Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He has never liked the night.

Not it, not the shadows in the corners, or the darkness yawning overhead in every bed chamber from Amaurot to the furthest reaches of Etheirys. As far as Hyperion is concerned, the night is made of sorrow, concealment, and broken promises. It belongs to thieves, murderers, and liars. The deceivers of the world and the shameful.

The night is for those who have something to hide from the world or do not wish to be seen or acknowledged.

He is none of these. From youth, he has found comfort in light, no matter how feeble it is. How fragile and flickering. How comforting even the faintest bit of it could be to those lost and afraid of the dark. Where the light touches, life may sprout and bloom beneath its rays no matter how precarious or fleeting its existence may be.

His first spell, the one he begged, wheedled, and pestered his elder siblings to teach him until they agreed was that of a simple ball of light. Hope was in that ball of light and he had run himself into the ground until he could manage just the tiniest mote. So bare a thing if one blinked, they might miss its existence entirely.

Just like his existence in the eyes of any but those with proper sight.

But that feeble little spell, that accomplishment was his . His first of what would be many as time stretched ever onward. When he struggled to maintain it, Tethys had suggested he try to bind it to something static and build upon it.  

Kindness was an awkward thing for their family, and it was how Tethys had gone from a barely recognizable presence to someone he actively searched for when he knew they were around. While Hyperion knew even young as he had been back then that his sibling wanted nothing to do with him or any of their family, the attempt being made to tolerate him was appreciated.

And so Hyperion tried not to be a waste of that effort.

On a whim, he had bound it to his fingernail. The one belonging to his leftmost ring finger. The one closest to his heart– or so claimed the besotted sister chasing after a researcher in Pandæmonium. Now, in the darkness as he is, Hyperion idly wonders if Theia ever managed to gain that mysterious woman’s attention.

His thoughts returned to that little speck of light. How he had bound and built upon it. A tiny pinprick grew beyond the size of a grain of sand. Further built and grew to be the size of a pin's head. He struggled to make it larger than that for moons . He learned how he could cause it to intensify or dim the light to something half that of candlelight in due time, but could not make it larger in size.

Even that period of stagnation had done nothing but thrill him– for he had one of his own; his own tiny, flickering star. Bound to the sky of his nail as it was, he lay abed and watch with rapt attention until his eyes inevitably closed and sleep whisked him away in its eternal tides. 

It was not done for him, not a spell begrudgingly conjured to silence his caterwauling; it was his star. Light of his own creation. It kept him safe at night. Drove that which lurked in the shadows and hidden secrets away from him just so long as he held it in place.

Full lips curved into a smile, Hyperion glances down at his hand, fallen into a limp sprawl across the hip of another face down in the pillows beside him. It isn't even a thought and the fingernail in question begins to glow. 

Still there, that little light of his. 

He can create the stars in their entirety now. The ones that shine in the heavens, that is. Through education and endless hours of practice beneath eyes and hands older than he ever expects to reach, he has learned how to warp gas and light and flame and bend it in such a way he can create miniature stars.

As that which they become when they, as all things do, die.

He is not ashamed to admit he wept upon his first star's creation within the Akadaemia. His instructor had been startled, uneasy at the explosive display. A clumsy pat on the shoulder for his accomplishments even as it had quickly guttered out due to his lack of attention and focus.

But he had done it. He had created a light that could, with enough materials and preparation, be set into that accursed blanket of shadow each evening when the sun fell. 

It would be because of him that someone scared, lost, and alone would see it. Someone who could, and would, find hope in its seemingly insignificant existence; a tiny light just for them to carry them through despair to the other side where hope and healing awaits.

But he is, unfortunately, awake now and the shadows overhead have begun their damned whispering again. Hyperion's mouth curves down. One quick, ruthless internal debate later and he carefully extracts himself from the shared bed. The light he summons is enough to guide him to where he needs to go without waking the other two.

One. At least, he corrects as he hears the familiar sounds of stirring from the other end of the bed the moment his bare feet pass the threshold leading into the adjacent cooking area.

A touch of heat to bring the water to steaming. A ritual of measurement and equal parts precision and whim. It isn't that he needs this, but the routine keeps him grounded when the doubts begin to bubble to the surface. The contents of the mugs, plural, are done to his personal tastes and he returns to the too dark room with two in hand and one floating beside him.

