Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The battlefield burns.

Smoke curling in thick ribbons through the sky, blotting out the stars, swallowing the moon in a haze of ash and firelight. The ground is slick beneath Mydei’s boots, damp with blood—some of it fresh, some already dark and clotted in the cold night air. The scent of charred flesh and steel fills his lungs with every breath, sharp and metallic, a reminder that this is no dream. This is war.

Somewhere in the distance, a Praetor's greatsword slams into the ground. The monstrous sound shakes the very bones of the earth, rattling the shattered remains of what had once been a fortress. Flecks of rock and titankin dust rain from the ceiling. Mydei refastens his armour as the wave of titankin falters, his knuckles aching beneath the metal of his gauntlets. They've been fighting for what feels like hours, every path they carve through the battlefield simply getting covered by more titankin.

Phainon stands beside him.

His armor is cracked, bloodied, but he still stands, still burns with the same fire Mydei has always known. His sword, jagged and dark with the blood of their enemies, hangs loose in his grip, glinting under the flickering torchlight of the ruined stronghold. Mydei steals a glance at him—just a moment, a heartbeat in the chaos.

Phainon has always been like this. Unshaken, unrelenting, even in the face of impossible odds. Where Phainon is measured and deliberate, Mydei is fury given form, a blade that never dulls, a storm that never ceases. They balance each other. It has been that way since the beginning.

Their locked gaze shatters.

It starts as a flicker—a strange, unnatural glow pulsing beneath Phainon’s skin. Mydei feels it before he sees it, the air between them changing, thickening like the pressure before a storm. He turns just in time to see Phainon stiffen, his breath catching in his throat. The glow flares—a violent, burning ember of something wrong, searing through the veins in Phainon’s hands, up his arms, through his chest.

Mydei’s stomach drops. 

No. Not now.

"Phainon?" His voice is steady, but only just.

Phainon does not answer.

The glow deepens, shifting from ember-red to something darker, something suffocating. The veins along Phainon’s throat burn molten-gold beneath his skin, his fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword. Then, without warning—a crackle of energy, a pulse like a heartbeat, and Phainon’s head snaps up.

Mydei's blood runs cold.

Phainon’s eyes—once sharp, once his—are blank. Hollow.

It is as if something has reached inside him and scraped him clean, tearing away the man Mydei knows, leaving behind a vessel filled with nothing but violence.

Shit.

The Coreflame of Strife had finally decided to act its will on Phainon.

His realization barely has time to settle before he's forced to dodge a brick hurtling towards him.

The first sword-strike comes fast, a blur of steel and fury. Mydei barely raises his shards in time, the impact sending a bone-rattling tremor through his arms. Sparks fly as Phainon’s sword screeches against the stone floor, the force of the shards driving Phainon back, his boots digging into the dusty bloodstained tiling.

His heart slams against his ribs as the other man quickly leaps towards him again, sword poised to sink into Mydei's throat.

"Deliverer!" Mydei shouts, struggling to hold his ground.

There is no flicker of recognition, no hesitation. Phainon does not hear him.

Another strike—this one wilder, feral. Mydei ducks, twisting away, his breath coming fast. He had fought beside Phainon for years, trained with him, knows his movements as well as his own—but this is different. Phainon isn’t fighting like himself. He fights as something else right now, something merciless.

Something Mydei isn't sure he can fight.

"Phainon!" Mydei tries again, voice raw. His feet slide backward as Phainon presses forward, relentless, his strikes coming harder, faster. It is everything Mydei can do to keep up, to parry without leaving himself open.

He can see the openings. He can take them. A well-placed counterstrike, a calculated blow to disarm, to permanently disable.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

A horrific, crushing realization settles in Mydei’s chest like a blade slipping between his ribs.

He can’t hurt him.

His stomach twists violently. He's sparred with Phainon a hundred times in training, has clashed blades with him for sport, has drawn blood when necessary. But this? This is different. This is real. Yet Mydei knows—even at the cost of his own life—he will not fight back.

Phainon does not hesitate.

The next strike slips through Mydei’s guard, cutting a deep, searing line across his side. He barely feels it through the sheer force of the ache already spreading through him, though its not from the wound.

