity, the kind that makes Mydei retreat to the shade instead of spending the day out strolling Okhema or refining his bladework elsewhere. As he explores the archives, his fingers come to a stop at a certain scroll. It's familiar, inked in a script he never imagined he’d see here, of all places. The text in his hands was one he had read close to a hundred times back home. One of his favourites, he’d say. 

Despite the rumours, Mydei does enjoy reading from time to time. It’s nice to revisit old literature from his hometown. 

His peace is short-lived, interrupted by a sudden warmth on his back. 

A shadow falls behind him, accompanied by the scent of sun-warmed skin and faint metal. Mydei doesn’t startle. He knew it was Phainon before he even spoke. He always did. 

“Are you reading something? What’s that?”

When did Phainon even sneak up on him?

“That’s none of your business,” he says quietly, though not exactly dismissal. 

“I’m not snooping! It’s just—” Phainon leans closer, breath stirring Mydei’s hair. “I didn’t take you for the scholarly type.” A pause. “Actually, I’ve never seen you read before… so I just assumed you couldn’t.” 

“...?” Titans stop him before he ends up whacking this deliverer over the head with this precious scroll. “Am I a mere savage in your eyes.” 

“What— no! I was just surprised, that’s all.” He trails off with a sheepish smile. 

Mydei's expression remains flat as he studies the other, before exhaling sharply through his nose, turning his attention back to the piece of text in his palms. Still, the extra company in the room was difficult to ignore. Peace and quiet, he chants inwardly, peace and—

“Say, Mydei, is Kremnoan a difficult language to study?” 

“Yes,” says the Crown Prince without much initial thought, only hoping the curt response would succeed in turning the Deliverer away from the subject.

It does not.

“Teach me, won’t you?” 

Now that took him by surprise, turning to look at the other. A mistake, for Phainon is too close, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks flushed from the outside heat. 

He’s definitely doing this on purpose. 

“Why Kremnoan of all languages? The language died with its people. Even the scrolls are starting to rot.” Harsh, but it is the truth. “You’d be better off learning something else that’s still alive.” 

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with wanting to learn it.” Phainon’s smile softens along with his voice. “You’re still here.” 

That alone is enough to move Mydei, warmth blooming beneath his ribs. He stares at the latter, mild surprise on his features. Damn him and the stupid soft spot he held for the deliverer. I could bite you right now, he’d say out loud if not for the—

The unsaid thing between them. Lingering glances, tenderness left unspoken about, a quiet current of feelings both of them knew existed yet refused to address. 

“HKS,” is all he muttered in response under his breath.

“What does that mean?” The seat next to him is pulled back as Phainon takes it, scooting closer. 

“Scoundrel.” 

“You— hey!” 

Mindless bickering isn’t a concept so foreign when it comes to the pair. More often than not, Mydei finds himself partaking in the randomest debates over the most pointless of things, turning mundane activities into a challenge—if they’re not already engaged in a heated sparring session, that is. 

But at the end of it all? He enjoys it. Time flies faster when they’re engrossed in something senseless.

It’s different as Curtain Fall Hour approaches. The incessant and mindless bickering persists, of course, but between the words there lies a different air that leans towards something more private, intimacy shared between two. 

Sometimes they simply stay there, basking in each other’s proximity and the comfortable kind of peace it brings. Oftentimes though, things do escalate. 

It’s another one of those nights where Mydei deems it more convenient for Phainon to just stay the night to avoid the bothersome rumours that would circulate should someone catch Okhema's deliverer slipping from his quarters at this hour. Not many stroll the halls at this time, but… Mydeimos would rather not risk it.

This isn’t the first time.

He has long convinced himself that he should be used to this by now, but feeling a dip in the side of his bed that usually sits empty and waking up to warmth pressing up against his back still feels too foreign to be real. Even if he’s had other ‘encounters’ in the past before, Mydei has never allowed any of them to stay the night. They always left first, or he did. This space has always been his and his alone when dawn eventually arrived.

Phainon is the only exception to this rule. Any thoughts of why that came to be have long been buried, saving him hours of contemplating his feelings. Perhaps it is because with Phainon, silence never lingers. He has never failed to fill it with the most incessant ramblings: stories from his day, something his ears had picked up on the streets, a random trivia he discovered from one of the Chrysos Heirs earlier that day. 

Either way, Mydeimos had discovered—much to his own horror—that he doesn’t entirely mind this so-called ‘incessant rambling’. He even found it enjoyable enough to entertain the deliverer with a debate on senseless theories.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Mydei would rather drown in the Sea of Souls one more time.

“I’m sleepy.” Phainon’s murmur cuts through the quiet, Kremnoan pronunciation absolutely butchered to the point that Mydei’s sure his ancestors are silently judging them. 

“Go to sleep, HKS,” mumbles Mydei, the insult surprisingly gentle despite its true meaning.

"What was that?” 

“I said you’re an idiot.” That earns him a smack to his shoulders. “Your pronunciation’s even worse than a toddler’s.” 

“That’s because you’re a terrible teacher,” Phainon says, petulance in his voice thin over affection.

Only then does Mydei fully turn to his side to face him, eyeing the way the dim light seems to catch the silver of Phainon’s hair. He reaches over without thinking. “Like this,” he mutters, thumb pressing against Phainon’s bottom lip to force the correct shape. “Your tongue here,” his touch lingers. “And don’t enunciate the last syllable too much.” 

Phainon’s eyes widen but he doesn’t flinch. 

His lips part against the pressure of Mydei’s thumb, following with what Mydei would consider a terrifying level of trust. 

They’ve done worse—much worse—so why did his heart skip a beat at such a simple touch? 

Mydei hopes the way he snatched his hand back as if it was scalded isn’t too obvious of a telling of his panic. 

“Go to sleep, Mydeimos.” Phainon gives another attempt, softer this time. 

And Mydei does not mention how he still got the intonation wrong, because it was all but forgotten at the mere sound of his name and his language in Phainon’s voice.

