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He feels Zagreus moving through Elysium, the soft green plains drenched in death, futile death. The everlasting combat and contests waged by the old heroes is something he’s familiar with. Bold deeds, boasting, swinging around their old swords and spears. He can push it to the back of his mind, aware of it but not feeling it as acutely. Anyway, it isn’t real death. But whatever Zagreus is doing now, the path of carnage he is carving through the lush gardens of the Underworld, Thanatos feels in the back of his throat like the beginning of a death rattle, shaking and cold, icy cold.
“What—?” he begins, once he finds Zagreus’s chamber, and then he stops because he has his answer. Zagreus’s one red eye glints especially red, a deeper red, like blood, like bloodlust. Lord Ares’s influence.
“Than.” Zagreus’s voice is more measured. His brow is dotted with sweat, even in the coolness of Elysium, and his feet burn the grass where he stands. He doesn’t belong here, he never has, but with doom in both hands suffusing the sword he carries, he looks more devil than prince, more of an outsider than usual. “Here, you’re just in time. Let's cause some chaos.”
Chaos has already been wrought but Thanatos doesn’t bother correcting him. He watches curiously as Zagreus cuts through Exalted with ease. Even at a distance, Thanatos sees the glint of the red of his eye, reflecting the curse he brings down with every swing of his sword, doom following shortly after, a death sentence on the Exalted he fights. There’s a certain beauty to the killing that Thanatos can appreciate, a rhythm to the carnage. And since they’re already in the Underworld, less work for Thanatos, so he stands back, watches, waits.
Zagreus is panting when the last Brightsword is sent back to the dark, his brow shiny with sweat, a satisfied smile on his face.
“You weren’t even trying,” he accuses.
Thanatos shrugs. “You seemed to be having fun.”
Zagreus shoves the end of his sword into the thick grass, massaging his hands. He puts one out expectantly.
“Say please,” Thanatos says.
Zagreus’s red eye glints again, with the usual mischief and something else underneath. For a moment, Thanatos thinks he’ll say no. And then, “Please.”
He places the centaur heart on Zagreus’s palm. Zagreus takes a big bite, and red blood drips down his chin, coloring his lips, staining them.
“Getting used to the taste,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s awful. Here, kiss me. See for yourself.”
Thanatos leans in, slowly. Zagreus puts his stained hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in the rest of the way, crushing their mouths together, touching his tongue to Thanatos’s lips. He tastes the blood, the sweat, the trace of the curse of Ares’s doom on the familiar shape of Zagreus’s mouth.
Zagreus pulls away first. “See you home,” he says, and he yanks his sword out of the ground, leaving a gaping hole in the perfect green grass, and makes for the exit.
Thanatos blinks out of existence, the taste of blood on his lips. It does taste awful, behind the up front sweetness of the kiss.
.
In Asphodel, the smell of sulfur mixes too easily with the light smell of roses and nectar. Thanatos can pull them apart, isolating the pretty favor of Lady Aphrodite, whose touch is felt through the fire and brimstone and lava that flows like water used to over the beaten path of the Phlegethon. He finds Zagreus just as they both enter the next chamber and Zagreus smiles so brightly that Thanatos almost breaks cover and smiles back.
They fall into step quickly, Zagreus managing the crowds, corralling bloodless and bone rakers so Than can reap them with ease, feeling their bodies rip apart and then regenerate elsewhere, the cycle continuing. Zagreus looks through the purple glow of Thanatos’s killing blow and their eyes meet, and Thanatos feels a weakness in his chest, something akin to a flutter.
When the killing is done, Thanatos reaches into his pocket for the centaur heart but Zagreus stops him with a hand over his. Zagreus’s hand is always warm, but up in Asphodel, it’s almost too hot, like standing too close to the edge of the river. The smell of sulfur and flame is all around them. Thanatos finds himself leaning in, leaning toward him, breathing in Aphrodite’s favor, the sweetness of the nectar, the light taste of love on Zagreus’s lips.
