Archive of Our Own

Zagreus’s face pinches when he says it. An expression of dubious certainty, one without a solid foundation, as he speaks slowly. Voice tinged with both a wavering doubt but likewise spurred with righteous conviction; Zagreus intends to break out of Hades, and is steadfast in this conviction, and Chaos does not need to be a ceaseless entity with unfathomably reaches to infer such. Zagreus will continue his quest, regardless of how many deaths it may take him, but the question remains still: will the Prince decide to abandon his birthright altogether, and never again step foot within the Underworld once he has breached the cold, uncaring Surface for good?

So Chaos asked. And so Zagreus answered.

“Oh, I… Master Chaos,” Zagreus has stuttered, an open battle upon his face as he considered his words. “I don’t know what to expect, from there. But to be direct with you…” His face twisted. His shoulders burdened. “... If I could leave the Underworld forever…” A pause. Balled fists, a voice that still betrayed him in his indecisiveness. “... I think I would. Though I would miss you. Many others here.”

Zagreus may have spoken an answer, but the question remained pending. Filled with hesitant words, and both Prince and primordial void still need to see what the Fates have weaved for Hell’s rebel Prince once he walks and breathes the earth the humans do. 

Chaos knows they would miss the son of Hades, if contact was suddenly severed. Older than existence itself, and they have found themselves undeniably fond of this man who proves a most interesting showman. Zagreus is an enigma among his kin and a specimen Chaos wishes to explore in full, his convictions, his wants, his hates, an artwork to be studied until no interpretations are left and Chaos has their interest piqued, with this man. It has been a long, near timeless epoch, that Chaos felt the need to rise out of dormancy to act directly with any entity, but Zagreus proves a most fascinating subject to continue observation. 

Zagreus is stubborn in his cycle of death. He will continue to be stubborn in this cycle of death. And despite his numerous deaths—torn apart, scattered into pieces, decapitated, stabbed—the Prince remains still such an oddity. He continues still. This cycle of death endures for the Prince is most stubborn, and he will walk with flame-kissed feet against the frigid ground of the Surface, Fates be damned. Fates be willing.

But so he still exhibits anxieties surrounding his departure, his exodus that he had done with a passionate fervor and a leap into Tartarus, one that he is relentless in pursuing until the end. 

‘I think I would,’ the Prince had said with a specific unease. I think. And he continues, still. And how interesting.

Chaos is stirred, by the confession that Zagreus would miss them. A pulsating warmth fluttered within their many, many hearts that are spread across the cosmos as an uninterrupted labyrinth. And Zagreus would miss many others, he says, and he, himself, is blind to the fact his most powerful attribute is that he is a master of influence; if Zagreus had an ounce of maliciousness within his bones, he could orchestrate a war between the Olympians with the relationships he keeps (a pity, Chaos thinks, that Zagreus would never do so, for such would be a captivating event). Zagreus possesses a consuming, most impressive, web that ties him with multiple individuals. Denizens of the Underworld. Keepers of Olympus. The ghosts of lesser beings.

‘I think I would,’ the Prince had said with furrowed brows. And he would miss many. The chthonic residents of the Underworld are just as tied to their realm as the Olympians are to their mountaintop. Zagreus may hold little love to his birthplace, but he holds an overwhelming love for his family. Chaos’s own Nyx. Her twin sons. Death, Sleep; Sleep, who Zagreus has given his hand to. Sleep, Hypnos, the Prince consort, husband of Zagreus, and the Prince would miss him. Miss many others. ‘I think. I think.’

Yes, how interesting.

Zagreus will not cease his quest. He may flee permanently. Escape, and become a ghost himself. And leave behind a widowed husband.

Chaos muses upon the response given to them. They weave themselves through the incorporeal abyss of the pages of existence as they do so. Zagreus spoke with uncertainty, and his heart rivals the unfathomable depths of Chaos’s being, it appears unlikely he would truly vanish. And yet, he leaves currently, with a tenacity that has piqued every amalgamation of souls Chaos possesses. 

Chaos could leave Zagreus’s response as just that. Yet another intricate riddle that accentuates the picture of Zagreus for Chaos to brood on, and meditate through all the ceaseless analysis it could provide them. 

Or, Chaos deliberates, Zagreus’s confession would and could open avenues of exploration, when brought to an audience. A single, specific audience, who harbours golden irises, the title of Prince consort, who holds Zagreus’s hand.

Hypnos is a mild, unassuming presence, even within his own realm of Dreams, when Chaos finds him. And as a viper laying in wait with a similarly mild, unassuming rodent, does Chaos gift Hypnos a vision.

As with any self respecting God, Hypnos does not appreciate trespassers within his domain. Bit of a rude thing to do, to barge into someone’s dwelling, and one would think that’s a universal sentiment. 

The presence Hypnos feels creep upon him is as a mass of spiders crawling at every inch of his skin. A deep, ancient presence. Primordial, one may say. Ceaseless. The earliest. 

Hypnos is on the cusp of asking what does an unknowable force should ever want with a little thing such as him, when he is accosted with a trance that feels suspiciously like it was deliberately tailored as a Nightmare. 

“Son of Hades, if you locate the one who called herself Persephone, shall it then come to pass that we no longer see each other in this way? Respond.” Inquires multiple voices at once, all superimposed upon one another to create the choir of voices only an amaranthine entity could have.

And Zagreus hesitates. But he answers. “Oh, I… Master Chaos, I don’t know what to expect, from there. But to be direct with you… If I could leave the Underworld forever… I think I would. Though I would miss you. Many others here.”

“... I would miss you as well. Thank you for telling me.” 

Hypnos knows, at an instant, what is shown to him isn’t a Dream. Or a Nightmare. As the purveyor of slumber induced fantasies, Hypnos likes to think he has a pretty good grasp on what is and isn’t a Dream. They are an extension of himself, after all. 

No, the primordial void that most have forgotten bestow upon him a recording of truth, a replay of an actual event, and Zagreus admits he may leave for good.

Ah. Hypnos stands where he is, when the vision ceases, and he feels the curious poking of its unimaginable provider. Maybe his sudden audience expect a reaction. Maybe this abrupt theater of eyes that pierce into him as a physical force salivate at the idea of him…

Weeping? Screaming? Telling them thanks, for showing how his own husband confesses to the possibility of—of—abandon—

(He can’t actually say it, Hypnos finds. Perhaps the most ugly word there is to exist.)

Hypnos stays still. Fascinating how quickly one’s mind can turn to just static, as he stands center stage as a full auditorium watch for a reaction. He can’t even scoff and shield himself with the assertion that what he saw was a lie, some cruel prank, because he knows, without even needing to search himself, that what he saw had already happened. That Zagreus had said those things.