He only hums low in response, tension dissipating from his shoulders. His head falls wherever was most convenient in their current position— in this case being the dip between Phainon’s neck and shoulder. Silently, he prays to all the Titans above that the heat in his cheeks pressed against skin would go unnoticed by the deliverer. 

Little does he know that the same sentiment is mirrored by the deliverer too. 

The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is the faint, almost hesitant feeling of fingers carding through his hair, the gesture too gentle for one supposedly crowned in blood.

The contact feels strangely comforting.

He’s pretty sure the feeling of lips against his temple was just his drowsiness’ imagination.  

“May trouble never plague your sleep, deliverer.” The ancient Kremnoan words come as a hushed murmur against his skin like a silent prayer into the dark. 

In response, he feels the slightest shift, the fingers woven in his hair stilling for a moment. Mydei doesn’t even need to look up to know Phainon was smiling that same soft smile. “You haven’t taught me that one.” 

“No,” he whispers, voice succumbing to sleep. “I haven’t.” 

“Goodnight, Mydei.”

Mydei has come to the conclusion, rather reluctantly, that perhaps Phainon is not entirely a lost cause when it comes to linguistics.

He picked up on things quickly, could memorize most of the words, and isn’t doing so bad on pronunciation either despite the ancient language leaning more towards a guttural sound as opposed to the usual common language.  Admittedly, the speed at which Phainon’s improving is mildly irritating. 

It isn’t perfect but, well. It is passable, definitely much better than his atrocious first try. 

The most impressive thing, though, is Phainon’s persistence. It turns out that Mydei could not turn a single corner, enjoy a meal or polish his blades without the deliverer pointing at the most random objects to ask him about the Kremnoan equivalent. 

“How do you say ‘sword’ in Kremnoan?”

“Sword. Greatsword. Dagger. There are many variants depending on the type of sword,” Mydei replies flatly, not even looking up from the blade he was sharpening. 

Another instance, “How do you say fish?”

Mydei looks up from his dish, deadpans, but replies anyway, the foreign word repeated slowly by Phainon. Now, time to go back to enjoying his dinner—

“What do you call this dish in Kremnoan?” Phainon asks, referring to the dish in front of Mydei. 

Truthfully, he has no idea either. Turns out his ancestors found it unnecessary to give names to certain dishes aside from ones considered extreme local specialties. He doubts they would even consider naming a dish hailing from Okhema. 

“Fish marinated in garlic and soy sauce sprinkled with lemon zest and pepper.” To someone who didn’t speak Kremnoan, that probably sounded like nonsensical gibberish—which is made worse by him purposely speaking faster than he usually would. His lips twitched in amusement at the confusion written all over Phainon’s face, mouth gaping.

“I feel like you just cursed me.”

Mydei just shrugs. As much as he wanted to entertain him further, he opts to continue eating instead.

Somehow, it gets even worse in the training arena. They spar as they usually would in their practice sessions except with extra interrogation from Phainon.

Mydei catches the incoming blade before it strikes him, deflecting it sharply with his forearm plated with gold. “Mydei,” he barely catches Phainon, the sound of him almost drowned by the clashing of blades, panting and footsteps against dirt. “How would you call a spear in the Kremnoan language?” 

He cannot be fucking serious. 

“Spear.” His directly translates, reply falling short as he sidesteps, striking forward with a harsh jab of his fist which is, as expected, deftly dodged by the deliverer. 

“Iron?” 

“Iron.”

“Armour.” Phainon asks.

“Armour.” 

“What about ‘fight’?” 

Mydei replies with the Kremnoan language equivalent, a click of his tongue following as his movements quicken, faster than usual in hopes to exhaust the other enough from talking. 

“Sweat?” Of course that didn’t work. Does he ever give up? 

“Swe—” Fuck. He almost missed the incoming swing, body swiveling just in time to not get hit square in the blade. “HKS, can you just focus on the fight?” His patience grows thin yet the exhilaration remains the same as it had always been whenever they sparred. 

Phainon’s insistence on asking should’ve annoyed him.

It would have annoyed any other person, but surprisingly (and irritatingly so), it feels more like a routine that Mydei finds himself starting to anticipate. He convinces himself that it is merely a useful exercise to test the limits of his own patience. 

Yeah, Mydei doesn’t mind. Even finds it peculiarly entertaining watching their deliverer so fixated on something so trivial like the vocabulary and grammar of a dead nation. 

But there exists a more foolish, delusional part inside of him that dwells on the what-ifs. What if this is Phainon’s own unique,  and slightly stupid, way of trying to learn more about him? Why would one ever want to study a dead language if not that? 

However, any further thoughts of that are executed and buried as fast as they were conjured up. Mydeimos was never one to be utterly delusional over some random boy— what was he thinking? 

The spar ended as it would. A draw, as always.

“I would’ve easily won if not for the incessant questions you kept on asking.” Mydei’s words are followed by a grumble as they enter the Hero’s Bath— a common routine between them now. 

This became their ritual: sparring, exerting themselves in the training grounds, followed by basking themselves in warmth and relieving the aches in their bodies in the healing waters. 

“Soooo… you’re suggesting that you were distracted by my voice?” Phainon teases as he falls into step right next to Mydei, turning the corner to enter the area of the baths reserved solely for the Chrysos Heirs. His words alone earned him a deadpan from the Kremnoan. “That my questions are all it takes to break the great warrior of Okhema’s focus?” 

“You are insufferable,” Mydei responds, footsteps quiet in the bath’s hallways as steam embraces them both, his voice devoid of any real bite. 

“Yet you love me.” 

“...” 

What. 

Mydei mentally curses himself for almost tripping on his feet— a stumble he so swiftly corrects, composure snapping back almost instantaneously. Now, that would have been embarrassing, especially here. “I tolerate you,” he corrects, his voice a bit tighter than before. 

A part of him is glad that the baths are practically empty at this hour.  

"Whatever you say, Mydeimos~.” 

Mydei decides that it would just be best to respond with silence. 

He turns his attention to the familiar preparations instead, layers of attire discarded piece by piece onto a nearby bench along with the jewelry that usually adorns his upper half. Phainon follows suit. 

