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It isn't the first conversation they've had about this, and it won't be the last. Nemesis has taken up a hobby from the mortals as of late, and none amongst the gods of the Underworld will hear of it. Moros has learned that some of the gods of Olympus might be interested, or indeed have more experience than she, but Nemesis stubbornly avoids contact with the bulk of them. He has heard of her races with Hermes, however, which might be due to his affable nature or simply Nemesis's deep-rooted desire to be the best at everything she attempts. Hermes is meant to be the fastest, after all.
Moros listens attentively despite having no plans to indulge in this pastime, as always. This time, however, there comes a brief pause during which Nemesis narrows her eyes and really stares at Moros, as if he'd said something to offend her despite not having said much at all thus far.
"I'm still listening," he assures her.
"You'd better be, because I just remembered I have something that'll change your tune," she says, disturbingly cryptic. He knows there's no chance of it, but somehow he suspects blackmail from her tone.
"Change my tune? I'm not certain it needs changing, truly. I'm always willing to listen if you have need of it, it's just that I don't tend to be much of a... hobby person, as it were."
"And you think I just go around collecting hobbies for fun? Everyone needs to let off steam every once in a while. Including me. Including you."
"Ah. Is this your new argument?"
"No. My new argument is this: I found out recently that Prometheus has a motorcycle, too."
He... he does? The Olympians of course do as they will, and Moros thought Nemesis taking up this hobby of late was simply an odd quirk that she was perhaps overdue, but even Prometheus now?
"Well, what is it about cycling that has everyone so enamored..?" he has to wonder.
"Oh, so now you're interested, now that you're aware Prometheus is involved." She then sneers. "And stop calling it cycling. That's something else."
"Ah, apologies. In any case, I believe I've never indicated outright disinterest in your hobby, I just..."
"Never had time. But suddenly you do? Schedule's all freed up?"
Moros dodges her gaze for a moment, then sighs.
"Sister, in all seriousness, I do hold a bit of responsibility for Prometheus maintaining his freedom, seeing as I'd vouched for him all those years ago. Shouldn't it go without saying that I'd prefer to check up on him every so often?"
"Keep him out of trouble?"
"Precisely."
"Guess he can't go stealing anything from Olympus while he's tangled up with you."
"That's... well... a fine point, if I may."
She scoffs, the slightest hint of a smile crossing her lips.
"So go see him, then," she says. "Maybe you'll get the appeal. In fact, come to the surface with me real quick."
Any excuse to see Prometheus sounds plenty appealing to Moros, but he isn't eager to admit as much when he's well aware that Nemesis would only hold it over his head.
Moros has seen Nemesis's riding gear a few times in the past, the sleek black leather she clads herself in and the tinted helmet that all but eliminates any chance of recognizing her until she speaks. He'd first thought it was a disguise in order to blend in amongst mortals, but it seems to merely be part of the culture. He has, after all, witnessed the deaths of many mortals, including those involved in motorcycle accidents, and a few of them wore just the same type of helmet.
His interest in the getup had quickly waned, but now he finds himself wondering if he'll see Prometheus in a similar state, tight leather hugging his muscles while that rebellious mane of curls lies hidden underneath a helmet that completely conceals his identity, save perhaps for the faint glow of his eyes through the heavy tint. Come to think of it, mortals would be terrified at such a sight. Perhaps Prometheus wouldn't indulge, then.
"You're so obvious," Nemesis scoffs after they've reached the surface, particularly a hilltop she's long favored. She's claimed in the past that the wind resistance as she rides downhill is exhilarating, but Moros received the information as neutrally as ever.
"Obvious in what respect?" he asks.
"You aren't even looking at the damn thing, just staring off into the distance while you think about Prometheus."
Well. She has him there.
"Do you want to ride it or not?" she asks, delaying in climbing on herself.
"I'll pass, thank you," he politely declines.
She huffs.
"Fine, then. Go and find Prometheus, and then I can say I told you so when I see you at the finish line."
She delays no longer, quick about hopping on and donning her helmet before the engine revs to life and she takes off at speed.
"Wait, are you racing him?" he realizes once she's already entirely too far to hear. Of course, since this is a passion of hers, it makes sense that she'd want to watch his opinion change first-hand. He's sure he can find time to spend with Prometheus alone soon enough. Maybe.
Being the Titan of Foresight, he must already know when and why Moros will arrive, and Nemesis too. That could be why he's perfectly ready when Moros appears before him, leaning against a bike Moros has never seen before.
"How long have you had this?" he asks, feeling very much like he's been left behind by the tides of time.
"Your sister talked me into it somewhat recently," he answers easily. "The wind is nice."
"That does seem to be the main draw, as far as I've heard. I enjoy a good breeze as much as anyone, but wouldn't the wind in this case be more akin to a tempest?"
"Indeed, but one that can be partnered with. Not tamed, but ridden alongside. Or rather, within."
"Partnering with the wind? I'll go ahead and assume that's not a common way of thinking of it."
"Must it be?"
"Fair enough," Moros gives him, unable to resist a smile. "Nemesis seemed completely convinced that I would, in her words, change my tune about this hobby of hers upon learning of your shared interest in it."
"You will."
He climbs onto the motorcycle and waits expectantly.
"I... will?" Moros echoes, suddenly confused.
"Yes. Get behind me and hold on tight."
"... Ah."