Sitting up and looking far too alert for the early hour is Hythlodaeus. The man he has grown up with has grown increasingly sensitive to the subtlest of pressure changes when it came to the three of them. As much as he finds the talent, and resulting attention to detail beneficial in just about all aspects of life, it's also a particularly impressive pain in the ass when he would rather not have certain mannerisms, habits, or other such matters spoken of aloud.

Hyperion's disapproving frown deepens as the light of his hand casts deeper shadows on the one still asleep. Something about the fair-skinned arm stretched across where Hyperion had been lying bothers him. Strong fingers lay in a half-curled sprawl, wrist lightly bent, the rise and fall of its owner’s chest, and the occasional soft snore fills the air. 

But Hades’ arm is reaching for someone, something that isn’t there anymore and Hyperion hates it almost more than nightfall itself. It's a lonely sight and one that twists something sharp and jagged between his ribs.

With a tug to the ambient aether in the air and careful manipulation of his own to hold the second steaming mug a handspan above his head, he carefully settles himself back into bed. Hesitates only for a moment as his eyes find the aforementioned arm– pushed back closer to the slumbering man’s body to grant him space– and irritation turns into a full on scowl as he reaches over and drags the offending arm back over his waist and hip. 

There. It’s not lonely and pathetic anymore. The scowl fades, as it almost always does, at the sight of his lover's face slackened in deep slumber.  Not even so much as a hint of a stir; when Hades genuinely sleeps , the man cannot be moved and may as well be dead.

Hyperion isn't sure if he wants to swat him or snuggle in closer.

Sleeping so innocently and heavily like that as though he’s in the safest place in existence. What an insufferably arrogant existence this man leads; just sleeping through his departure and return like he was not the slightest of threats to his entire existence. Really, Hyperion could kill him seventeen and a half different ways, right now, and he’d never sense or see it coming. 

It really is a shame that a man this handsome is such an overly pretentious bore on the average. Blue eyes trace over the faint impressions of that ever-present furrow on his brow. And yet, this selfsame bore is why the night and its evils are almost tolerable. Only in his company has Hyperion found a reason not to loathe the night.

Only because of him and his incessant nagging, criticizing, and demanding personality has he begun to begrudgingly admit there could, potentially, be beauty in shadow.  That treachery, deception, and loneliness are not all the night hold for those who lie awake in it. 

In spite of the antagonistic turn of his thoughts, Hyperion's lips curve upward. Hades might be one of the most anal retentive people he’s ever had the displeasure to share company with, but he is Hyperion’s , and Hythlodaeus’, cantankerous stick in the mud. Softly glowing blue eyes watch the rise and fall of his chest. The steadily rising pressure within his own breast begins to break apart the longer he watches. 

Unable to help himself, Hyperion allows the knuckle of one finger to gingerly brush over the sleeping man's cheekbone. Chases a shadow away with a bit of light and feels the affection swelling within his heart deepen at the slightest deepening of the furrow between Hades' brow.

His enemy, his friend, and now his lover. 

Never had he imagined that he would deign to call this man such. They are forever at odds, he and the newly titled Emet-Selch. But in their unintended rivalry and bickering comes growth. The surpassing of one’s limitations to find a new tier of understanding and power. They are opposites in many ways, but share similarities in a way that makes him both long to lay bare more of his insecurities and vulnerabilities... and run far, far away from him until he forgets.

If he ever does.

Smoothing away a lock of thick white hair from Hades' face, Hyperion still believes white hair suits him better than it does the newest member of the Convocation in question. But Hades, begrudgingly, does not have the star’s worst case of bed head in the mornings– much to Hyperion’s personal disappointment, he’d been looking forward to taunting him about that from the beginning. It's always rumpled or tousled in an unfairly attractive state of disarray until he takes a single brush, wetted down, and swipes it through.

It was one thing he and Hythlodaeus agree is singularly annoying about him; his hair is unfairly easy to maintain and manage.

That dubious honor regarding said worst case of bed-head on Etheirys goes strictly to Hythlodaeus and he is wise enough to keep that comment to himself. 

This time. 

It is apparently not a compliment to ask if there was a Concept running amok within a lover’s hair at a predawn hour. Even if his tone had been in genuine awe and his earnest question of ‘how does it stick up like that?’ out of curiosity, not mockery. 

Hades had braided his hair before they’d settled in for sleep; a recent development between them. He'd watched Hades run the brush, and then comb, through Hythlodaeus's hair. Seeing his lover's half-lidded gaze of contentment had been a little too much for his own curiosity's sake and he'd begrudgingly asked if he'd mind doing the same for him. 