Another blow. Mydei dodges, but barely. He stumbles, breath ragged, heart hammering against his ribs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory surfaces—Phainon’s laugh, unguarded and sharp as wildfire. The warmth of his hand clapping against Mydei’s shoulder after a sparring match. The way he had once said, in the quiet of a dying fire, “I’ll always have your back.”

That is the Phainon Mydei knows.

That is the Phainon Mydei loves.

Not this.

Not this hollow shell before him, eyes empty, sword raised high, ready to kill him.

"Come back," Mydei whispers. It isn’t a command. It isn’t even a plea.

It's raw, aching desperation.

But Phainon doesn’t stop.

And Mydei knows he won’t.

Pain lances through Mydei’s side, hot and sharp, but it barely registers. His pulse is too loud, his breath too ragged, his focus narrowing to the man before him.

Phainon.

But not his Phainon—not the one he had trained beside, bled beside, fought beside. This Phainon is a weapon with no restraint, a force of destruction with no recognition in his eyes. The Coreflame of Strife burns through his veins, twisting him into something monstrous. His strikes are brutal, calculated not for dominance, but for annihilation.

And Mydei can do nothing but block, dodge, and falter as he struggles against his best friend.

The Titankin still loom in the distance, their hulking figures barely visible through the haze of fire and smoke. They are the enemy. Not Phainon. But Mydei has no time to face them, no time to think of anything beyond survival.

Another swing—too fast. Mydei barely turns his shards in time, his body screaming in protest as red rubies clash against silver steel. Sparks scatter in the dark. His footing slips on the blood-slick ground, and Phainon presses the attack, his movements relentless.

"Phainon," Mydei gasps, blocking another strike, his arms trembling from the force. "Fight it, Phainon!"

Phainon does not hear him.

Another blow sends Mydei reeling. His back hits something—a ruined pillar, half-buried in the earth. No more room to retreat.

Phainon’s sword lashes out, and Mydei is too slow.

The blade buries itself deep in his chest, peaking out the back.

For a moment, there is silence. Not real silence—the battlefield still screams around them, the war still rages—but in Mydei’s mind, everything goes still.

He looks down. The hilt of Phainon’s sword is pressed against his ribs, the blade driven clean through him. He feels the warmth of his own blood pooling beneath his armor, the distant throb of pain—but it is nothing compared to the agony twisting inside his heart.

Phainon struck to kill.

Mydei barely feels it. The physical pain is a whisper, a distant thing, drowned out by the shattering truth settling deep in his bones.

His Phainon is gone.

His lips tremble. "Phainon," he whispers again anyway, voice cracking. "Come back."

There is no response. No flicker of hesitation in those blank, burning eyes.

A memory slams into him, unbidden. A different battlefield, years ago.

-

Blood stains the sand, and Mydei can barely stand, but Phainon is there—Phainon is always there. He grips Mydei’s wrist, yanks him to his feet, his touch warm even through the blood and dirt.

"What the hell was that?" Phainon laughs, sharp and bright. "You hesitated, didn't you?"

"You were injured," Mydei mutters.

Phainon rolls his eyes. "So what? You think I'd rather you die than strike at me?"

-

The memory hit Mydei like a second wound.

He had thought, in that moment, that he would never have to make that choice. That he would never have to stand on the battlefield and hold his sword steady against Phainon.

But now, as his blood spills over Phainon’s hands, as his vision blurs, he knows.

He could never bear to fight him.

Even if it costs him his life

Phainon twists the blade—a killing motion, meant to end it—and something inside Mydei breaks.

He gasps, vision swimming, knees buckling. Phainon twists the sword again before letting go, and Mydei collapses to his knees, the warmth of his blood soaking into the dirt.

Please. Not like this.

He reaches for Phainon—not for his sword, for him—but before his fingers can even graze the bloodstained metal of Phainon’s gauntlet, Phainon moves again.

Another blade.

Mydei barely sees where it comes from—whether Phainon has seized it from a fallen warrior or torn it from the hands of a dying Titankin—but it doesn’t matter.