He shifts on his feet. Stares at the empty nothingness of the void.

“So what is it then, that you seek, my esoteric intruder?” Hypnos asks with a smile on his face purely out of habit. He feels eyes scourge upon his form, though he cannot see any face peer back at him.

A shift, a lessening of a heavy denseness in the air, a light twinkling replacing it, as Hypnos discerns the feeling of amusement.

Well at least someone (or, people? Some things? ) is having a laugh out of this. Hypnos has always existed to please, and he takes a centering breath as he feels the quiet entertainment the forgotten one is currently having manifest as a cool gust of air against the nape of his neck.

Before it all just—

Stops. Ceases. Without a warning, and there is no presence left. No fanfare. Without a sound, without a visual, one moment a congregation, the next, an empty wake.

Huh.

So Hypnos stands there. Continues to stand there, until he moves, and continues shepherding the Dreams.

The room is silent.

Suffocatingly so, with the air dense and heavy, the room both impossibly large as a cavernous pit that seeks to swallow him, but also a closing fist that slowly causes all his bones to splinter. There’s dust settled atop of the shelf he should wipe, Hypnos idly thinks, as he sits as a mere stone weight on the sapphire covers of the bed he shares with Zagreus.

Shares—or, perhaps, shared, now, and the thought instantly brings Hypnos’s gut to a violent coil, nausea perverting his entire being. He needs to swallow dryly in order to quell a heavy heave. 

Rendering the entire House to slumber was a, literal, treasonous affair. Hypnos knows already Master Hades will bestow upon him some sort of punishment for such a brazen act but such a fact is a faraway, inconsequential outcome. He cares not for whatever horrors may face him from the Master’s ire, because Hypnos accepted whatever fate may be in store for him as soon as he agreed to play insubordination for Zagreus’s sake. Hypnos’s loyalty to the House is a mere farce he’ll play on when he needs to, because ultimately his loyalty lies with Zagreus, up and beyond such insignificant things as treason. 

Hypnos knew enacting a spell to induce sleep on all residents of the House was a needed action, as soon as Zagreus came to him with determination glinting in his eyes, boldness in his march and the hint of desperation underneath his voice that betrayed him. So Hypnos knew, because Zagreus needed his aid, and he will always have it.

Even if such aid accumulated to an empty room. To weighted shoulders, a void within his head, a note scribbled in haste in Hypnos’s hands, and Zagreus had left, with scrawlings in ink on parchment his sign of departure.

Hypnos finds himself erroneously furious—blood-boiling, brain simmering—furious at this Persephone. For leaving her own son. For taking away his husband.

He wants to form a violent storm of rage at Zagreus likewise, for simply disappearing with only a note. It would be poetic, a tale the mortals could eat up, if Hypnos rode upon a battalion of Nightmares to chase after his incredibly stupid husband to the Surface to give Zag a good tongue-lashing.

He can’t, though. 

He can barely hold onto the petty rage for Persephone, a flame snuffed as soon as it started, because Hypnos does not have the energy to be so incensed. He isn’t an Olympian, after all. 

So he sits with note in hand, the words on the page swirling as an indistinct stew of undecipherable-ness. He’s read the note thrice, maybe four times, five times, a hundred times, and the words are a bleak gallow he peers into with a creeping hopelessness. 

It would probably be cathartic to be angry at Zagreus. A reprieve of how this all feels sickeningly familiar, like he could vomit his body worth outwards with how it feels as though rot overtakes his innards.

Maybe he should have seen this coming. Zagreus had been miserable. Increasingly agonized each day/night, building up to this, the boiling point, and Zagreus has left. He had been miserable, had rested his head upon Hypnos’s lap in all consuming grief in how he only ever felt as a failure, his unfulfillment a tar that drowned him. And Hypnos accepted treason as a way to ease his husband, because Zagreus, in his dire moments, was breaking at the seams.

He should have seen this coming. Zagreus is gone without a goodbye (the farewell on the note doesn’t count, Hypnos automatically rules), and Endymion had left Hypnos similarly, with no goodbye, after Hypnos experienced his first love with the man, his first bedding, and Hypnos never saw him again. Pasithea had left, with a sad kiss to his forehead her farewell, with a pitying smile, and their marriage was annulled as soon as she departed the House, and Hypnos never saw her again.

(Thanatos had left, Nyx had left, long ago, when was the last time he held an actual conversation with either? When had either actually approached him, themselves?

The Fates are a cruel lot. What had he done, to spur their ire so? To make him so easy for others to grow tired of, to leave him, to forsake him?)

Zagreus is gone. The note would be easy to tear into an unrecognizable mound of shreds, but instead, he folds it gently, and moves to place it neatly upon the nightstand. He’ll read it again. Ruminate, fully digest the situation in pieces so it may make better sense, and hopefully the haze that persists as a smog that engulfs him would dissipate.      

He should be used to this, by now. He should find comfort in this routine. And maybe a small part of him does, because he knows, at some level, what to expect. He can skip the heavy, ugly sobbing part, he already did so before with Endymion, with Pasithea, no need to repeat himself. He need only jump immediately to the part wherein he lays as a corpse on the bed, staring with unfocused eyes towards the ceiling. His head is already empty enough for it, swimming through a daze, and he would say it feels as though he traverses through an endless Dream, if it didn’t have the growing festering of a gluttonous Nightmare instead. This has the makings of a song, really, and perhaps the Fates flex their collective tragedy writing skills and use him as fodder.

He won’t be able to sleep. He knows that already. And he can’t merely lay on the bed because it’s empty, too big, and there still exists dust upon the shelves.

Hypnos trudges to retrieve a cloth. He’ll wipe the offending shelf with a mindless tenacity that will render its surface a mirror with the constant back and forth his hand will do with the cloth, its surface spotless, almost flayed.

And Hypnos knows already, that he will wait. Even if it is futile.

Yes, Zagreus is leaving. Attempting to break out of Hades. On a valiant quest to escape the realms of Hell to find his missing mother, to find a sense of belonging, to mend himself from being such a fragmented God, as he has never quite harmonized in his own birthplace, blah blah, yes, Hypnos knows this. He is only married to the fool. An oftentimes impulsive fool, but one with no level of venom to speak of; he has a bite, but only towards those who are his adversaries. And when Hypnos asks nicely.

Zagreus is leaving. Has to leave. And Hypnos won’t stop him. Could never stop him, not when he knows Zagreus’s quest fuels him, gives him purpose, wards away his gloom of never belonging in his own birthplace. Hypnos could never be so cruel, and certainly never at Zagreus. 