Their mutual looks of surprise had been hilarious and insulting in equal measure. 

But Hades was, as with most things he picked up, annoyingly good at it. The tail of the lone thick braid falls lazily over his shoulder to lie against the bed. His hair is not evenly cut and there are flyaways everywhere to make it look messy in a way that appeals to him in some way. Mostly because he doesn't want to spend the time or energy needed to make his hair one specific length because it would mean cutting it shorter than he'd like and the thought makes him uneasy.

Speaking of uneasy; that silent, knowing look Hythlodaeus is giving him in bed is getting on his last nerve. He just watched with those (lovely) eyes of his and waited, as usual, for Hyperion to say something.

"Something you wish to say, oh shining star and delight of my heart?" Hyperion directs his question to the smirking menace and his glowing violet eyes as he offers one steaming mug to him.

He can guess the first question that'll come up, it's the same one he always asks whenever he realizes Hyperion isn't asleep the way he should be.

"Have you not slept?" Concern mixed with mild rebuke.

Once again, I am truly the master of precognition. They really should just take my word at face value, I'm almost always correct in these matters. Wordlessly, for the moment, Hyperion pointedly stares at the proffered steaming mug and back to Hythlodaeus again with an ever-patient expression. It's one the other man is well acquainted with, after all, and knows full well if he doesn't take whatever is offered... Hyperion will simply refuse to move forward.

It also works in reverse; Hyperion will refuse to enter or accept something unless it is explicitly offered to him as well.

Hythlodaeus accepts the offering with a wordless lift of his brow. A sip of the contents gains the other man a half-lidded look of approval and gratitude. A strong brew, this one. Stronger than he would like but for the added sweetener, cream, and a touch of cinnamon.  Which means his beloved is expecting a particularly long day and hasn't slept much.

Again.

"You've been practicing, I see." Another sip, letting the bitterness melt on his tongue. Hythlodaeus gives an approving hum and nod. "It's good."

He's awarded one of Hyperion's true grins, one he could correctly call boyish for its unfettered joy, in return. Pride streaks across his face like levin, leaving an afterimage in its wake that doesn't quite fade. It's quite charming, utterly endearing, and has the bonus effect of making him smile in return. Contagious, that unguarded, shameless grin of his. How he loves it so.

How rarely it appears nowadays.

A glance to the window tells the man that shadows of dawn remain quite deep. Light is starting to break in the distance and the silence of between-times offers a rare window of stillness in the world ever-changing and marching forward.

It was the first time the three of them have been able to spend an extended night like this in quite some time.  All thanks to a matter in this settlement that had reached a particularly complex and tense stalemate. And, as a first in recent memory, Hyperion had actually requested their mutual assistance should they be available rather than the usual ‘surprise’ summonings that usually transpire.

A formal one, that request.

Hyperion rarely sent requests; he usually just summoned them and dealt with the consequences later. His life rather revolved around the adage ‘tis easier to ask forgiveness than permission’ when it came to his work; something that he quite certainly inherited from his predecessor when one considers the white robed advisor and the glint of mischief in her wise eyes.

The events of the days prior had been taxing, to say the least, and neither he nor Hades had seen Hyperion don his mask with such gravity in the last century... if ever to the degree in which it was required. The gratitude and formality in which he’d greeted them when they’d hurried to his side had put Hades off in particular. That had been the deepest frown he'd seen the man make yet and Hyperion was well known for managing to put a few abyss-deep furrows into the brows of most he met eventually.

It had ended well, of course, and he quickly understood why it had been he and Hades– no, not Hades, Emet-Selch – who had been requested above all others. Not out of familiarity or loneliness; but because of their shared Sight and respective fields of expertise.

I can feel it, taste its presence and aether. But I cannot behold it or hear its voice. Please, might you lend me your strength and expertise?

It and the events of the evening should have left Hyperion well past exhausted enough to sleep through the night. That it didn't... well, it bodes ill, for certain. 

He is drawn from his thoughts by the dry note in Hyperion's voice as he speaks.

"Should you think my cooking is a crime to the Star's inhabitants, you have yet to taste Venat's Concept of coffee." A beat and Hyperion clarifies to ensure there are no misunderstandings. "Should the opportunity to sample and review it come upon you, the shining light of my heart and life, I beseech you; reject it ."

Chapter Text

It takes a great deal of self-control not to spill the lovingly prepared beverage at Hyperion's vehemence in those last two words.