Zagreus sighs into his mouth. “Thanks for your help,” he whispers.
The warmth of Zagreus’s breath on his lips is different from the fire that surrounds them. Its internal, visceral. Thanatos suppresses a shiver. “Any time,” he says.
He sinks down until the tips of his feet touch the hot ground, leaning in further for a kiss, but Zagreus pulls away playfully.
“Let me earn that,” he says with a wink.
Thanatos wants to fight it, wants to pull him in and kiss him anyway, but keeps his composure. “Yeah,” he says, giving his head a shake. “Of course.”
The smell of roses lingers even as Zagreus leaves the room and Asphodel shifts to accommodate him.
.
Thanatos has never quite liked wine, the bitter taste of it, the cloying sweetness that hides behind the tannins, the way it stains the teeth. He much prefers nectar. Golden and beautiful, especially when Zagreus hands it to him, especially with a lopsided smile and a tilt of his black haired head. He can smell the wine when he enters the room in Tartarus, before Zagreus has had the chance to sweat, before blood stains his hands and arms and legs, before exhaustion sets into his shoulders as he continues his escape attempt. In the pale green light of the House’s backyard, he looks as fresh as morning and twice as bright.
There’s something wobbly about him, something uneven, an air of bravado surrounding him despite the unevenness. Thanatos can easily identify the touch of Lord Dionysus.
Zagreus runs to him from across the room, his feet pounding a staccato beat against the hard floor, leaving behind soot footprints, black and clearly Zagreus, the same way his arms reach up and pull Thanatos down for a sloppy kiss that’s as intoxicating as it is messy. Hands on his chest, his back, pulling him closer, pressing Thanatos’s body to his. He can’t help a shudder as heat coils low in his belly in response, and Zagreus, as though feeling it, places his palm flat against Thanatos’s stomach.
“You,” he says, his eyes heavy lidded, his mouth smelling like grape wine, “Thank the gods. I’ve been blessed by your presence so early in my attempt.”
Thanatos smiles. Zagreus pretends to swoon, throwing his arms around Thanatos’s neck to support himself. The theatrics are ridiculous and quickly attract the attention of witches and louts. Zagreus throws his spear, leaps from one end of the room to the other, catches it, throws it again. His movements are sloppy but have a flow to them. Thanatos watches him stumble and catch himself, throwing a laugh back at him, all glittering eyes and flushed skin.
When Thanatos feels the last wretch fall back into the cycle of death, Zagreus takes the proffered centaur heart and holds onto it, the beat of it in his closed fist echoing around them. He reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a small bottle of nectar.
“Here, I found this.” Zagreus presses the bottle into Thanatos’s hand. “Open, let’s drink it together right now.”
Thanatos hesitates. His internal clock chimes impatiently. There’s so much work to do. But Zagreus’s cheeks are pink and warm. He touches his lips to Zagreus’s cheek and feels the blood rushing within, life so close to the surface of his skin. He brings the bottle to his lips and pulls the stopper out with his teeth.
The first sip of nectar always tastes like the moment Zagreus pushes him against the thick feather bed in his room, the space between heartbeats and between kisses, the sweetness of a kiss, the heaviness of Zagreus’s warm body over his. He lets it wash over him, this small luxury in a line of small luxuries he’s been enjoying since he let himself be loved. Zagreus kisses a drop from his lips and swallows eagerly. Thanatos brings the bottle to Zagreus’s mouth and carefully tips it, watching the glowing golden liquid pour past his lips. A thin line of nectar drips down his chin. Thanatos licks it up and feels it burst on his tongue.
“Doesn’t drinking this make you hate the Olympians just a little?” Zagreus whispers. “When I get up there, I’ll bring a whole mountain of nectar down to you. I love the look on your face when you drink it.”
Thanatos looks away, down at the empty bottle in his hand, the indulgence still on the tip of his tongue, so fleeting. “Nectar today, fish tomorrow.”
Zagreus laughs. “What? What does that mean?”
