Work Text:
He had spoken while thin pale lips pressed firm kisses atop rough calluses, kisses with the intent behind them to wish the bruises away from bloodied knuckles, committing each valley and mountain to memory. His voice was barely the noise of a passing breeze, a murmur that only Death could hear over the cool, babbling brooks of Elysium (which were warded away by the warmth that he embodies, this Life).
"Thanatos, I… I mean not to impose such a daunting question on you during this rare moment of intimacy, but... what do I mean to you?" Eyes the color of blood and spring flicker from his brilliant gaze back to the moss-strewn marble floor, the scent of ichor and injury momentarily forgotten as Death smells the ever-present waft of pomegranates upon his voice. There is a shaky breath, done into the crook of Thanatos' neck as Zagreus ventures to lean his head upon his shoulder, the hand not currently being admonished with affection now resting hesitantly upon his hip (and Death places a hand atop it, settling that fluttering heartbeat through his unyielding presence).
"What do you mean, Zag? I've answered this before, haven't I?" Thanatos answers just as quietly, but he wills a confidence into every word, every movement of his lips poignant and full of meaning, and Zagreus merely laughs into his flesh (and it tickles the base of his neck, a reminder that he was still very much well and alive here in his arms and it steadies his quivering heart). Perhaps he can sense the well-meaning indignation of Thanatos' response, as if his previous answer had been inadequate to commit to memory, knowing that his effervescent, rumbling laugh would melt such concerns away.
Zagreus smiles against his skin, his laugh bubbling off in a soft chuckle. That smile had always been something Thanatos had never attributed to his father, not once. While Zagreus was alike to the Lord of the House in so many ways, it was that kind, wistful smile that reminded him of that willful, vibrant Goddess that now stands at the forefront of house. "Indeed, you have. I suppose you must find me tiresome by now, with all these repetitive questions?"
"No, never. It's your curiosity that gives you that stubborn charm, after all. Besides, without it I never would have been able to steal away from my own work to visit you during yours."
The God of Life moves back, one brow arched in a bemused expression. "Stubborn charm?"
And so the God of Death smiles, the sort of smile he reserves only for his counterpart, his other half before placing another willful kiss upon that scuffed nose, still marred with a close hit from a splitter. "Yes, stubborn charm, and I suppose your appearance certainly sweetens the deal in some ways even if you are sometimes more bandages than god at times."
Zagreus rolls his eyes, the very image of exasperation but that wane smile remains upon his features anyways, a glimmer in those eyes. "Please, Than, I'm being serious."
Eyes the color of spun gold settle upon that face and its smiling features. "And so am I, and yet you haven't answered my question yet. Why are you asking me this again? Do you doubt me?"
As those words leave Thanatos' lips Zagreus moves his head away, causing Death's heart to squeeze momentarily in yearning. He recognizes that expression, the hurt that arose when he stepped out of the administration office after a scolding, the hurt that arose when he was sent back to the household by the hands of an enemy, the hurt that arose when Thanatos had first approached him to ask why he had left with no goodbye.
The hurt of self-doubt, the hurt of unworthiness . A hurt that Thanatos cannot kiss away.
"I'm sorry, Than, you really don't deserve this, any of this…" he speaks in a faltering voice, beginning to tear himself away and Thanatos catches him with a gentle grip, moving to interlock their fingers together.
"This what, Zag?" Earnest words, full of wanting to soothe away the fears upon that crimson-stained face, the scars that split his lip, the scrape near his hairline.
That eye made of ruby is the one that looks towards him now, cold and dark in that ever-rare weakness that he can only show to him and Thanatos' hands hover above the other's waist, so afraid of breaking that thin veneer as this weakened god speaks. " Me , Than, I am what ? Am I… am I worth it to you." His voice breaks as he looks back to the ground, settled upon the earth between hell and heaven. "All my life I've been told my worth, my use, my purpose defined by my ability to push papers, my combat ability, my likeness to him . Despite all of that, I don't even know what I am the god of, and no amount of speculation from Achilles will ever tell me that. Who am I… what am I… and am I worth it?"
For once, Thanatos is speechless. To say he understood Zagreus' dilemma would be a lie: from birth he had always known his purpose, his worth, his duty. He was Death, the inevitable end and beginning for all things, unstoppable even by the chill of Demeter or the thunderous decree of Zeus. For Zagreus… his beginning was wrought with nothing, he was never even meant to have a fate. And that would never be something that Death can understand, the incarnate being of the end of fate himself.
Despite that, he ventures, his words slow at first, hesitant like a man who first takes to a pool of water. There is a breaking tide to his voice that ebbs away with each passing wave of truths, Thanatos taking that warm hand and placing it over his chest (to which he hopes those truths echo in the chamber of his heart, amplified by the space that Zagreus has made for himself within that eternal organ).
"Who are you, Zagreus? I don't know... nor can I ever claim to know who you are to others. But to me… you are the other half of my soul. The other half of me, entirely. You are the happiness that you bring me in all your terrible, hard-headed, sublime beauty. You are the memories we make together and remember in this evershifting, immemorable labyrinth, remembered by none. You are a part of me, my love, my… my partner." Each word again spoken with a subtle emphasis, with all of his immortal soul torn into pieces and placed into each pause, each breath. And he would do that for him, without a doubt, tear his very being into pieces and place them into each empty crack and missing piece of the other's happiness, to bandage the breaks caused by such self doubts. "You are worthy of love, Zagreus, if you will only let me give it to you. Not only are you worthy, I beg you to please accept my affection, my entirety."
Perhaps age has made Thanatos a poet. Or, perhaps, it was foolishness.
Thanatos is suddenly made aware of the grass beneath his feet, looking down to have seen Zagreus has brought him down to the ground with that awfully strong grip of his, those arms sculpted of life and joy and pain and history wrapped around his shoulders. And Thanatos accepts it wholly, his own arms wrapping easily around the other's waist, as if made to be fitted there like a sculpture. A wordless acception, a silent affirmation.
It is after a few breaths of thought that Zagreus places a warm hand upon Thanatos' cheek, the rough pad of his thumb softly lining the bone of his cheek. "Than, when did you become a wordsmith? Although, I believe that your kindness is rather unparalleled in the depiction of my deeds, rival to even that of Orpheus." He cocks his head, a tilt akin to the inquisitiveness of an animal on the surface (and Thanatos found that unbearably endearing). "Could this be a problem with my job, having the favor of Death on my side?"
Perhaps, actually, as he looks upon those eyes the color of gems, feeling that breath that smells of pomegranates and nectar upon his brow, the heat of his skin and the color of his cheeks that beat of vigor, that, maybe, just maybe… Zagreus was his poetic muse. Golden eyes wrinkle in a lop-sided smirk.
"Who cares, the Lord can't see us here anyways."
Zagreus snorts. "I'd wander to say that I don't think that's how it works, Than." But nonetheless, he places a warm kiss upon the other's smiling lips, and Thanatos can feel the returning curl of the other's grin.
And, well… everything was just poetically alright.