Would be twice the crime to do so, as Hyperion would say, given the waste of resources and care put into the warm drink. And, of course, one cannot forget the yelling and chastising they would both receive from their dearest Hades for spilling it atop of him. Though, if Hythlodaeus is going to be truthful, the idea of the deeply sleeping man being awoken so abruptly has some appeal given Hyperion's current state. He's quite the arktos when his sleep is interrupted but would know instantly there was reason enough given the drink and the evasiveness of Hyperion's current set of replies.

He holds the decision in reserve for the immediate future and  gives Hyperion a look for not answering his question. He gets another chance to rectify this before Hythlodaeus slides from concerned into the kind of cross that typically results in multiple people upset with him. As much of a delight as he knows he is, his own temper is nothing to sneeze at and it is a rare thing to let it off the proverbial leash-- especially where Hyperion himself is concerned.

“Second winds are a curse.” Hyperion offers by means of an explanation that isn’t one at all. Which, given how long he’s known the man, means something is chewing on his rather brilliant mind and he’s reluctant to speak of it. Or, to put it another way: what plagues him is deeply personal, likely emotional, and he's struggling with the desire to keep himself safe and secure by hiding it versus baring it all no-holds-barred in hopes of complete acceptance and comfort.

Hyperion’s eyes are back down on Hades’ sleeping face. New topic, for now . Whatever ails the man may be centered around their sleeping lover. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or eighty-seventh for that matter. 

"You know, if you would just show him that rather charmingly boyish smile of yours…" Hythlodaeus begins the delicate process of teasing through the surface layers of multiple distractions being used as a shield to get to the heart of the matter.

"He's seen it."

A blink. Well, isn’t this a new development? "Has he now?"

It reappears again. A gentle vulnerability and affection in the curve of his full mouth and half-lidded gaze. Long, powerful hands and their equally long fingers cast intriguing shadows over sun-kissed cheeks as Hyperion strokes the sleeping man's face again, deftly moving a stray lock of thick white hair back into place. No hesitation on the latter gesture either.

I seem to have missed something here. He’s not disappointed, quite the opposite as a matter of fact. This bodes well for the bond between the three of them outside the bed chamber.  

"He has." Hyperion confirms again with the briefest of scowls. Not even a half-hearted effort before it blooms into genuine affection and just the barest hint of mischief. "After all, when it comes to you , the brightest star in the night sky that is my heart, what else can I do but smile? If not even more …"

He trails off to let the silence speak for itself. A suggestive offer in hopes of the topic being left to rest. 

It was not to be Hyperion's lucky day, alas.  

"When?" Curiosity light and casual in his voice, Hythlodaeus stretches out after the question. The soft pop and crunch of his knees are louder than he'd like after a night of sleeping sprawled and curled around his two favorite lovers.  He winces at the sound. That is going to be at least a season of early mornings in my future.

Hyperion gives him a hard look over the rim of his own steaming mug. One that tells him I heard that without words.

Resisting the urge to sigh, early morning confirmed, he returns the favor with a pointed stare of his own. Disapproving stare to disapproving stare with his own silent reminder of the questions yet unanswered by the tall man in question. Stalemate. Albeit a temporary one if the way Hyperion’s gaze drops to the contents of his mug is any indicator. He never was one to hold gazes with him for very long. It used to sting until Hyperion had blurted out his feelings about him.

Unexpected and not quite the love confession either of them had planned for, but that was the way matters regarding Hyperion had a tendency to go. New, refreshing directions and unpredictable results.

Hythlodaeus is, as with the Third Seat lying like an oversized fallen log between them in the bed, completely at ease and secure in his position in the Fourteenth’s heart. Doubly so, really, as Hyperion’s mind was made up centuries ago where Hythlodaeus was concerned and his words hold more weight than most want to admit. A matter that some unscrupulous individuals whose names are not worth the weight on his tongue have long tried to utilize in their favor.

They earned more than his ire and a rare tongue-lash as a result of their efforts.

If anything, Hythlodaeus finds himself more than a little relieved that Hyperion appears to be delegating more space within his heart for Hades to reside without his involvement. A sign that bodes well given how jealously and painstakingly guarded Hyperion keeps his vulnerabilities and feelings as a whole. 

The two of them sit in a significantly more comfortable silence that settles over the room, and the soft stuttering of Hades' light snore.