(He isn’t so selfish, he tells himself. He isn’t mold that blisters the skin, he can’t be, because Zagreus needs this. How can he be the man’s husband, if he were to tie him to somewhere where he would be miserable for the rest of his days? Hypnos couldn’t.)

There exists a genuine army of cleaning servants in the House that Hypnos could call upon, but Hypnos instead opts for taking such duties for himself. He finds himself with an unruly case of the jitters (can’t sleep), and he needs some way to preoccupy himself while in their room (is it now only his room?), and it's a habit he’s since picked up, cleaning. Every now and then.  

(“Well one of us has to pull their weight around, and it might as well be the delightfully handsome little house-husband, yes?” Hypnos had drawled after he was awoken from an impromptu nap he had taken while wiping Zagreus’s lyre, having decided he wanted to do something nice for his death-inclined Prince while he was off bravely dying like some lunatic.

Zagreus snorted, and bowed his head. “Oh, I must apologize, then. Tackling all the mighty foes Hell has to offer is a form of freeloading, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.” Hypnos smacked his lips, and gave Zagreus a wide smile. “And as a mule supports the weight of its load, so too shall I follow suit and keep things in order as you go out bringing shame to the House.” 

Zagreus scoffed a laugh, before he gave Hypnos a considering look. That soft, fond face he gets before he decides he’s going to dip Hypnos into a kiss. And he did just so, with hands bringing Hypnos close so their bodies merged, and through the warmth of Zagreus’s mouth claiming his own, did Hypnos think, ‘Gods, I should clean more often.’) 

Hypnos folds the clothing he has retrieved from the closet. He has been folding the same already cleaned set for the past hour. His limbs are stiff. His body wound up, his entire being fidgeting, and he’s meant to be sleeping, but he can’t sleep, so might as well make himself useful, yes?

Yes.

Through the static of his mind as he reassembles one of Zagreus’s pants, does Hypnos think:

He won’t ever remarry.

He settles the folded garment onto the pile on the bed with more force than is strictly necessary. He hates the quiet, he suddenly finds, like insects crawling underneath his skin, so he opens the door to be ajar, and allows Orpheus’s voice to swim through. Alongside the bustling of the House’s busy ambiance. It’s a faint background track in the room, but it makes this all less—lonely.

His face twists at that. He brings upwards his hands to rub his palms against his eyelids, growls a soft, “You act as some lost dog,” to himself for some healthy humbling. 

He sighs. Decides to take a cloth to the already spotless tabletop. This is his abode, shared alongside with Zagreus (present tense), his dwelling, his kingdom to keep, his desolate, hollow hearth that he haunts, and he will ensure it is up to Princely standards, thanks.

(Never mind the fact he shares the same propensity of organized mess just as Zagreus, and that the table he cleans is free of any eyesores.)

He wipes until his arm aches, and he thinks:

He couldn’t ever remarry, not after Zagreus. He had loved Pasithea, but those wounds have since healed. Zagreus is a part of him. And it is both a comfort and a withering wound to think so, and the Prince has been the best thing in his life, and he is leaving.

He could perhaps rub the surface of this table raw and snap it in two.

Yes, of course Zagreus is leaving, this is an established fact, one Hypnos already knows and accepts. He gets it. Has already gotten it. Zagreus will, one of these days/nights, breach the surface as the darling rebel Prince he is, and Hypnos—will wait, as he always does. At his post, in an empty bed, stealing glances at the Pool of Styx, watching Zagreus jump into Tartarus from the courtyard. He’ll wait. However long it takes, because no one is quite like Zagreus, and Hypnos knows he may never stop loving the man.  

Even if it takes waiting for eternity.

He ceases his onslaught upon the table. Decides, for once in life, that his break is over, and that he should return to his post.

Being forced to his post by an irate Master Hades has never been quite the sublime reprieve. It allows him to finally have a point of focus, his most dearest ledger, and the eyes of shades do not pierce him as a blade, because news of Zagreus’s absconding hasn't reached literally every soul of House and more, he’s only the Prince, such a revelation would not be a feast to dine upon for any soul. And standing nearby the Pool of Styx, its crimson surface free of the ripples born from a regenerating Prince, and it totally doesn’t feel like a slap in the face. Master Hades does not force Hypnos to work as a form of public humiliation as his husband is off frolicking elsewhere, no, Master Hades merely wants productivity, of course.

It is only by some pitying kindness from some celestial entity from this side of the universe that Hypnos is able to sleep where he floats.

And it is only by some unprecedented sympathy (is it Philophrosyne, Kindness, or Eleos, Pity?), that he wakes to a familiar presence.

And so shocked is he to be greeted with red and green eyes, does Hypnos instinctively blurt out a canned greeting, before welcoming Zagreus properly.

“All things do come to their death, eventually. Don’t get too cocky just because you’re a God, yeah?” Hypnos chirps, lifting a finger to give Zagreus a poke at the chest for good measure. “That just means you get to die multiple times, what fun!”

“Can’t learn from your mistakes if you don’t mess up so spectacularly.” Zagreus shrugs, a smile on his lips, and a quick glance at his ledger reveals that Zagreus was felled by ever reliable Megaera. Hypnos thinks peripherally if he should thank her.

And yes, blunders are a fact of life (and death), and Zagreus now can revel in the knowledge that he should probably... jump out of the way when Megaera is charging him with ill intent. And maybe, that a note is a sad and lacking memento to leave when he just disappears.

There’s a very large, petty part of him that almost makes Hypnos stay where he is, when Zag tilts his head as an open invitation for Hypnos to follow him into their room. To say in a curt voice, that he’s on the clock, he has work. And then to retreat to Erebus afterwards, and have Zagreus waddle after him in a walk of shame.

He doesn’t, of course, any self-righteous gratification that can be had at such an action is snuffed, because Zagreus has returned, and Hypnos follows him to their room.  

Once together, Zagreus rubs the back of his head, and says, “I suppose, since I’ve been unceremoniously killed and brought back, that I should apologize for acting with a one-track mind and merely vanishing. For acting as a stubborn, impulsive fool.”

Hypnos looks at him. Quirks a brow upwards. And he responds dryly with a crooked smile, “Megaera gave you a mighty scolding, did she?” 

Zagreus lets out a laugh, scratches again at the back of head sheepishly, as his cheeks dust pink in embarrassment. “Her tongue is as sharp as her whip, mate.” He says.