“It means, you’re under Dionysus’s influence today. Promising me nectar. And tomorrow, it’ll be Poseidon. Promising me whatever he can provide.”
Zagreus leans back, squinting one eye, as if trying to keep him in focus. “Weird thing to say,” he says. “I’m only ever myself, Olympic boon or no.”
Thanatos brings the bottle of nectar back to his lips, taking in one last drop, before he tucks the empty bottle into his pocket. “See you home?” he asks.
Zagreus rubs his eyes with both hands. “Yeah, sure. See you home.”
.
Thanatos feels the tug of Zagreus’s fire in Elysium, pulling him through the planes and dimensions and Underworld regions, pulling him to grassy plains and verdant fields with burnt footprints and broken crystal statues. Lightning crackles between Zagreus’s fingers, and his laugh as he dispatches the last Brightsword, surrounded by the ghostly imprints of their Exalted weapons, booms through the field like thunder.
“That was what, fifteen in under a minute?” he asks, dashing to Thanatos, a bolt of lightning striking the ground where he lands, and Thanatos feels the air around him crackling, the hairs on his arms and legs standing on end.
Thanatos leans forward, despite the spark that flies between his lips and Zagreus’s almost in warning. “I counted twelve.”
Zagreus laughs again, loud and echoing around them, making the space seem smaller than it is. They could be in his room, in his bed, Thanatos’s hand on his throat instead of on his scythe. He leans in for a kiss but Zagreus turns away, looking over at the ghostly remains of the Exalted around them, swords and shields and spears floating in silent witness.
“It was fifteen,” Zagreus says. He says it with a smile but his voice is low, a rumble in the air.
“What difference does it make, you won either way,” Thanatos says, annoyed. He had easily recognized the influence of Lord Zeus in the energy that surrounds him but had failed to immediately pick out the swagger that puffs out the familiar chest, the straight backed stance. The air in the Underworld is utterly still, but he can feel the shifting of something between them.
“Whatever,” Zagreus says. “You’re right, I won anyway. Can I have my prize?”
Thanatos places the heart between them, floating in the air.
“I was talking about a kiss,” Zagreus says.
Thanatos’s eyes drop to his mouth, the warmth from memory seeping into the present moment, he can almost feel it on his lips now despite their distance. He puts some space between them.
“I think not,” Thanatos says. “I have to go.”
He leaves before Zagreus can speak, slipping between regions in the blink of an eye. Even as he emerges from deep underground and under realms, when he raises his hand to move his hair from his face, a spark flies from his finger to his forehead, remnants of Zagreus, always hard to shake.
.
He feels Zagreus moving in bed and reaches out automatically, his hand on Zagreus’s too hot shoulder, holding him in place.
“Zag, wait,” he says quickly.
Zagreus turns on his side, facing him. The ethereal glow of the lights in his room touch his green eye more than the red one, giving him a lopsided look. His hair sticks to his forehead, messy, real. Thanatos touches a lock that drifts over his brow and feels the silkiness of it between his fingers. Even his hair is warm, too warm, too alive.
“What is it?” Zagreus whispers.
“I just–” he trails, uncertain.
Zagreus pulls him in, closer to the warmth that sits on Thanatos’s skin like fabric, and presses his lips to the base of his throat. “Will I see you later?” he asks.
Thanatos holds back a little. He doesn’t want to seem so eager. “Perhaps,” he says in measured and careful tones. “Who will you be when I get there?”
Zag pushes him lightly. Thanatos falls easily back onto the bed and Zagreus hovers above him, hands on either side of his head propping him up. The heat from Zagreus’s breath hits his mouth. He’s kissing him before he knows it, hands clutching the front of Zagreus’s shirt, pulling him closer.
Zagreus is the one who pulls back. His hair falls over onto Thanatos’s forehead. “I’ll be yours,” he says with an uneven smile.
Thanatos smiles too, his lips curving irresistibly. His hands still hold onto Zagreus’s shirt. He’ll have to let go soon.
“Okay,” he says with a firm nod. “Okay.”