Sharing a grin over top his oblivious head, the pair lift their mugs in a quiet toast for the evening prior's activities. It wasn't often they taxed a man known for his prickly nature, soul sight, and unbelievably vast aether stores to his utmost of limits.  Whenever they managed it, proven by just how deeply Hades is completely and utterly oblivious to the world around him, the two of them had a little celebration in smug victory.

"Well?" Hythlodaeus implores impatiently, gesturing for him to continue. More than half the contents of his own container drained. It’s time enough for Hyperion to have collected his thoughts. “When was it?”

"The evening the three of us spent together after the first time the rotten bastard so cruelly refused to let me come until I admitted I loved him." The words are harsh but his tone is filled with affection. Such is and has been the dynamic between the two Convocation members for some time now. “It was after you’d fallen asleep.”

He used to mean the insults with no hint of humor, much less affection and warmth. How funny that a handful of centuries and the appointment to the Traveler's Seat is enough to change such things. 

Hytholdaeus’ eyes glow softly as he applies the barest hint of focus to ensure all is well with his lover out of habit. It was Hyperion who aided him most in the refinement of his Sight when it'd awoken during childhood, after all, and as a result, reading his soul comes as naturally and instinctively as breathing. There's an ever-present flare of the Fourteenth's beautiful soul, so like that of one of the far-flung stars Hermes has shown him in his research, as he watches. Like the man himself, the emotions that roil across the surface are strong and unmistakably intense in their glory. 

A fetching shade of deep teal for embarrassment. A touch of guilt and shame adds a pallid turquoise bloom to the play of the opal blue of his soul. Anxiety in a dark blue spiked with the brightest shade of cyan that is his fear serves as the heart and spreads as oil sheens across still waters. Warmth and pleasure throughout the rest in star-like glimmers that spread and warp the rest around it in a summer sky hue. All emotion within is portrayed in so many shades of blue that shift in depth, saturation, and shade as ripples across its surface that Hythlodaeus cannot name them all.

That dark blue and cyan is one he is well accustomed to; the battle between anxiety and joy. The two are common in Hyperion’s soul when it comes to matters of the heart, particularly where the topic of love is concerned.

"Are you-"

"Having doubts?" Hyperion finished the question, knowing that look and tone all too well from prior conversations just like these. Most of which he’s started. 

At least, he’s started them in the past if he’s willing to be forthcoming about it. And here, in the cover offered by the darkest hour ‘twixt the shadow of night and the illumination of dawn, he wishes to be open. 

For now. 

He studies the sleeping man and rests his fingers against one well-muscled shoulder. The air chilled flesh covering strength beneath his fingertips. The dead weight of the arm around his waist he knows will subconsciously tighten to hold him there if he moves in just the wrong way. His mouth twists. Broad shoulders before his gaze rising and falling in one smooth motion with the deep, even tone of Hades' breathing. 

"Doubt and I are ever-present companions, my heart, and it would be remiss were I to claim otherwise." He raises the mug to stave off any additions Hythlodaeus may make. 

He isn't finished yet, after all.

"Changed as I am by the knowing of the two of you, for the better I assure you– and don't tell him I said that." Hyperion gives a falsely sour look beneath snowy lashes at Hythlodaeus in warning. One that fades into solemn unease.  His predilection for pretense and flippancy cast aside in favor of honesty. "It isn't you I doubt, the light of my life and bright star of my heart."

Never, ever Hythlodaeus; there is no other to whom he can look and have the urge to speak only truth to him. Hythlodaeus has almost always gained that kind of honesty from him without question; one of the very few whose presence-, no, existence-- makes him desire to bare it all regardless of what it may cost him in the end. A truly frightening ability that he suspects Hythlodaeus either doesn't know he has or, if he does, chooses not to wield openly or without just cause. 

Nor the man now known as Emet-Selch to the Star over in this matter. “Not him either, as frequently I wish I could lay that particular weighted burden and shackle to his feet."

He doesn't even mean the last bit. Appearances, that's all. All part of their little song and dance: Hyperion pretends not to want him and Hades enjoys making him beg . 

There are times when the roles are reversed, and those are a different kind of fun; more… vulnerable moments, those. Where what is bottled away can come to the surface and be met, matched, and loved. He is usually the one left needing significant care after, to make sure he didn’t go too far. And given that Hades' own nomination to the Seat of Emet-Selch was both of their doing... the praise he holds for the cantankerous man is high indeed. When he feels like giving it to him, anyway. It's awfully fun to harass him and watch that brow furrow right before something utterly caustic comes out of that generous mouth of his.  