Prometheus saw no need to change his outfit for this hobby after all, to Moros's mild disappointment. Of course, the only thing adorning his torso is his massive scar as per usual, but somehow the idea of seeing him clad in sleek leather was a nice thought, even if seeing him bare should be the more appealing option.
"I'm, well--"
"Unfamiliar, I know," Prometheus tells him. "There's no need to hesitate."
"I suppose I can find some reassurance in knowing that you're already aware of whether or not this will go poorly," Moros sighs, setting aside the unnecessary danger of willingly clinging to a tiny, incredibly fast piece of metal for a moment.
His worries melt away regardless when he ends up pressed against Prometheus's back, arms wrapped around his middle and meeting in front of him. Hugging him is always soothing, and it nearly makes Moros forget himself in this moment, allowing the sound of the engine starting up to startle him slightly. Prometheus must feel the way he tenses up, because he brings a hand down to stroke Moros's arm.
"I'll say it again: hold on tight to me. If you truly need me to confirm it, I can say for certain that I don't see a future in which this race harms you."
"So you're racing after all..."
The sound of an approaching engine steals Prometheus's attention. It seems Moros hadn't misheard Nemesis when she'd taken off earlier. She takes a harsh turn that Moros unintentionally cringes a bit at, and then slows to a stop next to the two of them.
"Hey. Ready?" she greets bluntly.
"If you'll allow your brother a moment to question you, yes," Prometheus answers, knowingly glancing to Moros.
"... Do you two always talk to each other like this? Just, cutting so deeply to the point that nothing else remains?"
"Why shouldn't we? Beats going into detail for no reason when we both get the gist."
"I don't necessarily agree, but I don't mind her approach. That was all you wanted to ask, yes?"
"I..."
If he's completely honest, there are a lot more questions and concerns flitting about his head, but he can't bring himself to do anything but swallow them-- a preordained outcome, if Prometheus expects nothing less.
"Correct, no more questions," he says, trying not to sound unsteady. He already knows he'll be fine, but...
His grip tightens again when they start moving, legs squeezing the unrelenting metal beneath him just as tightly as his arms threaten to choke the breath from the titan in front of him. If Prometheus has any complaints, he doesn't voice them; and truly, it's a good thing he's long since allowed that liver injury to fully heal, or Moros would surely have reopened the wound.
It's... smoother than he would have expected. Not perfectly, but the ride is not nearly as choppy and terrifying as he may have been subconsciously assuming. The wind is, admittedly, much nicer than he'd been dreading, and Prometheus is still so very warm in his arms. Moros manages to relax a bit, tracing soothing circles onto Prometheus's abdomen with his fingertips as a silent apology for squeezing so hard. He does love a gentle touch.
They're mostly even in speed, with Nemesis pulling slightly ahead on occasion. It's the first time Moros has seen her actively riding as anything but a blur, and he could almost be convinced they were traveling at a slow, leisurely pace if not for the incredible speed at which their surroundings pass by and the roar of the wind in his ears.
It certainly makes him a little less relaxed, seeing everything zoom by so quickly. They could just as easily lean into the cliffside and scrape off heaps of flesh in the blink of an eye, as he'd once witnessed occur against a concrete wall. These roads are empty even of the mortals that had first paved them, but even the railings they installed in the interest of safety become nothing but a threat at these speeds.
It's far more reassuring to focus simply on Prometheus, on the expanse of his back and the warmth of his body. Moros snuggles closer, burying his face in Prometheus's back, and the wind really does start to feel nice. He could almost be lulled to sleep, despite everything.
He's paying so little attention that he's confused when the wind dies down suddenly. He pulls his head back to glance at his surroundings for the first time in at least fifteen minutes and finds Nemesis already climbing off her bike with an aura of satisfaction about her. She won the race then, he supposes.
"Wonder if you would have stood a better chance if you didn't have a bit of extra weight, there," she smugly comments, nodding towards Moros. "Well? Admit it. You enjoyed this."
Prometheus doesn't bother with a response, looking instead at Moros to hear his. He's been so completely attached to Prometheus that it feels unnatural when he leans back a bit, his arms loosening.
"Well... I will say it wasn't unpleasant," he admits, though it isn't for the reasons Nemesis would have preferred.
"Told you so. Then again, I bet I could convince you to do anything so long as you could stay glued to Prometheus the whole time."
"Please do," Prometheus encourages with a playful tug at Moros's arm, bringing him closer to him again.
"I'd wondered if it was simply in the job description of sisters to tease, but I'm realizing I may just be an easy target," Moros sighs. "If I haven't made this clear already, I'm happy so long as you are. There was no need to physically involve me for my approval..."
"Think of it as a virus. Your sister merely possesses the instinct to spread the illness."
"Why are you, of all people, saying that? You told me riding your bike is great for clearing your head. That so many potential futures unfold at every fraction of a second that it becomes impossible to see them anymore. Sounds like the perfect pastime for you, not a disease to be reviled."
Prometheus pointedly clears his throat, seemingly annoyed at Nemesis.
"... So, the future wasn't certain after all," Moros realizes.
"I assure you, there was no future in which I'd be unable to protect you. And... I wasn't lying about not seeing a poor outcome," he argues, though he looks a little guilty.
"Because you weren't seeing anything. That... doesn't impede your actual vision, does it?"
"There's no need to fret, fawn."
"Is "fawn" what he calls you when he's in trouble?" Nemesis smirks.
Moros sighs again. As unexpectedly nice as this was, he thinks he'll continue to leave the two of them to their hobby in peace.