Phainon lifts it without hesitation—and drives it into Mydei’s neck.

His world spins.

For a heartbeat, he can't feel anything. No pain, no breath, no war. Only warmth—his own blood, spilling freely down his collar.

Then the numbness cracks, and agony surges through him.

His limbs go cold. His thoughts blur. And his immortal body fails.

Phainon has killed him.

Or at least, he has done everything short of it. Mydei will regenerate, given time—but there will be no time for that here, not on this battlefield, not when the last thing he sees is Phainon’s empty, hollow gaze staring down at him, dagger still lodged in his throat.

The edges of his vision dim. His strength falters. His body sags forward.

With what little will remains, he forces his trembling fingers to move. Not to attack. Not to defend.

Just to reach.

His hand brushes Phainon’s cheek, bloodied fingers leaving a streak of red along his jaw. The contact is light—barely there, barely real. But it is enough. Enough for Mydei to feel one last second of warmth, even if Phainon himself doesn’t recognize it.

With the last of his strength, he leans forward.

His lips barely ghost against Phainon’s lips—the faintest touch, light as a whisper, heavy as a final farewell.

Then—

Darkness.

-

Phainon comes back to himself in pieces.

The heat in his veins, the wild rush of battle—the Coreflame of Strife, the thing that has hollowed him out and filled him with nothing but rage—it is gone. Extinguished.

And in its absence, he feels cold.

His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps. His muscles tremble. His fingers ache from how tightly they have been gripping his sword.

His sword.

It is slick in his hands—warm, wet. Stained red.

And then, Mydei.

The world sharpens suddenly, too much, too fast. He sees the body at his feet, crumpled, unmoving, the dirt beneath them black with blood. Mydei’s blood.

Phainon’s stomach twists violently. His breath catches in his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

His mind struggles to catch up, to make sense of what has just happened, but the evidence is in front of him, laid out with brutal clarity. 

His sword—

Fuck.

His dagger had gone through Mydei’s neck. 

Then, as if that hasn’t been enough.

His gaze catches on the second wound—his own godforsaken blade buried in Mydei’s back.

His hands begin to shake.

His sword slips from his hands, landing with a dull, sickening thud beside Mydei’s body. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him.

He had done that.

He had done that.

His lips part, but no sound comes. The air around him feels thin, suffocating, like it is collapsing inward, like he can no longer breathe.

"Remember to stab your sword into my back through my tenth thoracic vertebra. That's my weak spot, and the only way to kill me."

He turns Mydei over, his hands running frantically over Mydei's spine. 

Counting. 

Praying. 

Phainon's hands are far too numb from the cold to count something as intricate as someone's vertebrae on a battlefield with any speed. 

His fingers rise and fall over the 9th vertebrae on Mydei's back and Phainon's heart stops when his fingers sink into the wound on Mydei's back. 

No. No no no no—

The bone beneath it had been pulverized by his sword. Only fragments remaining

He whispers the name before he can stop himself.

"Mydei—" He tries, but instead chokes on his rising sob.

"No, no, no, come on—Mydei—wake up, you—you can’t be—" His voice cracks before he can say it. Because saying it aloud would mean that this is true. That this is real.

Still, Mydei does not respond.

Phainon’s pulse pounds in his skull, his entire body locking up, his hands clenched into fists. Panic—a cold, searing wave—rushes into him all at once.

His hands are still shaking. They are still stained with Mydei’s blood.

His breath hitches, and suddenly, words are tumbling from his mouth too fast, too frantic, too raw.

He's killed him.

Pale and limp with blood pooling into a lake beneath him. But his hands refuse to move—can't move—paralyzed over the wound on Mydei's back.

What has he done?

What the fuck has he done?

His breathing is ragged, uneven, his chest too tight.

His hands tremble. His entire body shakes so violently he thinks he might break apart.

He killed him.

The only person left in the world who still mattered to him.

The only person he’s let himself trust since Aedes Elysiae fell.

The only person he's loved since—

His throat tightens. He sucks in a sharp, uneven breath.

Yet Mydei remains still.

Phainon has never felt more lost in his entire life.