He doesn’t look— doesn’t need to, because the rustling of fabric and quiet clink of metal are enough. This version of Phainon, private and unguarded, is a sight for him alone.

And that does something to his pride. 

Only when he hears the other’s soft sigh and the sound of water rippling—signaling that Phainon was sinking into the main bath—does Mydei finally do the same, stepping out of the last of his clothes, towel wrapped around his waist before slipping in next to the deliverer. 

The temperature’s perfect as it always was, just warm enough to pinken the skin and welcome relief to his body, soothing the protest of his overworked muscles. 

A comfortable silence settles between them, a song they often bask in whenever not bickering, and a language they’ve spoken fluently multiple times before. They aren’t touching, not yet, but close enough that Mydei feels the water stir with every movement. 

It’s Phainon, of course, who breaks the quiet, hushed voice softened by the steam. “The word for ‘water’.” 

Mydei doesn’t open his eyes, just replies his language’s equivalent in a murmur, the word a guttural rumble in his throat. 

He feels Phainon’s gaze on him as he repeats the said word, pronunciation careful, quiet in the space shared between two. 

Another stretch of silence, then, “And this?” 

Mydei cracks an eye open, eyes trailing down to the water and the way Phainon’s fingertips drew across it, leaving patterns that spiral out and vanish after a few seconds. “A ripple,” he says. 

“In the Kremnoan language,” Phainon presses. He finally turns towards Phainon, and the sight strikes Mydei with a sense of familiarity. Snowy hair plastered to his temples and forehead, ocean-blues deeper, gaze drowning in his. 

Here, his usual radiant energy condenses into something deeper, eyes more focused in the light dimmed with the steam’s haze. 

“Ripple.” 

“Ripple?” Phainon echoes, syllables carefully shaped on his lips. 

“Mhm,” he almost drifts off. 

Phainon’s eyes aren’t on the water anymore but on his companion. Then, he moves. 

His fingers, previously submerged in the bath, come to rest against his skin, ghost of a touch almost enough to make Mydei jump. 

Thankfully, he didn’t.

“Daydreaming?” Oh, he wants to punch him. Affectionately. 

???

“Shut up,” he mutters. But Phainon’s lips only twitch in amusement, an exhale following as tension lifts from his shoulders. 

A faint, knowing smile grows on Phainon’s lips but there is something else behind it. Something along the lines of tenderness. And they stay like that, wrapped in the bath’s serenity as Phainon’s fingertips idly traces his skin, hovering over the crimson that delicately marks Mydeimos’ body as if he is trying to memorize each and every pattern etched on the warrior’s skin. 

Mydei stills.

“Mydeimos.” 

“Deliverer.”

“How would you usually compliment someone in your language?” 

Mydei barely registers his words, and his world narrows down to the path of Phainon’s agonizingly slow touch. Despite the heat of the bath’s steam, a shiver threatens to break free. 

“There’s no phrase for that in the Kremnoan language,” he feigns nonchalance but the subtle tremble in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed by the other. “It isn’t a language of pointless praise, unless you are praising one’s battle strategies.” 

“Really?” 

“Deliverer,” he scowls. His skin, already sensitive under the air’s humidity, flushes a traitorous pink under Phainon’s attention. He’s vulnerable like this, his current state leaving him more exposed than any battlefield gash would. It’s a sweet, slow kind of burn that eases the tension from his body, so much so that it pulls a shuddering exhale from Mydei’s lips. 

His own reaction’s honesty horrifies him the moment it spills. 

“You sound a bit tense.” Without even facing him, Mydei can already picture the growing smile on his face. He hears it in his voice, unbearingly fond. “Relax, Mydei.” 

Asshole.

But he offers no protest, letting his head fall back against the smooth marble. He allows the moment to linger beyond what’s deemed acceptable for a pair who so vehemently insist that there’s nothing going on between them. 

Fingertips leave a trail of fire against his skin, tracing up his arm, careful over the curves and ridges of his bicep, pausing with deliberate patience and teasing at the knot in his shoulder.

Then they dip downwards across his collarbone. To be touched like this feels foreign, especially by the very hands prophesied to save Amphoreus. 

To be touched not as a weapon or body to be sacrificed, but as something fragile? Precious? As if he doesn’t possess an infinite amount of lives to throw away but only this one single, irreplaceable existence? That is a thought Mydei could not yet wrap his head around. 

He shouldn’t grow accustomed to this feeling, yet Phainon makes it impossible to not be selfish when he always handles Mydei with reverence, his touch softer than feather against skin. He treats him like something sacred. 

Even in bed, he touches him with tender intimacy, like anything rougher would end up shattering the Kremnoan warrior. And even when they do trend towards roughness and desperation on some evenings, never has Phainon ever ended the night without making sure that every single mark is soothed with whispered apologies between kisses against skin bruised deep purple. 

A brush of fingers up his throat and to his jaw draws Mydei back to the present. His head’s coaxed sideways by that familiar touch, angled so that he has no choice but to meet Phainon’s eyes.

“You’re distracted,” murmurs Phainon. “Like there’s something on your mind. What is it?” 

You. It’s always you. The truth is on his tongue, but too dangerous to be uttered out loud. 

“You’re going to be the death of me one day, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.” But there’s no malice in his words, only affection, his name whispered like a confession.

“Are we finally moving onto sentences? It’s either you’re professing your undying love for me or cursing my entire bloodline.” Given their current situation and the way his thumb strokes idle caresses against Mydei’s jaw, they’re both aware of which it is. 

“The latter,” Mydei lies. He shifts slightly, his hand moving on its own beneath the water’s surface, fingers seeking. 

The gesture is received with calloused fingers lacing over his own into a perfect fit, a warm thumb beginning its soothing trace against his bare knuckles.

The water ripples as Phainon moves closer, enough so that it’s easy for his eyes to wander across Mydei’s face before he leans forth, landing a kiss to his jaw. 

An act so simple that it feels too natural for them. 

Mydei supposes that for them, it is.

“You’re unbelievable.” But Mydei doesn’t push away, his body seeking the complete opposite.

