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Lover, lover. Lover sprawled by the bedside, king-sized laid on pellets. Lover with his torso bare and showing the expanse of his lightly bronzed skin.
Phainon watches him laying on his stomach, playing his nth round of Mortal Kombat with the friends that Phainon barely knew. He's quiet. His gaze raking his lover from the tops of his head, down to the hem of his waistband. Calvin's, and Phainon is utterly too familiar with what's underneath. When he looks back up, right to the slope of where cranium meets the neck, his chest clenches at the sight.
He flops onto the lover's back. "Ugh, you're so hot it's driving me nuts," Phainon groans.
The boyfriend doesn't flinch. He is quite used to Phainon's neediness, even when he feels Phainon's fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos on his scalp, distracting him from the match. They both know it's on purpose, Phainon wanting attention back on him.
"I know already," boyfriend says, "you've been saying that since I shaved my hair." Phainon can't see it, but his eyeroll is audible.
Shimmying right next to him on the mattress, Phainon quips back, "it's unfair, okay? Nearly bald and you're still hot. You know how many of those bar girls came to me asking if I can fight?"
Boyfriend wins the match; 'SHAO KAHN WINS' flashing on the screen, and Phainon has the half a mind to steal him away from his friends. "And you're saying that's my fault?"
"Titans, Mydei. It's that damn tattoo, even more now that everyone can see that you have them on your head too."
It's true. Phainon knows his boyfriend is attractive - he's been attractive, ever since the first time they met years ago. Sometimes he still fails to believe that he managed to pull everyone's heartthrob, keep Mydeimos for himself, but that was even back then. They both had baby fat still high upon their cheeks, and Mydeimos still hadn't gone through his rediscovery period when he decided to let his body as canvas for artists with needles alike.
When he said that it's unfair, Phainon lowkey means it. Means it, very much and with conviction, that Mydeimos is so attractive that he's living his life playing dirty.
Because one day, Mydeimos went home with a back full of red. Painted streaks punctured by tattoo guns in the shape of rigid lines that could only accentuate his muscles even more. And every single year, the streaks only multiplied, extending across his skin the way ivies would slither and climb upon every surface that it meets. His back, to his chest, to his arms and legs. Now, to the back of his neck.
Phainon argued against it once, egged by his dwindling self-control at the sight of a sexy boyfriend, saying that 'nobody's going to see your new tats!' Only to find Mydeimos shaving his entire head of hair, blond with striking red tips, long and down to the back of his shoulders, a fuzzy bald. It devastated Phainon. And the worst part? He's even sexier afterwards.
Now the streaks on the back of Mydeimos' head are visible. Sure, it helped fuel so much of his fantasies when Mydeimos is busy, laying on their bed and thinking about grabbing the base where his neck starts, red lines marred with the crescents of his blunt nails. But the thing is, everyone also can see them.
Mydeimos flicks his nose, grumbling, "yeah, well, you're stuck with it until my hair grows back."
Which would take approximately two years before it reaches his past length, Phainon counts. Two years, which is not long, but Phainon is definitely not looking forward to enduring stray, unwanted spouts of jealousy for the time being. He's aware of his possessive side, and he wishes to never burden Mydeimos anymore because of it.
His fingers keep tracing, drawing little outlines of Mydeimos' muscles when he flexes in tension. The boyfriend continues playing, and Phainon is pretending to watch. Head propped on the fold of his elbow. Really, his mind is somewhere else.
He loves Mydeimos, so much. He loves the way he's all grunts and complaints, like his affection is hidden below a layer of poorly-regulated annoyance. Mydeimos cares. Tough love, but he cares. He's just not good with feelings, and neither is Phainon, and they've reached a mutual understanding about the ways they act upon emotions.
Mydeimos understands that he's better with his mouth, but egregiously bad at saying what he actually wants to say. His uncouth words when he's angry and feeling cornered, Mydeimos somehow forgives him through all of that, like telepathy knowing that Phainon never meant any of it. Phainon's quite-too-often episodes of jealousy. At the end of the day, Mydeimos still takes him back.
And when his young self only wanted Mydeimos for his allure, the current Phainon desperately wants Mydeimos for the security.
His troubling face, troubling body, troubling tattoos, all ladened with the gentle parts of his love shared to him. Disbelief is the root; Phainon still feels undeserving of everything that Mydeimos is. Kind, affectionate, and understanding, while hot, sexy, and strong. And somehow Phainon is allowed to share the last three years laying on the same bed as he is, still when he thinks that there are better people out there who would warm Mydeimos' bed so much comfier.
