Chapter Text
It is not unusual to find the crown prince of Kremnos at the Garden of Life. Here, under the dappled canopy where sunlight weaves threads of gold through vibrant blooms and emerald leaves alike, Mydeimos sheds the weight of his title. His imposing stature softened by the laughter of children clamoring for his attention like playful cubs or by the gentle snores of off-duty chimeras napping by his side.
To the people of Okhema, Mydei is an enigma—a figure of titan-blessed beauty and strength, yet surprisingly approachable beneath all his sharp edges. Most people, that is, with the exception of a man who calls himself Phainon, the Deliverer of prophecy and fellow Chrysos Heir, who teeters on the edge of Mydei's patience daily.
Today, the garden hums with quiet serenity, the air thick with the scent of peonies.
Strolling into the greenery, Phainon feels an odd flutter in his chest at the sight of Mydei dozing amidst the flowers, with one arm tucked behind his head and the other on the chimera slumbering on his chest.
The prince is without his usual armour today, dressed in a simple saffron chiton, its free-flowing fabric swathing his sculpted form. His chest rises and falls with the slow rhythm of sleep, flame-tipped hair fanning out like liquid fire against verdant green.
For a moment, Phainon hesitates, his usual bravado (read: knack for testing Mydei's patience) faltering.
The white-haired man came to the garden seeking a quiet corner to tackle his mission reports for Aglaea, but the sight of a sleeping Mydei, defenceless and bathed in Kephale's gentle light, disrupts this plan. There is something almost sacred about Mydei in repose, a vulnerable scene that makes Phainon's heart lurch.
He doesn't know what to do with this feeling, and so, he stamps it down.
With a theatrical sigh, Phainon drops beside the prince, his half-finished slates forgotten by his side. The horned chimera stirs, one slitted eye cracking open to regard him with lazy disdain before settling back into its cozy spot on Mydei's chest.
Prick.
Undeterred, Phainon leans over to Mydei. "Are you sleep—"
"I'm in no mood for your games today, Deliverer." Mydei's voice is low, rough with sleep. His eyes remain closed, but a frown mars his serene expression, a silent warning Phainon is all too familiar with.
"Why, hello there. Yes, I had a splendid day today. Thank you ever so much for asking," Phainon drawls, blue eyes glinting with mischief. He waits, half-expecting the prince to rise to the bait, to fling a retort that would spark their usual verbal-to-physical sparring.
But Mydei remains silent.
And his silence is a wall Phainon can't resist scaling.
"Mydeiiiiiiiiiii," Phainon whines.
No response. Mydei's silence is resolute, a castle of calm Phainon is determined to breach.
"Did you fall asleep? Mydei?" Phainon asks after a pause, his voice tinged with a softness that surprises even himself. He shifts closer, the faint scent of bergamot and sunlight on Mydei's skin enveloping his senses. He traces the space near Mydei's bare torso, but is careful not to touch.
For a fleeting moment, Phainon wonders what it would be like to lay beside the Mydei. To share in the quiet solace of the garden.
"Yes. Now make yourself scarce," Mydei answers at last, eyes meeting Phainon's. His tone is laced with a weary finality that might have deterred a less stubborn fool.
But not Phainon.
"But I'm wide awake," Phainon counters, breaking their eye contact. Impulsively, he lies on his back beside Mydei, close but not touching, claiming the space as his own.
The horned chimera lets out a rumbling huff, clearly unimpressed.
"I can put you into eternal sleep if you wish."
Phainon's laughter echoes through the serene garden, bright and reckless. "Is that an offer?" he asks, turning his head to steal yet another glance at the prince, expecting another retort or, at the very least, an additional wrinkle in his frown.
Instead, Mydei pauses. The silence between them stretching long enough to make Phainon squirm. Then, with a slow, practiced grace, the prince sits up, gently setting the horned chimera aside. It 'awoos' something incomprehensible, clearly grumbling at the loss of warmth.
The prince stretches languidly, arms arching above his head, defined muscles rippling beneath sun-kissed skin, catching Kephale's light. Mydei's movements are fluid, predatory, not unlike a giant feline rousing from slumber, Phainon muses, as he admires the show.