“I know.” Phainon merely hums, the softness laced in Mydei’s voice enough to suggest that the foreign words mumbled just then were anything but derogatory. “I know.”

“The most annoying person I’ve ever met.” 

“I know,” he repeats, another kiss right next to the previous one, lingering this time. “Pretty.” Phainon murmurs, said in Mydeimos’ language and it causes him to still, his breath catching.

That shouldn’t have surprised Mydei as much as it did. He did mention that word in passing (without meaning to), after all, not even realizing until a few moments later. In his defense, it was when Phainon kept rapidfiring him asking him what this and this meant. Word after word.

“You infuriate me.” There’s a softer lilt to his voice now. Despite not seeing his entire face, he could feel the curve of Phainon’s smile against his skin. 

“Mhm.” Sensing his flustered state, Phainon tips Mydei’s head sideways with a press of his fingers, eyes raking over the undeniable warmth blooming on the other’s cheeks. 

His fingers come to trace over the crimson marking etched on his cheekbone, just above the warmed skin. The permanent mark signifying his Kremnoan descent, the very symbol of a past Phainon’s so desperately trying to learn. 

The scrutiny feels too heated, burning against his skin, too much, the heat of the bath paling in comparison.

Mydei meets him halfway, lips capturing Phainon’s with every touch of unvoiced longing he holds towards the deliverer. The world narrows to the taste of the steam and Phainon. And when they part? His head spins.

He blames it on the steam, on the heat. The humidity of the room. Anything but his own heart. 

But he couldn’t help but notice the sweetness that lingers.  

“You infuriate me, yet the sole idea of losing you terrifies me more than oblivion.” A thumb soothes over his cheek, brushing against the strand of braided hair. 

Phainon may not understand what he’s saying, but the raw emotion woven between words coupled with vulnerability laid bare in golden eyes that are usually guarded is another language in and of itself. 

Another language unique to Mydei that Phainon is well used to, learned from the hours spent by his side. 

“Whatever it is that you just said, the feeling is mutual,” replies Phainon in a whisper, his forehead coming to rest against Mydei's, their breaths mingling between the warmth of their bodies. 

A secret offered to the steam, meant for only the two of them to hear. 

Phainon would proudly proclaim that he’s doing pretty good, exceptionally well even, for someone who’s been studying this for only three months— has it even been that long? Time has a funny tendency of blurring when measured in the sound of Mydei’s exasperated expressions and sighs, along with the challenge of learning something new. 

He finds it amusingly entertaining. 

He doesn’t mind the scolding directed at him, having grown well used to it (unfortunately for Mydei). He lives for those moments, actually; the way Mydei’s brows would furrow and the incredulous look on his pretty face whenever Phainon asked for the Kremnonan language equivalent for something completely mundane. 

To him, the scolding’s merely background music, oddly comforting despite its nature. In fact, something in Phainon tells him he’ll even miss it if it ever stops. 

The truly surprising part isn’t the fact that he finds the whole ordeal entertaining though, but it’s how Phainon had come to genuinely enjoy it. The language’s more interesting than he had expected it to be. It feels like a puzzle, each word a key to the locked door that is Mydeimos, and he often finds himself reaching for scrolls related to Castrum Kremnos now as well. 

In common language, of course. Reading the intricate strokes of the foreign characters still proves a difficult feat. In his mind, they looked less like letters but more like battlefield formations. Speaking it was one thing, but deciphering the written letters was a completely different story. 

Much to his luck, the Marmoreal Palace’s repository is well stocked with books from all over. While not overflowing, its collection on the fallen nation isn’t lacking either— more enough to sate his newfound interest on the subject and keep him occupied during times of boredom. 

And it’s close to the baths too! How convenient. 

Scrolls highlighting childhood tales (or lack thereof), worn illustrations of the city inked upon parchment. Heck, he even found himself flipping and skimming through a Kremnoan language dictionary once in an attempt to impress Mydei by knowing the words he hadn't taught him. 

Which also included the words and phrases he refused to teach him. 

He failed, of course, but had fun nonetheless. And learned a few new words too. 

“Lord Phainon? Visiting again? It’s your third time this week, if I recall correctly…” One of the administrators— Apollonia (her name, if he remembered correctly?)— greets with a polite bow.

Phainon doesn’t blame her for the tinge of surprise in her voice. Honestly, he’d be surprised too if one of Okhema’s finest warriors, famous for his sword art and napping under the sun, suddenly started visiting the place thrice per week out of the blue.

“Mm, figured I needed a quiet place to spend my free afternoon, so why not here?” Phainon replies with a short chuckle, offering her a wave. “It’s growing on me, it seems.” 

“Another text on the military history of Castrum Kremnos?”

“Interesting… but I don’t think I’m in the mood for history today, surprisingly. I’ve already had my fill of battle strategies for the week,” he did spend the past three days reading about Nikador and the Titan’s importance to the Kremnoans, after all. It was interesting, but… not really something he’d go for. “Maybe something more lighthearted? Say, Miss Apollonia, would you happen to have something more on the, uh… softer side? With the nation being so war-focused, don’t you find yourself wondering, sometimes, how they viewed love?” 

He’s met with Apollonia’s pure confused and bewildered expression. Not really, Lord Phainon. I don’t really wonder about that, is what her expression screams. 

“Uh…” the poor woman stammers, and Phainon swears he can see the gears turning in her head as she racks her brain of any book that even comes close to what the Chrysos Heir just mentioned. “I… suppose we do have something? I’m not entirely sure if it’ll answer whatever questions you have on romance though, Lord Phainon.” 

“Not to worry! That’s better than nothing, isn’t it? I’ll take it.” 

Which is exactly how the deliverer, Okhema’s esteemed warrior, is now sitting in the corner of the repository by the window, way too engrossed in a book titled: ‘A Written Work on the Kremnoan Heart: A Guide to Devotion’. 

Yeah. He’d judge the title too, and admittedly he received a few odd stares too. 

To his surprise, it’s a decent book despite the title. Insightful, even. A part of him questioned how such a text can even exist and who exactly in the ever strict, duty-obsessed Kremnoan assembly approved of this title? 