Hades’ best point, as much as Hyperion dislikes it, is how insufferably honest and blunt he is. He doesn’t like to lie and it’s a comfort to know he says what he means.

Unless it’s their game.

Hyperion leans back against the rough stone wall. His eyes close as he lets the cold surface leech into his body and soothe the heated sting of anxiety clawing beneath the surface. Felt where bare skin recently healed threatened to wear away if he applied enough pressure and slid to the side, up, or down. The temptation to do so is there and he quells it. For now. 

No need to upset anyone.

"It is me. Always ." He confides to his beloved.  

His second spell, the one he sought after light, was his second most hated nemesis; silence . For if his esteemed parents could not hear him cry, they could not accuse him of weakness and punish him for it. If his siblings, older and younger alike, could not hear his distress and failures, they could not use it to elevate their worth in their parents' eyes. A habit long, long ingrained in his very essence; silence the sounds of weakness and pour it out to an unhearing void so that it doesn't eat like the acids of existence and leave him raw and sensitive to the world around him. 

A habit he has indulged in many times before in these predawn hours when the man with enchantingly beautiful features and the warmest of smiles on this beloved Star is straddling that grey area between the living and the dead that is the realm of dreams because some tearful or bitter confessions are meant solely for the ears of the blissfully unaware.

There is little else more of a blessing than those dark confessions being answered with a sleepy mumble of "love you too" if he moves a little too much mid-sob or apology, after all.  

Chapter Text

It is me. Always.

"You wouldn’t happen to have had another ill-fated run in with Echidna recently, have you?" Worry laced with an undercurrent of anger in Hythlodaeus' voice. 

To say he is not fond of Hyperion's father is an understatement. 

Hyperion was difficult as a child– still is on particularly bad days– and the awkward stage between child and young adult, of this he knew quite well. But difficult was and still remains no excuse for how the freckled world wanderer had– still was– been treated by those who were supposed to guide him properly. What their decisions were in child-rearing had chafed Hythlodaeus' parents to the degree the pair had quietly ignored the admittedly excessive amount of time Hyperion spent in their household and even asked Hythlodaeus to invite him over more often.

Somehow, the two men always managed to find a little something that Hyperion managed to leave at their place and simply must come retrieve it that day. And stay, as they were just about to help Hythlodaeus study his creation magic basics and other lessons, so why not join them for that and a hearty meal after?

Ahh, what he knew and understood now that he hadn't back then; particularly how his father had shown up some six hours later with the trace of tears on his ethereally beautiful face and a mood that tarnished the intrigue of a new life to begin there in the great capital. 

A low, quiet chuckle and brief turn of Hyperion's head from side to side. His soul flashes a bleak, desaturated shade of navy blue in response.  

Always the color of sorrow where his parents are concerned. At least it isn't that terrible, terrible shade of blue-gray hopelessness.  

"Only when he wishes to parade me about does Echidna, and Typhon for that matter, recall I exist." He reminds Hythlodaeus. "So long as I remember not to bring shame upon him as the sire of a," 

Monster. Mistake. Disgrace to the family. Failure. Bastard. Hyperion swallows the bitter words down. They know.

They've always known where to strike to cut him down to the insignificant size he’s always been in their eyes-- in the eyes of most.

"Convocation member, he cares little for what I do," A grin, bleakly and half-heartedly salacious in nature as a reflex, flashes across his generous mouth. "or who for that matter."

Needing to remain grounded and afraid of what touching Hythlodaeus might do, he returns his attention to the oblivious lump of muscle, tousled white hair, and blankets instead. His thumb strokes idle patterns against Hades' bare shoulder. Touching him is oddly comfortable. That cool skin of his betrays the heated lash of his temper and tongue. Disguises the soft heart beneath that he guards nearly as well as Hyperion does his own. 

“No, I’ve not had the distinct honor of their company since Hades’ appointment to Emet-Selch.” His grin fades at the memory of his father’s fury at having been thwarted and denied a position on the Convocation yet again. 

How disappointed he’d been that Hyperion hadn’t chosen one of the family to elevate. Stinging echoes of his words still rise at occasions he wishes they didn’t, doubts about his own worthiness of the mask sitting across the room atop his robes. It was partially why he had called the pair to this location; it was too close to what he'd known and the memories reopened alongside his doubt. It'd been close to driving him away from his duty entirely.

A matter that he would rather forfeit the ability to return to the Star entirely than admit.