Phainon isn't gawking.
Definitely not.
He is merely… observing. For research purposes, of course. For his own training regimen. Yeah. That is all it is. His cheeks feel warm, and Phainon curses himself internally as he averts his gaze, suddenly finding a distant marble column fascinating.
"... You need help, Deliverer. Fine," Mydei says at last, his tone begrudging yet clearly indulging in whatever new whims Phainon has this time. It stirs something unwanted in Phainon's guarded heart. The prince continues, "What is it that you want?"
Phainon's mind stumbles. 'I just wanted to hear your voice,' he thinks, 'I want to be by your side. Always. Isn't that weird?' These words feel too raw, like a blade too sharp for the swordmaster to wield. The Deliverer chokes them down.
His heart is a knot of hope, fear, and longing that he dares not give a name to.
Instead, Phainon forces out a casual shrug. "Nothing much." The words feel flimsy on his tongue. "I saw your return in the Lucid Hour. Aglaea said that your mission went well."
"Of course it did." Mydei stifles a yawn that makes him seem almost human, almost within Phainon's reach. He leans back on his hands, his gaze drifting to the canopy above, where Kephale stands vigil over the city. "And here I am, trying to unwind, get some proper rest before some scoundrel decides to disturb me."
"If you wanted some 'proper' rest, you'd have stayed in your own bedchambers, my prince."
"Perhaps," Mydei says, turning to Phainon, his golden eyes flickering with warm amusement. "But I would be sorely missing your company."
The prince's lips curve into a ghost of a smile that Phainon knows he will carry long after the Parting Hour. Knows that Mydei doesn't mean anything intimate. But for now, under the dappled canopy—
"But now," Phainon starts, his heart thundering in his chest. "His highness can unwind with my company." He leans forward, his tone bold, even if he does not feel it. "Rest assured, the great Deliverer will aid his prince in relaxing."
Mydei scoffs. "Oh? And how does the 'great' Deliverer plan to achieve that? Perhaps by leaving me alone?"
"Nope," Phainon replies, popping the 'p' with a childish flourish that draws an eye-roll from his prince. He sits upright, stretching his legs with a flex of muscle, savoring the pull. With a theatrical flair, he dusts off his pants, lightly snaps the black strap snugly hugging his right thigh once, and pats his lap twice. "Come here, my prince," he beckons to his companion with open palms and a grin.
Mydei's expression shifts. A flush creeps up his neck, turning his ears fiery-red like the tips of his hair. "Stop calling me that," he snaps, though the words lack bite. "What is this supposed to be?"
"This," Phainon says, running his hands along his thighs, catching the way Mydei's gaze lingers, "is something Castorice taught me. It's called a lap pillow. Relieves fatigue, soothes the soul—a remedy for weary princes."
Mydei's lips part, then press shut. His golden eyes snap back to Phainon's. "I… may have heard of something similar," he admits.
Phainon tilts his head, his grin softening into something warmer, more earnest. It's now or never. Please. Before the hour passes. Before time itself slips through his fingers again. Please. Please Please. Let me be selfish. I won't ask for anything ever again. "Come on, my prince," he coaxes, patting his thighs. "Let the Deliverer work his magic."
Mydei's gaze searches Phainon's, his bare fingers twitching against the grass, as if weighing the risk of crossing the invisible line between them.
The garden itself seems to hold its breath.
"You're not as subtle as you think, Phainon," Mydei murmurs, but he leans forward, resting his head on Phainon's lap. Phainon, who short-circuits at the use of his name. After a beat, Mydei adds, "Stop squirming."
Phainon's face burns, heat racing up his spine. Goldenflies hum, a breeze stirs, but his world narrows to Mydei and Mydei only—the weight of his head, the unreadable intensity of his gaze, the ticklish brush of red-tipped hair against the fabric of his pants.
Physical brushes are not uncommon on the battlefield. There is nothing intimate when you are trying to keep your comrades and yourself alive. But here, in the canopy's hush, it feels almost sacred.