Perhaps he had severely underestimated their romantic streak. 

It wasn’t anything special, just a non-fiction delving into the details of love in the eyes of a Kremnoan. 

What love meant. How affection was expressed in the nation. The subtle codes of courting rituals. The symbolic weight of certain items traded between lovers, and so on. 

Turns out sharing weapons was a sign of ultimate trust. 

Sparring for days and nights straight wasn’t deemed a normal act between two friends. 

Braiding another’s hair was seen as an act of intimacy reserved for lovers. 

Oh.

So engrossed, eyes tracing each passage, Phainon doesn’t even notice the sun dipping below the horizon.

What finally brought him back is the sudden notification chiming from his teleslate.

[Hyacine] Phainon? 

[Hyacine] I’m sorry for messaging so late! Hopefully I didn’t disturb your rest?  ( ╥﹏╥ )

[Hyacine] (Sticker)

[Phainon] Huh?? Not at all! I’m still wide awake haha

[Phainon] Is everything alright, Miss Hyacine? 

[Hyacine] Ah… about that

[Hyacine] Um

[Hyacine] It’s Mydei 

[Phainon] ? 

[Hyacine] Someone dropped him off at the infirmary

Phainon stares at the screen. What. 

That’s… uncharacteristic of Mydei. Is he alright? Injured? Poisoned?! He types a reply before his mind strays even further. 

[Phainon] (Sticker)

[Phainon] I’m omw 

Thankfully, the streets are mostly empty at this hour save from the select few still wandering on the streets on the way home. Phainon doesn’t take long to reach their location despite the distance. 

Yes, he ran all the way here from the Marmoreal Palace. 

Because what if something dangerous happened to Mydei?! 

Maybe he’s thinking too much. He’s probably overreacting, but when it comes to Mydei, he doesn’t care. 

It’s only when he barges into the room—panting and almost out of breath after almost blowing the doors off its hinges—does Phainon realize that yeah, perhaps he overreacted too much. 

“Hyacine! What happened? Is Mydei okay? Is he injured?” 

The poor healer almost jumps into the air, wide eyes snapping from the task at hand to the deliverer at her doorway with worry written all over his face, eyes darting around the room for a glimpse of the blonde Crown Prince. 

“What— Phainon! He’s alright! It’s just… Ah—”

CRASH.

Their heads instantly whip towards the direction of the sound— a cacophony of stumbling limbs and furniture. 

There, slumped on the floor, is none other than the ever-graceful Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos who always carried himself so properly on the streets. 

“Deliverer?” Mydei mumbles from the ground, his voice a slurred rumble. 

“Mydei?” Phainon cannot believe his eyes. He’s at his side in no time, staring blankly as he takes in the state that he’s in. 

His initial panic morphs into relief. At least he’s not bleeding. He doesn’t seem the least bit injured either.

Working together, he drapes Mydei’s arm across his shoulders as a worried Hyacine takes the other to help him back onto the bed. As he does so, Phainon can’t help but catch a faint distinct whiff of sweetness. 

Pomegranate…? 

“Lord Krateros brought him in, he wasn’t in a much better state either.” Hyacine explains, a pitying look on her face, brushing a strand of pink from her face with a sigh. “He said Mydei… Uh… Mistook pomegranate wine for juice and apparently drank quite an amount.” 

Ah. 

The puzzle pieces click. The lack of injury, his flushed state accompanied by uncoordinated movements, and the sweet fruity scent in the air. Mydeimos isn’t wounded, he’s drunk. Wasted. 

Mydei’s eyes, usually sharp and alert, are now struggling to focus, blinking the sleep away as he stares up at Phainon as if he’s the most fascinating sight in Amphoreus or the most complicated math problem. 

“Titans above, Mydeimos,” Phainon lets out a breath of pure relief that he doesn’t even realize he was holding, tension draining from his shoulders and replaced by a fond chuckle. “You… Do you even realize how much you just scared me?” 

And then he startles the life out of Phainon, his hand reaching out, grip surprisingly strong as Mydei’s fingers clumsily fists at the front of Phainon’s attire. He yanks Phainon down until they’re inches apart, the movement so sudden that his eyes blow wide with surprise. 

His breath is sweet, sweeter than the scent clinging to his clothes, Phainon notes.

“You, You have constellations in your eyes.” Mydei declares, his voice too serious for someone whose mind is clouded by alcohol. “I have decided that I wish to kiss you.” He pauses. “With tongue.” 

Silence. 

The silence that follows is too deafening. 

Heat explodes on Phainon’s face and neck, so intense that he’s surprised that the pomegranate wine in Mydei’s system doesn’t instantly evaporate. He could feel the utter horrified look from Hyacine, could practically hear her decide whether to intervene, run away or pretend to be deaf. 

“Mydei,” Phainon scolds while attempting (and failing) to pry the stubborn fingers from his shirt. “You’re drunk, stop talking, let’s go—”

“I am perfectly sober,” Mydei argues with unshakable confidence, and Phainon’s tugged even closer before he can even offer a proper reply, now face to face with the Kremnoan’s frown. “I will shut you up if you refuse to be quiet.” 

…Okay. 

Seeing how Mydei just admitted so openly— in front of Hyacine too— that he wants to tongue him, Phainon is certain that he wouldn’t hesitate to ‘shut him up’ right here either. 

Much to his horror, Mydei continues. 

“If you wish to grow your hair long one day…” His hand comes up to pat at Phainon’s burning cheek before cupping it. “I’ll braid it into my own so that we will never part.” As much as he loves Mydei’s smile, Phainon wants to die. “Will you let me do that?” 

All Phainon could do is glance back at Hyacine for help, who is suddenly developing a profound interest in frantically reorganizing her supplies on the nearby shelf.

“Phainon,” Mydei demands, his voice dropping into an unconventionally loud whisper. “Let’s get married.” 

Phainon has never been more glad that he just said that in Kremnoan instead of the common tongue. 