The first thing Mydei feels is warmth.

It is strange—unexpected. He's died before. He's felt the cold embrace of oblivion before, the slow, creeping numbness that devours the body before the soul can claw its way back. But this—this is different.

The warmth is not angry and fiery. 

It is a gentle desperation.

Something presses against him—a weight, trembling and feverishly hot. The heat of it sears through his armor, through his bloodstained tunic, through the gaping wound through his back that has not yet fully closed. Hands clutch at him, gripping too tight, as if afraid he might slip away.

A voice breaks through the foggy silence.

Choked. Broken. Familiar.

"Mydei, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"

His name, ripped from a throat raw with grief.

His heart lurches. His fingers twitch.

Then, with a shuddering gasp, he wakes.

The world floods back in pieces. The acrid scent of blood and fire, the distant screams of war still raging beyond them, the cold weight of armor pressing against his body. He is sprawled against the ground, half-cradled against something—someone.

And then, through his misty gaze, he sees him.

Phainon.

Bent over Mydei, his entire body trembling with something violently agonized. His hands gripping Mydei’s tunic, twisted into the fabric as though it is the only thing tethering him to reality. His face—gods, his face.

Tear-streaked. Pale. Haunted.

And his eyes—

Oh thank the gods.

Not blank.

Not hollow.

Not consumed by the madness of a Coreflame.

Just a beautiful blue.

Just his Phainon. His beautiful Phainon.

Mydei barely has the strength to breathe, but when he does, a sound escapes him—something between a gasp and a laugh, something strangled with relief.

Phainon flinches. His breath hitches, and for the first time, he meets Mydei’s gaze fully. His pupils are wild, unfocused, filled with raw panic.

"Mydei—" His voice cracks again, shattered. His grip on Mydei’s tunic tightens, his fingers curling like a man trying to hold on to something already slipping through his grasp. "I thought—"

His voice breaks.

"I thought I killed you."

It isn’t relief. Not completely.

He's never seen Phainon like this before. Never seen him shake like this, his entire body wracked with ragged breaths.

Then again, Phainon has never been possessed by the madness of a corrupted Coreflame before.

The Coreflame of Strife had left him, had burned itself back down into a faint ember as it returned to the Vortex of Genesis, leaving nothing but him with the weight of the horror he had unleashed.

Phainon is speaking again, words tumbling out too fast, too broken—"I—I tried to stop, I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t, Mydei, I—gods, I killed you—"

The sheer anguish in his voice nearly sends Mydei reeling more than the wounds ever could.

His throat is raw, but he forces himself to speak.

"You didn’t," he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but Phainon hears him.

Phainon flinches like he has been struck. His breathing is erratic, his hands still clutching Mydei like a lifeline.

"But I did!" Phainon’s voice wavers. "I stabbed you, in the back. Your vertebrae was shattered Mydei. You should be dead! I don’t—" He chokes, his whole body trembling.

Phainon isn't completely wrong. Some of his vertebrae have shattered completely, but fortunately his weak spot is a comfortable distance away. 

He can feel his own body trying to knit itself back together, the wounds closing slowly, painfully. He's still weak.

But Phainon is here. And Phainon is Phainon.

That is all that matters.

With the little strength he has, he reaches up—not to push Phainon away, but to pull him closer.

Phainon stiffens as Mydei’s fingers curl into his cloak and drag him down into an embrace.

A raw, shaking sob tears from him as he collapses against Mydei, his arms trembling where they grip him, his breath uneven. Mydei can feel every shake, every sharp inhale, can feel the way Phainon’s entire body feels like it is about to shatter apart.

"It’s okay," Mydei murmurs, his own voice breaking now. "I’m here."

Phainon buries his face against Mydei’s shoulder, gripping him so tightly it almost hurts. "I—" He can’t finish the sentence. He can only shake.

Mydei holds him.

He has no words to help. There are no words—in Kremoan or otherwise—that could.

But there is this. This moment, this warmth, this undeniable proof that they are still here, still alive, still holding on.

And for now, that is enough.

-

The battle has not stopped.