Oh, Hypnos will have to thank her. Zagreus’s apology is a physical force that lifts weight from his shoulders, a tension Hypnos hadn’t realized he was holding, and Zagreus really needed to die to see his faults. What a buffoon. Maybe there is merit in how Gods kill each other as an endearing character trait.

Hypnos scoffs. He places his hands on his hips, as he appraises Zagreus with a unimpressed look with his smile still in place.

“Would it have killed you to wait a little bit, and say goodbye properly before flinging yourself to be thrashed around by Hell’s finest?” He drawls. “Listen, I know Meg’s whip is good, but we could’ve just asked her to borrow it if you were just dying for a good flogging.”

“Oh, Meg’s always good company.” Zagreus laughs. “And I fear her whip may become a staple friend in my travels. She is, unfortunately, rather good at her job.” 

Well, she isn’t the First of the Furies for nothing, Hypnos muses, as Zagreus looks at him, steps closer, and lays a hand on his shoulder. Hypnos feels Zag’s fingers curl inwards, a comforting squeeze, before his thumb lightly traces circles.

“And this isn’t goodbye, Hypnos. Not truly.” Zagreus murmurs softly, with a face to match, and there’s a promise. “Megaera’s culling would be most justified if I would be so shameful, if this was a farewell. I’ll come back. I’ll always be back, for you. You know that, right?” 

Hypnos manually maintains his aloof expression, so it doesn’t show that he had, indeed, perhaps thought otherwise. Gods, he’s a right idiot, isn’t he. A fool. A clown with bad makeup. Zagreus saying he will come back will not make him cry, he has self-respect, he does. 

Hypnos responds with a casual voice, “You might be coming back more often than you’d like, I’d imagine. I don’t think your deaths will cease at Meg. Many nefarious, bloodthirsty characters roaming each level of Hell.” 

“Perhaps.” Zagreus quips, before he seems to give it more consideration. “Most certainly, actually. Thanatos will tire of me, I’m sure.” 

Oh, Thanatos is going to kill Zagreus, actually, when he comes back from that long assignment with Ares. Phew. That’ll be a sight.

Zagreus continues, his hand moving from Hypnos’s shoulder to caress his cheek, and Hypnos predictably leans into it. “But I hope you would greet me, each and every time? Soften the blow of being executed, how many different, wonderful ways. Bring me to my senses.” 

Hypnos sighs, as he brings his hand upwards to embrace above Zag’s own. “Someone will have to keep score of your numerous, comical deaths, certainly.” He remarks with heavy snark.

Zagreus lets out a light, airy chuckle. “So, do I have your blessing, then, to repeatedly get myself killed for your amusement?”

“You always had it, don’t play dumb.” Hypnos brings himself to a float, bringing himself to be eye level with Zagreus. “I expect you to kiss me before you jump out into Tartarus. I need to give you good luck.”

Zagreus breaks into a grin, and then there’s two hands cradling Hypnos’s face, and then there are lips upon his own, soft as velvet, as comforting as any bed, and when they part, Hypnos leans forward. He whispers a tantalizing secret.

“Might I suggest, when you face Meg again, that you avoid her whip? You have legs, use them to move yourself away from her attacks, mate.”  

Zagreus snickers, and Hypnos brings his feet back to the ground. “Thank you, mate.” Zagreus says, looking down at his legs that have just appeared to him. “I forgot about these.”

Hypnos hums, steps back, as Zagreus rolls his shoulders and turns towards the courtyard entrance. Another run. The beginnings of a cycle, Hypnos muses, perhaps the God of Rebirth? Suppose they’ll see, in due time. And there’s fire in Zag’s steps (flame feet notwithstanding), an energy that spurs him, and Hypnos gives his parting remark as Zagreus is on the cusp of exiting. 

“Hey, if you rush for a decapitation, you’ll get a head of yourself.”

Zagreus turns his head and looks over his shoulder at Hypnos, a wrinkled nose on his face. “Oh, you know me and my proclivities towards evicting the head from the shoulders.” He says mildly, before: “Cheers, mate. Be seeing you.” 

And Zagreus leaves, and Hypnos lets him. His Prince disappears from his sight, and Hypnos will greet him when he walks out of the Pool, however long it may take.

And the room is silent.

When Hypnos decides it is time to treat himself, he’ll indulge in watching Zagreus throw a few thwacks Skelly’s way in the courtyard. Always a good show. Always appreciated, when Zag shows off a new way to beat a sentient skeleton into dust, each and every fighting style unique to the weapon he uses, and who doesn’t love it when muscles contract and contort when used to ruthlessly beat a training dummy into non-existence? Hypnos enjoys fine art.

As is the routine they’ve since established, when Hypnos honours the courtyard with his presence, he watches, gives Zag a goodbye kiss, and then falls asleep. This day/night, he watches with the similar interest he always has, although subdued, curbed by a nagging dread that coils around him as a stubborn serpent that he wishes to crush underneath his heel.

He would say he’s overreacting, but Zagreus will jump into Tartarus soon, and the surface of the Pool of Styx may be still, for longer. It’s a thought Hypnos needs to physically banish from his mind, to the point he misses entirely that Skelly has been vanquished. 

Well, no need to be a spoilsport, so Hypnos smiles when Zagreus looks his way. Can’t have rampant thoughts of aban—abandon—aba—that, cloud his judgement. Zagreus said he would come back. Zagreus also said he may leave forever. He’s not thinking about it, because he is walking towards Zagreus to give him a kiss, and he’ll be back, of course. The Pool may be dormant, the room empty, the House bleak, and nothing could keep Zagreus here. He’s proven that much.

Sheesh. Hypnos needs to rub a heavy hand over his face, to clear his mind. A cold, refreshing bucket of blood dumped on him would do him some good. They stand at the maw of Tartarus, Zagreus’s favourite place to fling himself into certain danger, and it feels like he stands before a jeering crowd, and Zagreus will jump. He will leave.

Gods, no, he isn’t thinking about it—

“Something the matter?” 

Zagreus’s voice acts as that previously mentioned bucket of blood. Hypnos is jolted to proper awareness as he sees Zagreus’s brows have knitted in apparent concern, and no, nope, can’t have that. Not like he can just casually mention how he saw how Zagreus contradicted his promise of coming back via primordial vision shenanigans, now can he? ...Can he? Gods, no, that’s going to be awkward, and Skelly’s going to respawn any second.

“Zagreus.” Hypnos instead starts, because Zagreus would come to him if that promise had changed, surely. Hypnos’s tongue and mouth move on their own accord, as he continues. “I love you, you know that? I hope you have that hammered in your skull, somewhere. That your favourite person loves you.”