“Okay! That’s enough poetry for one night, Mydei!” He says with a forced laugh, finally succeeding in prying the warrior’s grip from his clothes. Shifting in his position, he immediately maneuvers Mydei’s arm back around his shoulder before something crazy falls from his lips again. Turning the both of them around, he shoots Hyacine an apologetic look. “I am so sorry, I’ll take him home immediately. Right now. I’ll make sure he doesn’t… disturb anyone else.” I am so sorry you had to witness all of that, I’ll make it up to you by answering your questions later, is what he meant. 

Who knew Mydei would be this unfiltered?! He makes a mental note to never let him near alcohol again. 

Phainon heaves him upright, half dragging, half carrying his almost-limp body towards the door. 

Mydei, for the most part, seems perfectly content— elated, even— to let himself be manhandled by the deliverer, happily mumbling comments about the colour of Phainon’s eyes against his shoulder, foreign words slipping in between common language. 

“Thank you, Hyacine!” Phainon calls over his shoulder again, remnants of warmth still lingering on his cheeks as he ignores how Mydei’s rambles move onto describing the slope of his nose. “I owe you, really!” 

“Oh— it’s okay, really! Just… Please get home safe…” Is the last thing Phainon hears before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t even want to think about how he’ll be able to get Mydei all the way home. 

Phainon’s beyond grateful that Mydei decided to get himself catastrophically drunk at this hour instead of during Lucid Hour. The empty streets ensure that there aren’t any witnesses to his lack of coordination. Most importantly, there’s no one to overhear the… declarations being mumbled against Phainon’s heated skin. 

He groans, his grip adjusting on his completely oblivious companion yet still endearing enduring the burden. “Didn’t take you for the type to mistake juice for wine, Mydei. How much did you even drink?” 

“I did not… drink wine,” Mydei mutters as he’s dragged along, a failed effort made to stand straighter. “I drank juice, deliverer. A fine bottle of pomegranate juice Krateros had in his storage.” 

“Okay, okay. How much of this fine pomegranate juice did you drink, then?”

“Two and a half glasses.” 

Phainon stops walking. “...What?” 

With the amount of tipsiness radiating from Mydei, Phainon would’ve thought he had drowned at least two full bottles. 

Two and a half glasses? The so-called ‘lion’of Castrum Kremnos apparently possesses the alcohol tolerance of a kitten. 

He should try inviting Mydei out for drinking more often, though he knows the answer would just be an immediate stoic ‘no’. Maybe he could disguise it as an endurance contest on who could last longer against Okhema’s strongest liquor. Yeah, that’ll probably work in convincing the ever-competitive Mydei to join him. 

“Deliverer.” 

“Hm?” 

The weight leaning against him seems to increase with every second that passes and Phainon has his years of combat training to thank for keeping both upright.

The true difficulty though, isn’t the physical weight. It’s the unguarded touchiness that Mydei offers in this drunken state.. 

“My deliverer, I will give you children. I want them to have your eyes,” Mydei mumbles, voice thick with wine and something softer, his head laying heavy on Phainon’s shoulder. 

Our children. Your eyes. 

His deliverer?! 

Phainon almost trips on the perfectly flat surface, managing to save them from tumbling ungracefully down the stone pavement. Although he knows Mydei’s mind is still drowned in the pomegranate wine from earlier, his heart doesn’t seem to care, hammering just beneath his ribs. 

His face burns. “Ah… we’re back to Kremnoan?” He stammers, a weak attempt made to conceal his flustered state though a sheepish laugh. 

Mydei chooses that moment to stumble (again) which elicits an oof from Phainon, his arm tightening around the prince’s waist on reflex, holding the other up against him. 

“Spar with me for ten days and nights, deliverer, then we will wed once we are done. After that, you may do whatever you wish with me.” Phainon barely even catches that sentence, the words too slurred for a beginner like him to fully decipher, but he’s learned enough to grasp the essence of what was just implied. 

Mydeimos is absolutely insane. 

And Phainon’s equally as insane, if not infinitely more so, because he finds himself not just listening to the words but imagining them. He pictures the clang of their blades beneath the sun, bodies pressed against each other as their spar ends in yet another draw and Mydei’s eyes— not drunk— but focused solely on the deliverer. 

The image is too vivid that he grows warm when he realizes that he… would not be opposed to the idea at all. The sparring, and what comes after that too. 

“I’m afraid you’ll need to take me on a date first.” 

“As many as you wish.” 

Phainon’s lips twitch into a smile, unbeknownst to himself. “And if I ask for a million?”

“Then I’ll give you a million and one.” 

Has he always been this much of a romantic? 

“…Oh, Kephale. You’re hopeless, Mydeimos.” Phainon laughs, the sound breathless with affection despite the weight straining his body. “Okay, that’s it. Come here, you.” Kremnoan slips between the usual common tongue without thinking, because from what he’s observed so far, Mydei in this state seems to lean more into the comfort of his native language. 

This is a losing battle, he realizes. Mydei isn’t even walking but simply pouring his entire body into Phainon’s frame.

Coming to a halt, he’s met with a confused Mydei staring up at him. With a resolve that surprises even himself, Phainon crouches down in front of the blonde.

“Oh. Yes.”

“What?” 

“You are proposing, are you not?” Mydei's expression is scaringly serious, a small frown creasing his features. “The Kremnoan tradition usually involves the suitor offering some piece of jewelry, but I do not mind not sticking to traditions.” 

“What— no! Mydei, that’s not—” His brain shortcircuits. 

Which only makes Mydei’s frown deepen, his expression morphing into genuine hurt. 

“You… do not wish to marry me?” The raw vulnerability feels like a physical blow, and Phainon wants nothing more than to take back everything he just said. He’d rather suffer for a million more lifetimes than be the cause of that look. 

"No! I do! I mean—” he stammers, scrambling for the right words. “I do, butthat’satopicforanotherday. Let’s talk about this when you wake up more sober, okay? You’re still tipsy, Mydei, just let me carry you home.” At this rate, he’s almost pleading. “Please.”  

The last sentence seemed to work. Mydei studies him for a long moment, gaze searching. Then, after initial hesitation, he moves, arms winding around Phainon’s shoulder, leaning forth so that his chest is pressing against Phainon’s back and his chin rests in the dip between his shoulder and neck.