The Titankin still roar in the distance, their heavy footsteps shaking the earth, their massive weapons carving through the last of the stronghold’s ruins. The screams of men long dead still carry on the wind, tangled with the clash of steel and the crackling of flames.

But here—in this moment—the war feels far away.

Mydei’s body aches. His wounds are still closing, the curse in his blood working sluggishly after being torn apart so thoroughly. He can feel the faint tremor in his limbs, the exhaustion pressing down on him. But he does not let go.

Phainon still shakes against him. His breath is uneven, his hands still gripping at Mydei’s cloak, as if he fears that if he lets go, Mydei would disappear again.

The silence between them is heavy. Too heavy.

Phainon is the first to break it.

"I should have fought it," he rasps, his voice hoarse and raw. "I should have—I should have stopped myself."

Mydei exhales slowly. His grip around Phainon tightens, just slightly.

"You are no god. You couldn't have," he says. Not an accusation. Just a fact.

Phainon flinches anyway.

"But I knew—" Phainon’s breath hitches. "I knew somewhere inside me that I was hurting you, I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t." His fingers curl into fists against Mydei’s chestplate. "I could've killed you, Mydei."

"Everything on this battlefield could've killed either of us." Mydei’s voice is gentle, but firm. "I’m right here, Deliverer. I'm not dead."

Phainon lets out a sharp, unsteady breath. His shoulders tremble, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

"But I thought you were," he whispers. "Before you—you were so still. I really thought—" His throat bobs, and his grip on Mydei’s cloak tightens. "Even now, you're not afraid of me. I could've killed you and yet..."

Mydei swallows and averts his eyes away.

He hadn't been afraid. He could never be afraid of Phainon.

He has only been afraid of what it would mean to fight him. To hurt him.

The memory of Phainon’s sword slipping through his back surfaces in his mind. The way it has been so effortless, how Phainon hadn’t hesitated—not once. And yet…

He had looked Phainon in the eyes before he fell.

He had seen nothing behind them.

And he had still chosen to reach for him.

Phainon lets out a rough, unsteady laugh—bitter, full of self-loathing. "You had to know I wouldn’t stop," His breath shakes. "And you still... You still didn’t fight back."

The words are not a question. They are an accusation.

Mydei hesitates.

Then, softly—"No. I didn’t."

Phainon tenses. "You should have."

"You think I don’t know that?" Mydei murmurs. "I knew, Phainon. I knew you would've killed me." His voice falters, " But I wouldn’t stop you. Not if it meant hurting you."

Phainon rips himself away from the embrace.

His eyes are wild, too full of something Mydei cannot name.

"You’re an idiot," he chokes out. His breath comes too fast, too ragged. "You’re—you’re a godsdamned idiot, Mydei—"

"Maybe." Mydei’s lips twitch, something like a smile, but not quite. "But to die by your hand, Deliverer? The privilege would be mine."

Phainon’s body goes rigid. His hands clench at his sides, his jaw tightening, his entire body shaking with something unspoken. His eyes—gods, his eyes.

"Mydei..." Phainon exhales.

It sends a sharp bolt of pain through Mydei’s chest—not the physical kind.

He forces himself to sit up, every muscle in his body protesting, but that means little to him.

"You think I could live with myself if I hurt you?" he asks, his voice soft as he brushes a hand through snowy, white hair, "You're Amphoreus' hero. Their hopes ride on your shoulders, not mine."

Phainon’s expression twists—grief, fury, shame, all tangled together.

"You’re more important than me," Phainon whispers, like he can force the truth into existence. "You're have people to lead. You should have fought back."

"You know why I didn’t," Mydei says firmly.

Phainon looks away.

The silence stretches between them.

Somewhere, deep beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain, Mydei can still hear the echo of a night long past.

A memory of the night Phainon received the Strife Coreflame in Mydei's place, whispered beside dying embers.

"I've always got your back."

"And if I ever lose myself?" Phainon had asked, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Then I bring you back."

"What if you can’t?"

A pause. A slow exhale. Then—

"I'll always bring you back."

The memory warms Mydei’s chest. Because he had done that. He had brought Phainon back, and he'd do it again.