Well, that isn’t how one dispels suspicion, is it? Especially when Hypnos’s voice comes out like that. He sounds tired. More so than usual, different from his perpetual exhaustion, and he wants to cringe on instinct. Instead, he flashes smile, and bats his eyelashes innocently. There is no feuding uncertainty and doubt here, no siree!

“Of course I do, mate.” Zagreus scoffs, and how he speaks as if Hypnos is an idiot is a comfort. “I only wonder, every day, how I have been so lucky to trick such a wonderful man to tolerate my antics so. What ails you?”

Hypnos notes the sound of Skelly coming back into existence, so he says nonchalantly (because nothing is wrong), “Nothing, except for the fact my ego has been missing its daily stroking. So tell me how much you love me.” 

Zagreus considers him for a moment. Hums, then says with a smirk as he leans forward, “If you want a bottle of nectar so badly, Hypnos, you can try and use your words next time, mate.”

His tone is playful, a familiarity Hypnos clings to with desperate fingers, as he responds, “Now where’s the fun in that, mate?”

“I’ll do one better. I’ll get you some ambrosia.” Zagreus nods. “Promaganents, too, for us to enjoy, as we bathe, yes? Does that sound agreeable, to you?” 

“Do you promise a spa day?”

Oh, that would be nice. Warm waters from the lower pits of Tartarus, a nude Prince for him to indulge in, sweet syrup to dine upon (and perhaps lick off a certain someone), yes, that would be nice. Better than nice.

“For you? Always.” Zagreus says with a simple shrug, and its an easy answer.

“Am I invited?” 

Skelly’s voice draws the attention of them both, as the skeleton appraises them with a wriggle of the eyebrow ridges. 

“Only if you act as our personal entertainment.” Zagreus says dryly.

“I can play a mean tune with my rib-cage!”

Skelly gives a rousing demonstration where he stands by dragging his fingers up and down the strings of his ribs as if it were a harp, producing the sound one would expect: bone against bone. A dull, sonorous echo, rivaling Orpheus. 

Zagreus snorts, and returns his attention back to Hypnos. He looks for a moment, before retrieving his good luck charm as he leans downwards for a kiss. 

“I love you,” Zagreus murmurs when he retracts himself, and it shouldn't really send shivers down Hypnos’s body, but it does. “My dearest, most wonderful husband, who only gifts me the most enlightening advice each time I die. How could I not?”

How could you leave, Hypnos absolutely doesn’t think, because he merely gives a snort, and Zagreus steps back. The window into Tartarus beckons his Prince, and Zagreus’s previous words suddenly fade, stripped rudely from their comforting embrace as Tartarus’s swirling miasma whisper cruelly of aban-a-abandonme—

Nope. Not gonna think about it. Hypnos flashes Zagreus a smile, and says sweetly, “I expect only the juiciest of pomaganents, and nothing less.” 

(And that spa promise is a guarantee he’ll return, isn’t it?)

“And you shall have them, mate. Your wish is my command.” 

Zagreus gives a gracious bow, before nodding his farewell, and he jumps into the swirling mists below. And he’s gone. Leaving. Left.

Hypnos stares at where Zagreus stood. At the gloom below. He stares, to the point where Skelly asks what he’s looking at, and Hypnos takes that as his cue to leave.

And Zagreus leaves, and Zagreus returns, his death continuing to mount and he greets Hypnos with a wide, bright smile. And Zagreus leaves, and he returns, and this cycle of death may continue but Zagreus has seen undeniable progress; from Asphodel to Elysium, from Elysium to the Temple of Styx. And then to the Surface. To his Mother, the Olympians, to his real family, where he belongs, and what reason does he have to return? He starts each run with a leap without looking back, he initiated this whole charade without a goodbye. 

Oh, Hypnos hasn’t been able to sleep properly. The phantom of Zagreus’s voice rings still as a shackle, If I could leave the Underworld forever, I think I would, and he had confessed it to the void before telling his own husband. A sin he could express freely into the unfathomable depths of Chaos, and he thought it would be kept there, hadn’t he. Some ugly truth he could finally verbalize, and think it lost into the depths of the void, but he had been wrong.

Does he think Hypnos would scream at him? Weep, bar him from his escape as a scorned lover, tell the Olympians the truth of his quest in some sort of act of revenge? Could Zagreus think so lowly of him?

Well. He is leaving. So perhaps he could, hah. Why should Hypnos be surprised by it? Thanatos and Nyx have proven that he is a constant burden. Endymion has proven he is disposable. Pasithea has proven not even a literal Charity could bear him. So it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for good, kind, stupidly handsome Zagreus would feel the same, and it always did feel too good to be true, didn’t it, that a literal Prince, that Zagreus, would settle for him. This is just a fact of his life that Hypnos needs to accept already. 

Well, this sucks. He lays curled upon the bed, its covers lacking the distinct presence of another, its embrace cold and uncaring, the pillow he clutches onto likewise, as he nuzzles his face deeper into a spare garment of Zagreus’s he retrieved from the closet. Now this is a new low, he blearily thinks, sniffing Zag’s clothes like some cretin. But maybe it’ll be all he’ll have, when the Pool continues to be lifeless. 

Zagreus should just say it outright, to his face. Get this whole thing over with. 

Hypnos wouldn’t stop him. Maybe have an ugly cry, but—Zagreus should have his own happiness. 

(But doesn’t he deserve that too? Isn’t this unfair, isn’t this cruel?)

He wishes he could yell at Zagreus. Follow in Meg and Than’s footsteps of anger at his sudden departure, and if anyone should yell at Zagreus until their throat became raw, shouldn’t it be the guy’s own husband? It would be cleansing, to scream, to purge himself of these emotions that act as physical weights. To achieve some sort of retribution. 

But he can’t, he already knows that. And he’s already accepted an empty room, an empty bed, with only a Princely garment as his keepsake.  

Zagreus can’t stay here. And Hypnos will not be the one to chain him to where he doesn’t want to be.

If I could leave the Underworld forever, I think I would.

Hypnos should write a very carefully constructed letter for the Fates to stop being so sadistic, that no one likes a tyrant or three, because having Zagreus continue this cycle is both a blessing—Zagreus returns—and a curse—when will the Pool lay forever dormant, when will Hypnos shake himself apart from waiting with a fragile hope that slowly decays as a corpse?

Waiting is an agony. Like being wrung dry, but twisted still, until the tension becomes too much to bear and he simply snaps. Broken apart, with no hope of reassembly, and better off dusted beneath a chair, and forgotten about. 