The disapproval and anger from Typhon and Echidna bleeds internally yet, but he doesn’t regret the decision to deny them their ambition. They didn’t listen when he tried to explain it to them in a number of times or ways. 

It was simple: none of this family had what it took for that Seat. For any of the Seats for that matter.

Neither parent wished to hear his words, just saw them for the excuses or, worse still, believed him to be punishing them in some manner or another. He’d be hard pressed to consider any of his siblings as a nominee to even work for them, much less raised any higher in authority and responsibility.

Despite his needling of the sleeping man, Hyperion wasn’t a fool; the Third Seat of the Convocation in particular was beyond crucial for the Star’s development and required someone with the Sight, aether stores, and ability to handle the duty with the gravity it deserved. It had to have been Hades or Hythlodaeus to fill the spot. Had to . 

The other candidates simply didn’t have the necessary qualifications, mentality, and heart required to handle the matters of the Underworld and the souls it contains.

He is still sorely disappointed it wasn’t a Seat that could be shared; Hythlodaeus’ Sight was not insignificantly better than Hades’ own; and his attention to detail despite his rather flippant work habits would have been a crucial asset too. Not to mention his ability to remain impartial regardless of whose work he was reviewing was vital … but Hades’ aether reserves were absurd even by Hyperion’s standards– and he knew Venat’s capacity! The two of them together could have made the Seat all the more special and respected because of it.

None would have dared question Hythlodaeus’ mettle either; the current Chief of the Bureau of the Architect may be an affably mild mannered, mischievous, and warm sense of humored man on an average day– but there lurked a positively terrifying temper beneath that was a force to be reckoned with. Gods have mercy on whoever managed to rouse it and get him to raise his voice. As adverse to combat as Hythlodaeus is, the man can cut someone to pieces without so much as lifting a finger . His voice alone was a weapon. 

Those two were so competent, especially whenever they teamed up, that it hurt to watch them together. It inspired him, made him work all the harder in hopes of maybe, one day, he could feel at least a little more on their level rather than eternally chasing their shadows in hopes they’ll not forget him. That they won’t leave him behind.

"I quite loathe it, you know," Hyperion tells Hythlodaeus, the pads of his fingers halting over the silvery scar of an old, old wound on Hades’ tricep. "this whole matter of believing my worth relies solely from what I have to offer, what I can accomplish. How I have no right to exist 'lest it is in service to another or for a specific purpose… and to doubt that I am even loved by those who have no reason to lie to me about doing so."

Ah. This again. Truly the night is unkind for the insecurities it so loves to draw to the surface the way teeth and claws so easily bring blood to open air. He glares into his coffee suspiciously. He hadn’t slipped anything into it, those vials were still located deep within his pack and hidden away beneath glamour and seal alike.

"Even you, sometimes, Hythlodaeus. I fear you grow tired of me and my many, many insecurities. That it is pity and guilt that hold you at my side rather than desire." And love .

He’s afraid to speak that word aloud. Always has been. It’s a rare thing for him to say without the posturing and pandering to an audience. To have them dismiss him as flippant and shallow in his affections so they would never be able to harm his beloved to get to him.

His eyes open. Glowing and overbright as the blue of his eyes are in the darkness of the room.  "But I know. I know it isn't true."

He can't look at Hythlodaeus. Not now. Not yet. "I know the answer in each and every touch of your hand and mouth. Hear it in the words you mumble in your sleep– and yes, you do say all manner of things– and I see it in your smile, the way your eyes feel when they land on me and see me for myself. Not as Azem. Not as Echidna's monster,"

Hyperion's jaw snaps shut the moment he finishes blurting out that final word. His shoulders stiffen board straight. Thirty seven thousand variants of hellborne concepts-

"Who called you that?" Hythlodaeus' cold fury makes him shiver. Half in delight, half in worry for the copper tang of repressed violence within the man's aether.

Great. Now he's done it. He said the words. Hyperion curses the night twice over. This is why he waits until Hythlodaeus and Hades are deep asleep before he prattles about his insecurities.  That way anything he discloses isn't distressing or ruins a perfectly comfortable atmosphere. He ignores the warning beneath Hythlodaeus' words like he had the question about his sleep. 

"But you know and love me as Hyperion ; the one who ran barefoot and screaming alongside you in summer fields away from our first attempt at Concept creation and summoning." 

Gods, now that was a favorite memory of his: neither of them could ever look at a Cubus the same way again, but even in the darkest nights, in the most dour of moods, he could draw that memory from his childhood to the forefront and laugh himself sick over it.