Even when Phainon had lost himself—when the Coreflame has twisted him into something beyond reason—Mydei refused to strike him down. 

He would've done anything to bring Phainon back. Even if it cost him his own life.

Phainon drags a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "So what now?" he mutters.

Mydei sighs. His body still aches. The battle still looms.

But in this moment, only one thing matters.

"You tell me," Mydei says. He holds Phainon’s gaze, steady and unflinching. "Do you think I'll need to bring you back again?"

Phainon looks at him for a long time.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head. "No," he murmurs, voice hoarse.

The breath Mydei hasn’t realized he is holding finally releases.

"Then we keep going," he says simply, pushing off the ground to stand. Offering a hand to Phainon.

Phainon lets out a rough, exhausted laugh. He still looks like hell—shaken, barely standing—but he's there.

That's enough for Mydei.

--

The light of Okhema's Dawn device filters through the landscape, the number of titankin finally begins to wane, the battlefield finally left behind as more familiar paths come into view. The fires of conflict smother beneath the weight of victory and loss alike. But the expedition hasn't finished. Not yet.

Not when Phainon still looks at him like this.

They'd returned to Okhema a couple hours ago, the city that had slowly become their home, its towering walls still intact despite the ferocity of the battles waged beyond them. Mydei had barely stepped inside Phainon’s quarters before the conversation begins—before the weight of everything they haven’t said threatens to collapse between them.

"You should have killed me."

Mydei sighs. He had expected this. They'd had this conversation a multitude of times on the way back to Okhema.

Phainon stood near the window, staring out over the dimly lit rooftops of the city. The candlelight inside the room flickered across his profile, catching on the sharp angles of his face, the tension coiled in his shoulders. He'd barely removed his armor, as if he was still expecting another battle to begin at any moment.

"You keep saying that," Mydei muttered, leaning against the edge of the heavy wooden desk at the center of the room. His own armor is half-unbuckled, his tunic loose, his body aching from wounds that have mostly healed–though not entirely.

"Because it’s true." Phainon turns, his gaze dark, unreadable. "You should have fought back. You need to be able to stop me, Mydei."

"And you think I'd be able to live with myself if I did?" Mydei’s voice is sharper than he intends.

Phainon goes quiet again.

Mydei exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his patience fraying at the edges. He'd been gentle before, had spoken softly, reassured him, tried to ease the guilt that had taken root in Phainon’s chest like an iron spike. But Phainon wasn't hearing him.

He wasn’t understanding.

The frustration burns in his throat, in his ribs, in the phantom ache where Phainon’s sword has once been buried in his chest.

His fingers clench against the desk. Fine. If Phainon can't understand through words—then he will make him understand through actions.

Mydei lifts his gaze, sharp and unwavering. "Do I have to do it again?"

Phainon stills. His brow furrows. "What?"

Mydei moves, before he can react, riding the sudden surge of courage that had overtaken him.

He crosses the space between them in an instant, grabbing Phainon by the collar and dragging him down to meet his eyes. 

"Are you paying attention this time?" 

And before Phainon gets a chance to answer—

A kiss—unyielding, deliberate, and utterly undeniable.

Phainon freezes.

For a moment, he does not breathe, does not move or kiss back as if the weight of the moment has struck him harder than any blade.

Mydei doesn't pull away. Not at first. His fingers remain clenched in Phainon’s collar, his heart hammering against his ribs, his lips pressing against Phainon’s with a force that wasn't simple desire, but a demand to be heard.

Then, slowly—reluctantly—he pulls back.

Phainon remains still, his breath uneven, his pupils wide with something raw and shaken, lips still slightly parted.

Mydei swallows, suddenly aware of the heat creeping into his own skin. He steps back, looking away, his jaw tight. Gods, what had he just done?

The silence is unbearable.

Then a whisper. 

Barely audible.

Mydei’s breath hitches. He turns, his pulse hammering. "What did you say?"

Phainon’s gaze meets his, and Mydei’s stomach twists.

Phainon’s pupils are blown wide, his lips parted slightly, his entire posture frozen in place—but not in shock. In yearning.