He knows Zagreus’s absences will linger longer, until the absence becomes a full disappearance, he knows. But no matter how many times he acknowledges his acceptance of this whole disastrous situation of fuckery, it does not loosen the noose around his neck.

When will the Pool lay still? How much time does he truly have left?  

Gods, he hasn’t been able to sleep. Fitful is the slumber of the mortals up top, turbulent and uneasy, dreaming of visions of something viciously torn from their chest and missing, with hope just a dangling sham.

Yes. This really, truly, does suck. He’d assume he was better than this. Had grown out of this… this… dependency, he has, on others. 

(Gods, Mom was so right, he really does need to get over this over-reliance he has on people. No wonder she doesn’t speak to him. 

Who even is Hypnos. He feels like he can’t even answer that.) 

“Are you alright, mate?”

Zagreus’s voice breaks Hypnos from his wallowing, from where he sits on their bed to watch Zag mull upon his scrying pool. Evidently, he must look particularly pathetic from where he sits, with slumped shoulders and an empty smile, because Zagreus had turned and no doubt had some parting remark on his lips. Of which died in an instant, and now his brows are knitted in concern.

“Hypnos?” Zagreus says, his brows still furrowing deeper in their worry, and Hypnos should probably say something. Because when will be the last time he will get to say something?  

He broadens his smile, and it feels fake even to him, as he attempts to say cheerily, “I’ll love you even when you get to the Surface, you know that, right?”

His words come out distinctly tired. And, well, he is tired.

A pause. Before: “As will I, of course.” Zagreus says, stepping closer. “What’s the matter, Hypnos?” 

“The Surface would be good for you.” Hypnos practically blurts, shrugging in an attempt to curb his nerves. “I’ll be happy for you, when you’re out unintentionally creating wildfires from your feet. Just cheering you on from way down here, hopefully loud enough for you to hear.” 

Another pause. Zagreus blinking, his face contorting in—confusion. And of course he’s confused. He doesn’t know that Hypnos knows.

And Zagreus does something terrible, because he walks closer, until he stands before Hypnos where he sits, and kneels (ah) in front of him. And then Hypnos’s face is being cradled by two stupidly large hands as Zagreus looks up to him, and it takes a physical effort not to be a pathetic whelp and take a sharp intake of breath from feeling the warmth of Zagreus’s skin against his.

“You know I’ll come back for you, right? Why are you saying this?” Zagreus says and Hypnos is forced to look into red and green, and Zagreus is a cruel man.

“It’s fine, Zag.” Hypnos says, still smiling, as his hands bunch onto his lap as he begins to fiddle with his fingers. “You feel like a foreigner in your own home, and that can’t be healthy, can it? I know you need to get out of here and frolic on the Surface. You know I would never stop you from that, right?”

Gods, he hopes Zagreus actually knows that. 

“Hypnos,” Zagreus starts, voice heavy. “Why do you say such things? You know I’ll be back for you.”

Zagreus is not vicious. He is a stupidly kind, altruistic man that Hypnos fell in love with, and perhaps too much so; he must feel obligated to keep up this facade. And Hypnos feels rot in his gut from the thought. He will not be the cause of Zagreus’s misery.

Hypnos speaks, his voice a caricature of its usual cheer. “You hate it here. You’ve made that abundantly clear with how many deaths you’re willing to try out like a fashion statement with each escape attempt that you somehow miraculously shrug off each time. You’ve been pretty clear in your distaste of Hades. Your Father and the place.”

Zagreus’s face twists, pain across his expression. “This place isn’t home, no.” He says thickly, reasserting his hold on Hypnos’s face as if he is afraid Hypnos would flee. “But you are, beloved. I wouldn’t leave you, Hypnos.”

That’s not what you said, Hypnos thinks, wishes he could say, You’re lying to me.

(When had Zagreus actually turned vicious?)

“It’s fine, Zag.” Hypnos says instead, a manic giggle following it. “You hate it here, and I’ll love you no matter what, you, you, bewitcher, you, haha!” 

“Hypnos—” Zagreus attempts, and his voice has grown strained.

And Hypnos continues, babbles, his mouth and tongue working on their own accord as he begins to mindlessly fray his nails. “It’s fine, Zag, it’s okay, really. I understand. You can say it to me, you know? I only want the best for you, you’re only my favourite Prince, my lovely husband who enjoys dying, and the Surface probably smells a lot better than here, ahah!”

“Hypnos—”

“I mean, you might not know it smells better, we’re all pretty used to putrefaction and decay and ash being what everything smells like. Did you know there’s more? I know poppies are your favourite, haha, but there’s more flowers. Thousands of them, actually, and they all smell different. Did you know that? Now you know that. There’s so many things to smell, up there. It’ll be good to you. I can’t wait for you to actually smell what an actual, living human smells like, ahaha!”

“Mate—”

“It’s fine, Zag. It’s okay. I mean it. I’m not, I’m not—I don’t have chains, silly, I’m not going to chain you here. You have flowers to smell. A mountain top to climb and an Olympic family to make merry with, and, and a Mother to track down.” He almost assumes Zagreus has moved his hands to encircle his throat and squeeze, with how tight it is, but no, Zagreus still cradles his face, and Hypnos still rambles because his body is just itching to ruin everything. “And it’s, it’s—you don’t have to even tell her you’re married, you know? I’d understand. I’m not going to keep you here. You hate it.”

Hypnos winces, a ball of thorns contracting around his neck and piercing his throat, and would he understand? He tells himself he would. That he’d have to.

Zagreus actually recoils, from that, like he’s been slapped, and he states firmly, “I’m not leaving you.” 

Hypnos blurts out the most inappropriate laugh, and then he’s laughing at the fact he’s actually laughing, at a time like this. Some high-pitched, frenzied thing, and Zag’s hands move from his jaw to settle on Hypnos’s shoulders, like the smaller God is going to disintegrate if he doesn’t. 

“I mean, I mean, we could talk, if you want, while we dream. I’d like that. I could visit you while you sleep. It’s fine. It’s okay. Really, Zag.” 

“It’s not, Hypnos,” Zagreus stresses with some face of anguish, and maybe Hypnos could believe him. 

“It really is,” Hypnos continues, his smile feeling as though it literally cracks apart his skin, and he can’t look at Zag. He can’t look, not when there’s a knot in his throat, a coiling of his gut, a tickling wetness in his eyes and hands that continues to meddle uselessly among themselves. He looks down, to his lap, to avoid how the walls are closing in on him, watches how he strips the tips of his nails, watches how he tatters the skin of his fingertips. 