Securing his grip under Mydei’s thighs, Phainon wastes no time in standing back up, the Kremnoan prince on his back being lifted along as well.

For a second, he thought he’d misjudged. All solid muscle and warrior’s build Mydeimos may be, yet on his back, he feels surprisingly lighter than Phainon had initially anticipated. He adjusts his hold, the action making Mydei nuzzle closer. 

Just like a cat…

“Deliverer?” Mydei whispers.

The sound is so small that Phainon’s heart clenches. He couldn’t help but wonder if this is the first time the Crown Prince has ever been carried this way. If so, he honestly wouldn’t be surprised. Castrum Kremnos was a nation representing war and strife, he can all too easily imagine its children being handed all sorts of weapons instead of toys, trained to wield them the moment they learned how to start walking. From the books and stories he has heard, their worth was measured in their ability to fight. 

And for Mydeimos, the son of Gorgo? The pressure must have left no room for mistakes to be made. With the weight of that title along with the intimidating aura he exudes on first impression, Phainon doubts anyone has ever dared to get this close, or offered the tiniest amount of support without expecting something in return. 

“I’ve got you.” Phainon adjusts his hold before he starts to walk again at a much steadier pace than before. “Just try not to move around too much or recite more poetry until we get home, alright?” My poor heart can only take so much. “I’ve got you, Mydeimos.” 

The only verbal response he receives is a drowsy grumble against his shoulder, chin resting snug on top of it. Fortunately for Phainon, he listens. 

They continue in silence, Mydei on his back like a giant cat while Phainon’s footsteps fall into a rhythmic echo against the pavement. Phainon doesn’t comment upon feeling Mydei’s slight shift in position to nestle deeper into the curve of his neck, nose brushing where he’s most sensitive, the tips of his hair leaving a tickling feeling where it kisses Phainon’s skin. 

He could feel the flutter of his lashes just beneath his jaw, something so simple yet also so intimate that his breath catches. 

A sigh ghosts over Phainon’s collarbone, eliciting a shiver from the deliverer. 

This time, it is Mydei who breaks the silence between them. 

“Your heartbeat… it has a good rhythm.” 

Phainon merely hums in acknowledgement, grateful that Mydei cannot see the furious blush blooming on his face. Although the only word he understood was heartbeat, the yearning in his tone requires no translation. 

The rest of their journey falls back to the same quiet hum: Phainon’s footsteps, Mydei’s soft breathing with the occasional shifts as he seeks a more comfortable position, which happens to be one where his head is tipped sideways, cheek pressing against his own arm. 

Phainon’s trying his best to ignore the unwavering stare boring into the side of his face, he really is. But it proves a difficult feat when in the moment, the world narrows to just the two of them existing in this safe space. 

“Phainon.” 

Not ‘deliverer’, not HKS or some other nickname, but Phainon’s own name— a word that rarely falls from Mydei’s lips. 

“Yeah?” Phainon exhales. 

“You’re always too kind to others, but never to yourself.” He speaks slowly and carefully, like he’s trying to choose the right words and syntax, ensuring they’re simple enough so that it’ll be understood by him. 

“...What do you mean?”

Mydei falls silent for a moment too long, his breath evening out. Just when Phainon thinks he’s fallen asleep on his back, a low voice cuts through the night again.

“You bear the weight of the entire world on your shoulders.” Phainon feels his arms hugging tighter around his shoulder, like anything looser would mean losing him entirely. “You’re always smiling for everyone. Does it ever get tiring?”

“It is my duty, Mydei.”

“Yet the moment you’re alone, you’re different.” Phainon’s breath stutters as he feels a gentle drag of fingers along the golden sun etched on the side of his neck, searing through his defenses. “Still you, but different. You’re not only the ‘blazing sun’, you’re burning yourself alive to keep the rest of us warm.” 

His steps slow. All his life he’s buried down the truth, built lifetimes of walls around himself to mask it all, yet Mydeimos—drunk out of his mind—walks right through them like they were never there to begin with.

It’s terrifying how well Mydei knows him even though he pretends not to most times.

Thankfully, his place isn’t too far away now, its familiar silhouette coming into view just a few metres ahead. Phainon quickens his pace, for he doesn’t know how much longer he can continue on the pavement with the weight of Mydei’s words lingering in his chest. 

“I don’t mind it, it doesn’t hurt me,” comes Phainon’s eventual soft response, eyes fixed ahead. 

“It does not.” Mydei pauses, and he purposely switches back to the common tongue, presumably so Phainon can grasp the meaning of every syllable he’s trying to convey. “But the thought of you burning for anything, or anyone… That is the only thing that truly frightens me.” 

In all their time spent by each other’s side, it’s always been Phainon who leads with words, who wears his heart on his sleeve; always Phainon who takes his heart, whose lips spill teasing and compliments until Mydei becomes a flustered, scowling mess. 

But today, Mydei catches him off guard by reversing their roles, so much so that even his completely sober mind struggles to formulate a proper response without his heart feeling like it’s on the verge of exploding. 

And to hear Mydei admit fear… of losing him?

That destroys Phainon. 

“You… are one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.” 

Except the Kremnoan word that Mydei uses is one whose definition cannot be captured by his own language; a word that possesses a much more complex meaning than typical strength. 

Phainon remembers asking him about it once, having found the word in a Kremnoan dictionary. It was a term with so many definitions listed underneath that trying to decipher its true meaning frustrated his mind. 

Strength in Mydeimos’ native language doesn’t mean physical strength alone, but also bravery when facing the worst storms, endurance to hold still when everything else threatens to collapse. It means having the will to rise again and again, to continue walking forward even after loss. 

It means possessing the ability to stay true to one’s own values no matter what. 

Although he tries, Phainon doubts he’s half or even a quarter of that. So hearing that exact word fall from the Mydei's lips and directed at him is the last thing he’d expected. His eyes fix on the ground in thought, expression unreadable as he carries Mydei up the steps leading to his home. 