Then louder this time, almost reverent.

"Again."

Mydei doesn’t hesitate.

He surges forward, grabbing Phainon once more—but this time, Phainon meets him halfway.

Their second kiss is nothing like the first. No longer a statement, no longer a desperate attempt to make Phainon understand.

This is acceptance in its purest form.

Phainon’s hands find him, gripping at his shoulders, pulling him closer, his breath shaky, but his lips firm and seeking. 

This time, Phainon kisses him back.

Chapter Text

Phainon hadn’t meant to ask.

He had spent the past hour doing everything but thinking about it. Instead, he had focused on the feeling of Mydei’s breath against his skin, the way his fingers curled themselves in Phainon’s collar, the taste of pomegranate juice still lingering on Phainon’s lips.

And yet—

The thought will not leave him alone.

Mydei was supposed to be dead. 

Don't get him wrong—he is incredibly grateful that Mydei isn't dead. But still, the thought bugs him.

Mydei had told him before that there is only one way to kill him. One place on his body that, if struck, would ensure he wouldn’t regenerate. His 10th vertebrae.

And Phainon had shattered it.

He remembers the sensation too well. The way his fingers have sank into Mydei’s back, as he traced his spine. He remembers the moment he felt fragments of shattered bone dust instead of a solid structure.

He remembers the way Mydei’s eyes had gone dull

And yet, here he is.

Warm. Alive. Kissing him.

Phainon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He has been thinking too much.

Mydei, still stretched out beside him on the low couch in Phainon’s quarters, tilts his head slightly, giving him a look that is equal parts amusement and exhaustion.

"You’re thinking about something," Mydei says, a statement, not a question.

Phainon hums thoughtfully, "Yeah."

Mydei smiles softly, eyes gleaming with something almost teasing. "Thinking about what?"

 "About how you're still alive."

Mydei smirks, looking at him like he has been waiting for this moment. Like he has known Phainon would ask eventually.

Then he grins. "You should've spend more time studying with Hyacine and Anaxa."

Phainon scowls. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the best one you’re going to get."

Phainon grumbles something under his breath, but Mydei just laughs at him.

Silence.

"...Mydei if you don't tell me I swear to Kephale—"

"Alright, alright." Mydei relents, stretching his arms above his head. "You’re not wrong that my 10th vertebra is my weak spot. But you were wrong about which one that is."

Phainon blinks, thrown off. "What?"

"You aimed for the 10th bone from my neck, didn’t you?" Mydei asks, tilting his head slightly.

"...Yeah?" Phainon answers slowly.

"Right." Mydei nods. "But my weak spot isn’t the 10th vertebra from the top—it’s my 10th thoracic vertebra."

Phainon stares at him blankly. "...And what the fuck is the difference?"

Mydei sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Phainon."

"What?" Phainon huffs, irritated now. "You know I didn’t get a formal education like you, Your Royal Majesty."

Mydei rolls his eyes at the title. "I’m aware."

"Then talk like a normal person."

"You’re the one who stabbed me in the neck and thought it would kill me," Mydei points out, amused.

Phainon frowns, softer this time. "I didn't mean to—You know what, forget it—"

"Hey." Mydei interrupts, "I know you didn't mean to, Phainon. I'm only teasing, I promise."

"Just hurry up and tell me,"

Mydei rolls his eyes. "Alright, listen closely, farm boy."

Phainon shoots him a glare, but Mydei only grins before continuing.

"The vertebrae in your spine are divided into different regions," Mydei says, idly tracing a pattern against the fabric of Phainon’s tunic. "The top seven are cervical, the next twelve are thoracic, and then after that, you have the lumbar and sacral vertebrae."

Phainon’s brain had already checked out halfway through that sentence.

"So when I said my weak spot was my 10th vertebra," Mydei continues, "I meant my 10th thoracic vertebra."

Phainon stares at him, still deeply lost.

"...And that’s not the same as the 10th vertebra from the top because…?"

"Because the cervical vertebrae come first," Mydei says patiently. "Which means the 10th thoracic vertebra is actually the 22nd vertebra down."

Phainon blinks. "...That’s stupid."