“You gotta find your Mother, I get it. It’s fine. You told me you never felt like you truly belonged here, and that must be, must be, just torture for you, you know? I hate seeing you all gloomy. You’re no fun when you’re like that, ahah. I would never think dying repeatedly could make someone so happy and fulfilled but you are, just, just full of surprises. I like that about you. I do.

“And I’m your husband,” his voice cracks. “Of course I, I support your shenanigans. We’re in cahoots. Hand in hand. Well, I guess, not really, I don’t really wanna die, you know, but, uh, hand in hand in spirit! It’s fine. It’s okay.” 

He’s repeating himself. It’s fine, it’s okay, Zag, really, and he continues to repeat himself, to really hammer in that thick skull of Zag’s that he understands, he does. The Surface is of unparalleled importance. His Mother, the priority, and Hypnos can wait. Can wait for eternity. It’s fine, it’s okay, I know you need this.   

Zagreus may be saying something. His throat may be bobbing in a precarious way with grief dancing upon his face, but Hypnos doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear it, because he's accidentally made himself bleed by tearing a section of skin that surrounds a nail. It’s a small, but sharp sting, and his fingers are trembling, actually, fancy that. 

“What’s happened, Hypnos, please speak to me.” 

Hypnos feels a squeeze at his shoulders, heavy hands appearing to restrain themselves from just shaking Hypnos. Don’t play dumb, Hypnos should say, but he continues to repeat himself instead.

It’s fine, but the words complete their strangulation of him and he can no longer speak. The sounds he makes are reduced to wheezing, sporadic hiccuping what peppers through, and he bites his lips hard enough to break skin, willing himself to heave instead of weep. He can’t make a mess, not now, and crying is always a drag for all involved. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishes he could knock himself into a coma right there and then, but his body won’t let him.

His shoulders tremble, his gorget too tight, and it's a good thing he doesn’t actually need to breathe because he may have suffocated, long ago. He wishes to curl in on himself, make himself smaller, and eventually disappear. He hates crying. Like he’s some defenseless infant, with fists so tight he feels the nails of his fingers nearly break the skin of his palm. His breaths are fragmented, his heaving becoming deeper, and he feels the escape of a tear trail down his cheek, and he thinks, how tragic.

He doesn’t notice when Zagreus moves, but does notice when he’s suddenly being pulled into a familiar bosom. Zagreus has moved to sit upon the bed with him, with arms brought tight to curl around Hypnos’s frame and bring him close. And it’s with that, with this shelter Hypnos has always known he could rely on encircling him, and the thought he will no longer be able to experience it when the Pool is still, does Hypnos break. 

His tears escape him, his face becomes uncomfortably moist, his heaving something guttural, and he clings onto Zagreus’s tunic with shredded fingertips, and he weeps. He weeps, and Zagreus holds him, and he weeps. In grief, in agony, in mourning, and it all overflows into something messy and ugly.

“I understand—” Hypnos attempts, nearly chokes on the words, and tries again. “I understand… If, if you won’t return, Zag. It’s fine, really.” 

“It isn’t,” Zagreus cuts in sharply, his arms tightening their hold on Hypnos with his voice raw, like he had been weeping too. “It wouldn’t be fine. It wouldn’t be okay. It would be a heartless thing for me to do. It would be immensely unfair to you.”

“Why’d you say it, then?”

His voice is quiet, nearly too quiet, and Zagreus is silent to the point Hypnos thinks Zagreus hadn’t heard, before his Prince speaks.

“Say what?” He asks, and Hypnos hears his confusion.

Another pause. Hypnos willing himself to find strength. He says, with a voice uncharacteristically flat and sniffing his stuffy nose, “That you would leave forever, if you could?”

Then a stunned pause. The secret out, and Hypnos feels Zagreus stiffen. “How did you—?” He starts.

“They showed me.” Hypnos interrupts, and it's all he needs to say, as Zagreus comes to a spluttering halt.

Hypnos stays laying against Zagreus, listening to his heartbeat. He counts it. Focuses upon it, as he feels Zagreus’s chest begin to tremble. 

“Hypnos,” He says, squeezing closer, his voice heavy in—raw anguish, like everything had been stripped of him, and Hypnos lays against him still, as a corpse. 

“It’s okay—” He mumbles.

“It’s not,” Zagreus cuts in again, just as sharply. “I shouldn’t have said it. I, I wasn’t thinking. I—Gods,” Zagreus is trembling. Hypnos stays where he is, as he feels it.

Zagreus swallows, thickly, begins again after rubbing his face, breathing deep, and reorganizing himself from shattering. His voice shakes. “I wasn't thinking. It was a callous thing for me to say. I, I’ve, blood and darkness. Why did I say that? How could I say that? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it. It isn’t true. It was a moment of weakness. I—No, I do not hold much fondness here, but I could never leave you, Hypnos, I couldn’t.”

Hypnos stares at nothing in particular, into the room, into the clutter that still exists, of dust upon the shelves, of knick-knacks that just exist anywhere haphazardly. 

He murmurs despondently, “Couldn’t you?” 

And couldn’t he?

“Never,” Zagreus almost hisses. “There is not a force that could stop me from returning to you, why would I choose to do so? I would never. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Hypnos.” 

This should feel freeing, Hypnos thinks. This should feel good. A weight, off his shoulders, and all that.

But Gods. His eyelids are stones. 

“Can you forgive me?” Zagreus says, rubbing Hypnos’s sides up and down, and his voice sounds hazy, like he speaks from another room entirely. “It’s fine if you can’t answer. It’s fine if you—can’t.”

He is so tired. 

“Tuck me into bed. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

His voice is a reflection of that exhaustion, and he hears Zagreus say “Of course.” And when he is tucked in by gentle, caring hands, does Hypnos hear Zagreus say “I’m sorry.” And he falls asleep. 

He’s such an idiot.

On the list of things Zagreus can safely list as a fuck-up, this is at the very top. In great, big, bold lettering, you idiot. 

He wants to bang his head against the wall. He wants to ask Meg to give him his deserved comeuppance at the end of a barbed whip, because he is an idiot, a fool, a nitwit, a moron, and any and all deprecating titles, because he’s earned them all. Fuck. Blood and darkness.

Zagreus paces. Back and forth, burning a hole into the floor with the tenacity he exhibits, and Hypnos sleeps in the bed, and Zagreus waits. Will wait, if Hypnos decides to sleep for the next week straight. 

(And if Hypnos decided he would leave for Erebus and distance himself—Zagreus wouldn’t stop him.)