Or maybe that's just his possessiveness talking. His need to own him. His fear of losing his lover.
Lover, lover, sprawled by the bedside lover. Playing Mortal Kombat while Phainon rubs his bare back, reminding him that he's there. He's so needy it disappoints himself sometimes. Phainon frowns.
He mumbles, "what if I get a matching tat?"
Mydeimos pauses his game. Turns out he's stopped playing on multi, perhaps sometime when Phainon was lost in his mind. "What? You don't want to."
"Uh, yes I do. What, you think I can't handle getting my back tatted?"
Mydeimos' eyebrows crunch. "Don't put words in my mouth, hyena."
Phainon grins, mockingly. He's mocking himself. "Oh, I look weak to you. I know, I know I do," he cackles. His hands reach for the controller.
But Mydeimos raises it away. He mutters, "I never said that, hyena. You don't want to get my tattoos."
"Why then? I'd look good with them." Phainon flips on his back, then crosses his arms together. His eyes are still on Mydeimos, but staring from this angle, he looks just slightly angrier than he really is. So Phainon behaves. "Mind you, I've also been building muscle for my back."
Mydeimos sighs. His expression softens, but the slew of irritation is ever-present on his face. Especially when it comes to Phainon. He says, "you don't want it because it's Kremnoan," while finally handing the controller to Phainon.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. I told you many times." Mydeimos sits up, judging Phainon's character choice but speaking nothing of it. He merely squints, not enough of a frown for Phainon to protest.
"If I marry you then I'm qualified to have cultural tattoos too, right?"
Mydeimos groans. He's unfazed. They've been having conversations about marriage often for the past year, and Phainon would drop and mention it randomly at any given topic, seemingly to slip the thought in everytime. Mydeimos is never uncomfortable about it, like he's looking forward to it too, his only problem is Phainon's general attitude around the conversation, catching him unprepared in the middle of another argument.
When his boyfriend shakes his head, Phainon gets it that he's said the wrong thing, the wrong joke. Cheeks flaring pink in quiet shame. The game pauses as Phainon stops progressing from the selection screen, letting the moment ride.
"Use your words. Stop being cryptic," Mydeimos glowers. He's not mad, no he isn't. Phainon knows he just hates it when he spirals back to his bad little habit.
"You know what I'm trying to say..."
His boyfriend scowls even deeper. He dips his head down, eye-level to Phainon propping on a folded pillow under his chest. "I don't actually. Say it."
Phainon purses his lips, nervously setting down the controller and scratching the back of his neck. It's deadly, Mydeimos' glare, like a thousand weights pressed into the square of his shoulders. Phainon and his inability to say what he means, his coping response from the shame of opening his heart by diverting the problem into something else.
They're so much alike, Mydeimos and him. They're both bad at this. But Mydeimos is slightly older, and he's had to mature faster, shoulder the weight of the world earlier. It's hard for him too, but he changed, for Phainon, that's why he understands Phainon.
Phainon starts, voice low in a tiny whisper, "...I want to look like we're boyfriends, like you're hot but you're mine kinda hot."
Cheeks pink. Mydeimos blinking. And Phainon hiding in the pillows. His face, up to the nose bridge, diving in the folded crevices of their shared pillow, only his eyes visible and they're busy avoiding Mydeimos' bewildered gaze stunned into silence. In their shared pillows, their shared mattress, in their shared apartment. In hindsight, it's a silly thing to say.
It is a silly thing to say.
Phainon is still working on it, on himself. He continues playing. Combos after combos to make him feel better because he needs to punch something to lose the embarrassment.
"Titans. You're a hyena." Mydeimos pinches his cheeks. Pinches, and pulling, and threatening to bruise Phainon's face with exasperation. "A stupid, obsessive, self-serving hyena."
Phainon hits a fatality combo, then pauses the game, again. "Stop calling me a hyena, will you? Like I am not a hyena."
"I'd call you a dog but you're worse than that," Mydeimos snorts his laugh, bemused, "it would be a disservice to both you and dogs."
And all of this stemmed from Phainon's weak heart, watching just how dashing his boyfriend is.
Mydeimos gives him a rare, lop-sided grin. One that he gives when he's amidst a bubbling laugh, and not wanting to give Phainon the satisfaction of his smile. He hasn't earned that. Phainon glares.
At the very least, Mydeimos kisses his forehead right after. Then sprawling back down to watch Phainon play, focus divided by texts in his phone and a food delivery app, trying to order wings for dinner. In the corner of his eyes, Phainon can see him still grinning and snorting to himself.
He lays his head on Mydeimos' shoulder. "You're not saying no, though."