Mydei laughs. "It’s simple anatomy, Phainon."

"That's not simple! Simple is like, knowing an arm is an arm and not a leg."

"You’re just mad because you got it wrong."

Phainon scowls, shifting slightly to glare at him more properly. "I wouldn’t have gotten it wrong if you had just said the 22nd vertebra to begin with."

Mydei smirks. "Then it's a good thing I didn't say that, or else I'd be dead."

Phainon huffs.

Gods. Of course Mydei would be correct about this. He had grown up a crown prince, after all—raised on war strategy, literature and a formal education that Phainon had never been given.

Phainon, on the other hand, spent his childhood in the dirt-packed farming village of Aedes Elysiae, helping his parents tend the fields until he'd been forced out of his home by the Black Tide. He learned to fight long before he learned to read properly.

He had learned to survive.

He had not learned this.

Phainon groans, rubbing his hands over his face. "I hate you."

"Mmm... Do you? I seem to recall that you kissed me quite happily. Do you kiss everyone you hate?" Mydei muses.

Phainon freezes.

Slowly, he lowers his hands, eyes narrowing. "...That was a low blow."

Mydei smiles softly. "So was stabbing me in the back."

Phainon scowls, but can't stop looking at him. The candlelight catches in Mydei’s hair, turning the edges to gold, his expression still infuriatingly amused—but there is something else there, too.

Something warm.

Phainon swallows, his irritation fading, replaced with something softer, something quieter.

"...You really are impossible," he mutters, exhaling sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, explain it again."

Mydei chuckles. "You're actually trying to understand?"

"I'm trying to make sense of whatever godsdamned nonsense you just said," Phainon grumbles. "Now, explain it to me again."

Mydei rolls his eyes but shifts closer, reaching out, "Let’s see if you'll understand this way then."

Phainon stiffens slightly when Mydei’s hand touches his back. Light at first, just fingertips brushing against the fabric of his tunic, but then Mydei’s palm flattens fully, pressing warm against the dip of his spine.

Phainon swallows. He hasn’t expected... well—this.

"Here," Mydei murmurs. His fingers trace along his back, moving slowly down his spine, pressing against each vertebra one by one. "Cervical vertebrae start up here—" his fingers brush along the base of Phainon’s neck, gentle, careful, "—but the thoracic vertebrae start lower. Right around... here."

His touch drifts further down, slow and deliberate.

Phainon’s breath is coming too evenly now, too controlled, his body too aware of how close Mydei is, of how much softer his touch is than Phainon expects.

"Here," Mydei says again, fingers pausing against a single point at the middle of his back. "This is your 10th thoracic vertebra."

Phainon swallows. "And yours?"

Mydei hesitates for a moment.

Then takes Phainon’s hand.

Phainon’s breath hitches as Mydei guides it to his own back, pressing Phainon’s palm flat against his spine.

He barely has time to process the warmth of it before Mydei slowly drags his fingers lower, pressing Phainon’s hand along each bump until it rests at a point just below where his ribs end.

"Right here," Mydei murmurs. His voice is softer now, quieter.

Phainon can feel it. The slight shift in Mydei’s breath, the faint, controlled stillness of his body beneath Phainon’s palm.

This is it.

This is the one place on his body that can end him.

Phainon’s fingers curl slightly against the fabric of Mydei’s tunic, his thumb pressing absentmindedly against the ridges of bone beneath.

Mydei's breath stutters against his neck. The warm puffs going uneven.

He knows the way Mydei's touch feels. Knows the way his shoulders tense before he strikes, the way his hands adjust Phainon's stance when they train together.

But this—this is different.

This is Mydei allowing him to touch the most fragile part of him.

His only fragile part.

Phainon exhales slowly, his hand still resting against Mydei’s spine.

"...I really did get it wrong," he mutters.

Mydei laughs, soft and warm. "Thank goodness you're a bad student."

Phainon shakes his head. "You're the worst."

"Liar. You love me."

Phainon doesn’t argue.

Mydei laughs again at his silence.

He lets his fingers linger a moment longer before pulling away, but the warmth of Mydei’s skin stays with him.