Oh, what a mess. He would say he would have words with Master Chaos, but this is all ultimately his fault, and one he should own up to, and guilt and shame burrow themselves deep as maggots. Yup. He’s an idiot. He massages his temples, a growing headache his own fault, because this all his fault, and he lets out a laboured breath. How had he not noticed anything? Has he really become so blind, to his own husband, the man he loves? The thought makes him sick. Physically, with nausea a growing presence. 

Is this what Hypnos thinks he deserves? To be left behind? He’s about to throw up.

He swallows thickly, and then nearly chokes on his own saliva when he hears the covers of the bed begin to move. His sights are trained immediately on that white curly mound of hair as Hypnos moves, and before Hypnos can properly discern what is up and what is down, Zagreus is on him at an instant.  

“Hypnos,” He says as he nearly skids to a halt as he kneels at the side of the bed and Hypnos blinks owlishly at him. “Do you—do you need anything? Are you alright? May I fetch you... Water, food? Nectar? Cake? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m sorry. ” Zagreus carts a heavy hand through his hair, Hypnos continues to blink, dispelling sleep, and Zagreus winces, before: “Would you like ambrosia?”

Hypnos is quiet, before he shifts, rolling his shoulders, and lets out a mighty yawn. The corners of his lips rise, and Zagreus’s heart nearly stops.

“Careful,” Hypnos mutters tiredly, and he looks so exhausted. “People may start to think I’m the Prince instead, if you act like that.” 

And he smiles, lays on his side, bags heavy underneath his eyes, and Zagreus actually could go crazy.

“I love you,” he blurts in a rush, feeling as though adrenaline courses through him as if he faces the Hydra. “I’m sorry for what I said. It was a lapse of judgement, of sanity, and it was, was careless. And that’s the only excuse I can give. It was a mistake. But I… I understand if you do not want to see me, right now. Just say the word, and I’ll leave you be.”

He would understand if Hypnos needed space, and he would respect it. Readies himself for a cold dismissal, because he would deserve it. 

Hypnos quirks a brow. Says mildly, “Yes, because after I just wept from the thought of you leaving what I need is… you leaving.”

And—

Well, alright, perhaps he didn’t think that through.

Zagreus opens his own, finds no words, closes his mouth, then reopens it, with words barely at the ready.

“That—I didn’t—”

“I’m teasing,” Hypnos wheedles, lifting a hand to sloppily pat at Zagreus’s shoulder. Then he moves, sits himself upright, and pats the space next to him. “Just, sit over here, will you?”

So Zagreus immediately does what is asked of him in a hurried jumble of limbs, seating himself next to his husband. His shoulders are stiff. His breath halted, and he lays a hand in between them, palm up, should Hypnos take the invitation. Zagreus does not feel he has the right to take the initiative himself, yet.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, when Hypnos easily slips his hand into his own, fingers lacing themselves together, and he won’t cry, of course he won’t.

He won’t cry, because he swallows it all down, when Hypnos leans into him, with his head cushioned upon his shoulder. He squeezes his hand, and feels Hypnos squeeze back, and for a moment, neither of them speak. They merely are, together in each other’s presence, and Zagreus feels dirty to think to break it, but he speaks suddenly against his will.

“I’m sorry.” He spouts, again.

Hypnos snorts. “I know. But keep going.” 

He can feel Hypnos’s smile, and it gives him endless strength, as Zagreus continues. “I’m sorry, I’ve… you’ve heard my explanation. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been in a difficult head-space since all… this. It’s not—it’s not always easy dying. But it doesn't excuse what I said. So I ask again, if you can forgive me?”

He asks it tentatively, as he rubs his thumb across Hypnos’s knuckles. He smells the bouncy curls on Hypnos’s head, and smells honey.

Hypnos hums. Then he smacks his lips, turns his head upwards to look at Zag with a glint in his eyes. “If that ambrosia deal is still up, just give me some of the good stuff and it’s all water under the bridge, yeah?”

Zagreus stares at him.

Continues to stare at him, with that cheeky face, at the earnest layer beneath it, how Hypnos still looks tired, but brightening, and Zagreus really, really loves this man.

“Are you sure?” He asks, brows furrowing, and a part of him wishes that Hypnos would take longer, really mull over it, or even yell. Scream, instead of bottling it all up.

Hypnos shrugs, says, “Yes I’m sure, you big oaf, I’ll say it if you need me to. I forgive you, now are you going to kiss me, or what?”

“That easy?” Zagreus finds himself saying, his voice suddenly thick.

“Yes, Zagreus.” Hypnos responds, moving so he cups at Zagreus’s face with eyes grown soft. “That easy.”

Gods, Zagreus thinks as Hypnos brings himself upwards to kiss, how was I this lucky to land you?

Their kiss is warm and invigorating, greater than any ambrosia or death defiance, a revival of the soul, as Zagreus leans forward, leans deeper, his hands curling around the smaller body to coax him forward. He is brought to a near dizzying state, a haze of fervor that could energize him through all levels of Hell and then some. 

When they part, his breath is heavy, and he clings onto Hypnos in an all enveloping hug. He feels Hypnos let out an unwinding sigh, as Zagreus kisses the crown of his head.

“I won’t leave you.” Zagreus murmurs, promises. “I couldn’t.”

Hypnos hums, and rubs at Zagreus’s back comfortably, and Zagreus does likewise. 

“Perhaps…” Zagreus says, after a moment of silence, after indulging in the simple weight that lies in his arms as his anchor. “A break is in order.”

Hypnos is quiet, then, “Don’t let me burden you—”

“You are never, ever, anything of the sort, so don't even finish that.” Zagreus interrupts, gently, bringing a hand upwards to pet his husband’s curly head. “Dying is… tiring. A hassle. I know you may be under the impression I enjoy it, but it is actually rather taxing, the constant repetition of death, mate. So, I am going to take a break.”

He gives another kiss to Hypnos’s head, and Hypnos retracts, a sigh emitting from him, leveling Zagreus with a… fond look, with a smile that reaches his eyes.

“Oh, that’ll bring you closer to your goal, won’t it, laying around and doing nothing?” He says with snark.

Zagreus snorts, and gives Hypnos a good-natured shove at his shoulder. “Laying around with my husband is hardly wasting time, mate.”

“I hope we’ll be doing the verb usage of that word, mate.”

“I think you’ve used that exact line at least seven separate times, mate.”

“Well, it's eight now, mate.” Hypnos rolls his eyes, and takes hold of the front of Zagreus’s tunic as he whispers, “Now kiss me again. Show me how sorry you really are, yeah?” 

And he can’t possibly argue with that, now can he? He smiles, when their lips meet once more.