“I’m far from—“

“Quiet.” 

Warmth finally envelops them both as they enter the familiar comforts of his home, but it pales in comparison to the blaze in his chest.

He moves on pure instinct, navigating the familiar path to his bedroom in the dim light. Phainon kneels as he eases Mydei down onto the sheets that are still unmade from his earlier rush during Entry Hour, and the action feels all too natural, like it’s something he’s done a million times before. 

The momentary loss of contact earns him a displeased sound from the latter. A hand reaches out, fingers taking hold around his wrist. Not tight enough to hurt—Mydeimos would never do that—but more like an anchor to keep Phainon by his side. 

“…I’m just getting you some water, Mydei.” 

Cute.

Upon first meeting, Phainon would have never imagined Castrum Kremnos’ strongest to be the clingy type; but getting to know him better, spending more than a handful of nights in each other’s company revealed the truth behind his scowls.  

In a way, they’re more alike than he had realized. A boy who lost his childhood, who craves nothing more than genuine contact. 

Something flickers in Mydei’s eyes, as if he’s debating whether he should yank Phainon in and trap him right here in his hold or give in to the dehydration that has been scratching at his throat for hours. He hasn’t had anything proper to drink ever since the gathering with those from Kremnos earlier, after all. 

Mydei gives in, His grip loosens, golden eyes averting to focus on anything but Phainon like it’s a shameful thing to admit. 

“Do not take too long.” 

Only then does Phainon’s expression soften, his heart swelling with something dangerously close to endearment that almost spills over. He leans forth, placing a lingering a kiss to Mydei's temple and savouring the way his breath hitches as his alcohol-flushed cheeks deepen in colour. 

Yeah, maybe Phainon likes him more than just a little. 

Much more than just a little. 

Luckily, there’s already a jug of water in the corner of his room. Not only does this save him a trip to the kitchen, it also spares him from a possible round of Mydei complaining about how he disappeared from his sight for what he deems ‘too long’, which— from personal experience— is around ten seconds, or fifteen if he’s feeling generous.

“Here,” he mumbles, the rim of the cup pressed against Mydei’s lips. “It’ll help sober you up.” 

Silence. 

“I missed you.” 

“...?” Phainon blinks, staring at the other as he practically downs the glass after saying that. “I was just right here, Mydeimos.” 

“You were not right here. You were across the room, out of reach.” 

Forget ten seconds, it seems Phainon had severely underestimated the version of Mydei under the influence of alcohol. What fascinates him even more, though, is the fact that Mydei could wax poetic only to switch to an endearing sort of neediness in a span of ten minutes.

A beat of silence passes, then two, Mydei’s gaze holding Phainon’s captive.

“Stay.” 

“I haven’t showered.” 

“Do you think that has ever mattered to me?”

“I smell like dirt.”

“Stay.”

There’s no point in arguing, knowing Mydei’s too persistent especially in this state especially with that tone. And truthfully, Phainon doesn’t want to anyways. 

With a soft sigh of surrender, he shrugs off his outermost layer, armour falling to the floor with a quiet ‘thud’. Phainon climbs onto the bed, body yielding to an exhaustion that he didn’t even realize he was carrying until now, the worry and frantic events of the day crashing down all at once. 

Almost immediately, a sturdy pair of arms snake around his waist, a gesture that’s mirrored by Phainon without hesitance. He tugs Mydei closer, closer until he’s snug against him, until he can feel the familiar rhythm of Mydei’s breathing against his neck, until their legs become a tangle of limbs beneath the blankets, leaving not a sliver of space between them.  

Phainon feels a soft sigh flutter against his skin and catches the faint sweetness of pomegranate wine that still lingers in the air between them.

For a long while, they simply exist in the dark, not pushing for more, not pushing away. His fingers trace idle patterns against Mydei’s skin, touch featherlight over the marks he has long memorized, trailing up his spine, hearing a hitch in the other’s breath when he lingers at a certain spot for a second longer. They eventually find comfort between blonde locks dipped in red, gingerly carding through to soothe any remaining tension from his body. 

A slight shift, then he feels the pair of arms pulling him closer.

Just as Phainon feels his own consciousness slipping away, giving into the pull of sleep, Mydei's voice comes as a murmur against his neck, thick with sleep. 

“You must be kinder to yourself.”

Phainon stills, his breath catching. “Mydei…” 

“The deliverer who carried me home on his back tonight…” He pauses, fighting off sleep, words slow. “You must be kinder to him.”

He finds himself at a loss for words. 

“He’s the most stubborn, stupid… annoying scoundrel.” Mydei continues. “But he is important to me. He’s brave, and strong, but he carries too much— much more than what he can handle alone without breaking. So you must look after him. For me.” 

Phainon listens. 

He listens to every word as Mydei speaks. It doesn’t matter if he has not learned the meanings behind some of the words uttered in the foreign language, nor does it matter that the sentences were structured in such a complex way that Phainon has never  heard before. 

The months of studying the langauge— both with Mydeimos and on his own— is enough for him to fit the words together like pieces of a puzzle and decipher the most heartfelt confession that Phainon has ever received. 

It isn’t about saving Amphoreus or fulfilling some grand scheme, but simply a plea from the only one he holds close to his heart; a demand that he cherishes himself with the same dedication that Mydei does. 

He’s carried the weight of a thousand worlds in his hands, but this… simple, devastating request from the very person that sees right through him is what completely undoes the deliverer. 

Too overwhelmed with emotions to respond, he simply shifts just enough to land a kiss to Mydei's forehead, then another to the space between his eyebrows. “I’ll try my best,” he whispers against the skin there, before sealing the promise with a final kiss to opposing lips. “For you, I will try. In this lifetime, and the next.” 

Mydei’s answer comes in the form of a satisfied hum, and the taste of Phainon is the last thing he remembers from the night.

“Mydeimos. The word for ‘love’ in the Kremnoan language?” 

Until now, there has never been a word for ‘love’ in the language. Never recorded in books, nor the dictionaries as far as Phainon’s aware, but Mydei replies anyway, right before he succumbs to sleep. 

“Phainon.”