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Hypnos had dreamed about kissing Zagreus. He'd dreamed that a lot.
He'd dreamed about ravenous makeouts and hungry hands grasping. Of crazy scenarios, kisses on cliffs at the end of Zag's journey, backlit by the hot orange of Helios' chariot. He'd never thought he'd be clasped by the hand, never dared to imagine he'd follow the prince to his chambers, a room of low lighting and comforting dark tones. So unlike the rest of the House. Stepping into that room, Hypnos felt like he'd entered a dream. A small, separate world just for the two of them.
Sitting down on the bed was a shock as well- onto that cushy blue quilt that felt too soft for Tartarus. Softer than Hypnos deserved, fit for gods of Olympus, too soft for this blood-soaked stone mansion in Hell.
As Zag cupped a warm hand to his cheek, Hypnos felt just how small it was. Daintily built, with his mother's kind heart and too-soft-for-the-Underworld skin. He deserved to be held and protected, deserved so much more than dumb jokes and a listening ear. Hypnos met his fond, twinkling eyes and just wanted to weep.
Their mouths touched. Careful. Hesitant. Zag didn't pull back so neither did Hypnos. He pursed his lips, curiously pressed harder, felt those hands weave their way into his hair. They fit perfectly.
Zag flopped them both sideways and onto his super-soft quilt. That small square of blue fabric apart from the House, and apart from the Underworld. Far from their jobs, far from Hades' hard scowl, where Hypnos could drop the fake-happiness act and cling desperately. Like this was all he had left.
As their kisses grew rough, Zag's hands worked their way down. Tugging the fasteners in back of Sleep's long tunic. "Wait." Hypnos turned his head, pulling away. "First, you should know what you're signing up for."
He took a breath, steadied himself.
And he pushed up his eyemask.
The thick, scarlet eyewear was tossed aside, showing the battered-up mess that was Hypnos. The lightning-bolt burn marks that latticed his forehead- Put Zeus to sleep, they said. It will be fun, they said. Jagged streaks zigzagged like cracks in a sculpture. His pain and experience, etched. On display. And his other head-wing, the hurt one he kept hidden with hair. Now a paralyzed twist of downfeathers, joints trapped at odd angles, bones snapped and healed wrong.
Zagreus broke the long silence, mouth open in shock. "Hypnos, mate..."
"I..." He ducked his head, shading his face. "I'm not..." Not attractive. Not good enough. Not worth your time. All the usual not's danced around Hypnos' mind's eye, loud and forceful and frightening. He slumped forward, settling on "Zag, I'm not normal."
Slender hands stroked down jawline, asked him to look up. He couldn't stare Zag in the face, didn't want to find fear or disgust in those colorful eyes. He looked sideways. Over there. Anywhere else. At the blue veins that shone through Zag's arms, marking paths to his heart.
"Hypnos, look at me."
He dared a glance, braced for the worst.
Zag was smiling at him, fond expression unchanged. Hypnos felt his brows twitch as he processed this startling development. Zagreus kissed him.
Kissed his lips, kissed the cracks on forehead, kissed every deep scar from his eyes to his hairline. Kissed the skin that surrounded his hurt head-wing, breath soft and warm on the feathers. Kissed every hot tear off of his face with such gentle precision. Like a healer mending a wound, like an artisan gluing a precious glass vase back together. Like Hypnos was somehow worth loving- hurt, sorrow and all.
In the dark of Zag's chambers, that safe place apart from the House, Hypnos let himself cry. As his tears soaked the prince's red chiton, he buried his face. Fingers grasping the blood-colored fabric. So soft. Zagreus let Hypnos hide in his arms, made a space for him there.
Held him. Protected him. Lent a listening ear to his woes, whispered comfort as sobs made his shoulderblades dance. He pressed close. Burrowed deep into this small, separate world just for them. Here, he knew he was safe to break down. To let the bad memories out in a maelstrom of tears, safe to burry his face and beg, "Please... Don't let go." And a warm hand caressed through his hair, undeterred by his outburst.
In this dreamlike scenario, more than he'd dared to imagine.