"The man who saw you after over a century and a half apart– and fell for you all over again.With no effort on your part but a wink and smile cast in my direction."

"Fell right down the stairs at the Akadaemia, you did." Hythlodaeus adds, his anger temporarily sidelined in favor of an affectionate grin.

 He remembers that day all too well; the way Hyperion’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief and amazement, how his head turned to keep him within sight even as his feet kept walking… and then the utterly graceless tumble head over feet down the stairs. 

It had been, all in all, the most unconventional reunion he’d ever had. Particularly with Hades’ disbelieving expression. The man couldn’t figure out whether or not he was more offended that Hyperion had been staring so blatantly with his mask slid up to expose his face or more worried that he’d taken an admittedly nasty fall. 

Hyperion gives Hythlodaeus a particularly wounded look at the reminder. How cruel; there was nothing romantic about falling down stairs. Forgives him, as he always does, and all too pointedly continues where he had left off. 

"I doubt everything and nothing all at once when it comes to us– you and I, he and I, and the three of us together." His eyes close, wanting to bite down on his tongue to keep from spilling the traitorous words out.

Weakness. Vulnerability.  

Typhon's words circle 'round, as do Echidna's. Whispers of betrayal, of deceptions meant to lure him into one manner of trap after another. That this is naught but an open invitation to eviscerate him and leave him for dead with but a careless word. Exposure to the heart kept viciously protected and held out of reach so there is something of him left like the fool he is doomed to be.

 "You two are terrifyingly certain in a world rather bereft of that," he confesses. "and against my will, I-"

"-find that life's numerous unpredictable outcomes, uncertainties, twists, and what-ifs begin to mire your thoughts in a plague of doubt. Again." 

Hades' voice is a sleepy growl.

The arm limp across his hip tightens as a pair of eyes, the same color as the first star Hyperion had created, pierce the darkness as he glowers up at the taller man.

"I would also have the name and occupation of the one who referred to you as Echidna's monster, since the epithet has been spoken aloud again .”

The grumpy undercurrent has bite to it. The kind that always, without fail, puts Hyperion in the mood to rebel and quarrel with him.

“Go back to sleep.”
“Once someone decides to quit contemplating the fallibilities of the human mind at such a wretched hour, I will do just that.” 
“I am certainly not contemplating the-”

“Hyperion.” Hythlodaeus’ voice is the soft roll of distant thunder.

He falls silent. 

Hades does as well, for the moment. 

Wordless grumbling ensues as the latter pushes himself up into a sitting position. Shoving bedraggled white hair out of his face, Hades reaches over and plucks the ceramic mug out of Hyperion’s hands. Bringing it to his lips, over half of its remaining contents disappear in a triad of swallows. 

The furrows in his brow turn to a line of wrinkles as both eyebrows raise a not insignificant degree up towards his hairline. “...this is the best variation yet.” 

Surprise and fervent approval in his voice. He also, damn the man, doesn’t give the mug back . 

It takes effort to ignore the flush of pleasure that comes from sincere praise. Especially coming from a man who delivers his feedback with an iron fist wrapped in velvet. Or satin. He isn't sure which. 

“That was mine .” Hyperion protests, reaching to take it back.

For a man who happens to be head-and-a-half shorter than he is, Hades has an irritatingly easy time keeping the drink out of reach. “You’ve learned how to properly use past tense I see, I suppose you deserve a measure of praise for that accomplishment as well.”

There should be a rule about using one's weakness to praise them. Too bad he knows damn well that Hades is just as bad, if not worse in some degrees, as he is. 

“Why don’t I show you just how properly I can reduce you to past tense you ungrateful piece of-”

Hythlodaeus clears his throat. Loudly. His eyes glowing in a blatant display of impatience and warning.  " Gentlemen , and I use the term in the loosest of definitions possible."

Hades continues to keep the mug out of Hyperion's reach. His broad palm flat against the other man's cheek to hold him at bay while he pointedly drains the remnants of its contents. 

"Why do you need to know?" Quasi-muffled by the hand squishing half his face, Hyperion asks the obvious whilst attempting to outmaneuver the powerful mage. 

Hades' elbow bumps Hythlodaeus, the contents of the reviewer's mug sloshing dangerously close to the lip. 

"If your little wrestling match makes me spill my coffee on the bed, I will bind the two of you together, back to back, to the nearest pole and leave you there for the cattle with butter on your faces."