Castorice's words echo in his mind: "I found something called a 'lap pillow' in the library. It is supposedly a common practice amongst comrades. This book here says it nurtures physical intimacy and trust, and relieves the other's fatigue. Oh! It is also common to play with your partner's hair in this position, like this."
"... I must say, the art style of this illustration looks oddly similar to yours, Cas."
"Ihopethisinformationwillbeofusetoyou. Haveagoodday, LordPhainon!"
Phainon fights the urge to fidget.
"Stop squirming," Mydei repeats.
"I'm not squirming," Phainon lies. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, itching to brush a stray lock of hair from Mydei's forehead or trace his jaw. "You're just heavy."
Mydei growls, and Phainon feels the throat vibrations against his thighs.
Nikador, end him now.
"Heavy? Please. I'm sure the 'great' Phainon can handle heavier things in his lap, but we can test that next time." Mydei turns his head inward to Phainon's chest. "And you're the one with thighs like marble. I'm practically doing you a favor by testing their endurance."
Phainon's flush deepens; he has definitely bitten off more than he can chew this time. He is certain he is as red as Mydei's robes. He is also certain that Mydei noticed it too.
"Oh, so now you're critiquing my lap pillow? I'll have you know, Trianne said I'm a natural, and my thighs were as soft as Ica." He leans down slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper into Mydei's ear. "But if you think you can do better, my prince, I'm all ears."
Aquila above, what is he doing?
Mydei's golden eyes narrow, and for a heartbeat, Phainon thinks he has pushed too far. The prince sits up in one fluid motion, his hand brushing Phainon's for a fleeting moment, a heated touch that sends a jolt through the latter. Phainon only has a moment to mourn his now-empty lap before Mydei turns to face him, their noses almost touching.
Phainon resists the urge to lean forward and steal the prince's lips.
"Better? Is that a challenge I hear, Phainon?" Mydei says, his voice dangerously soft. "Because I assure you, my lap pillow surmounts yours."
Phainon's heart stumbles. He wants to laugh, to deflect, to keep this banter going till the end of time, but the way those intense golden eyes search his makes Phainon want to run away. He loves this. Phainon loves him. And the thought that Mydei might not feel the same, that this is all just another competition to him, twists like a spear in his chest.
"Prove it," Phainon says before he can stop himself. He leans back, putting some distance between their faces. He gestures to his own lap, then to Mydei's, a shaky grin tugging at his lips. "Let's see if the prince can outdo his Deliverer."
This was nothing new. They compete over everything—highest titankin kills, best pomegranate juice stand (Mydei's food influence status gives him an unfair edge, in Phainon's opinion), even the longest yodel. But their latest competition is the strangest yet: who has the better lap pillow, it seems.
"Or are you scared?" Phainon taunts.
Mydei reaches forward, but his hand stops shy of Phainon's face, fingers flexing in contemplation, and Phainon's heart sinks. Maybe he has misread everything. Maybe Mydei is just humoring him, and this moment will shatter like dropped crockery.
And then Mydei speaks.
"There is no word for 'scared' in the Kremnoan language." His still hand finally moves, a knuckle tracing the line of Phainon's jaw. "It seems to me that you are the one who is afraid. I dare you to accept my lap pillow without a word of protest."
"I accept that dare!"
Mydei's lips twitch, his eyes never leaving Phainon's, who is more preoccupied by the hand that is now cupping his face. Mydei's other hand moves, bare fingers gliding down Phainon's torso and to his thighs.
"What are you—AH!" Phainon yelps when Mydei snaps the leather strap on his thigh without warning, the sharp sting of pain pulsing through his leg. He grabs at the offending hand pressing down on his thigh. "H-hey!"
"I always wanted to do that."
Always… wanted to?
"And I said, 'without a word of protest'. Which part did you not understand?" The prince digs his fingers into Phainon's inner thighs and squeezes, while his other hand busies itself stroking the soft underside of Phainon's chin. Phainon shudders, melting under the touch. "Hmm. Adequate. I guess there is some merit to its suppleness."
"Adequate?" Phainon manages to huff out. "And what does this have to do with giving me a lap pillow?"
"Merely assessing my competition," Mydei says, his voice steady with an inflection Phainon can't name. He searches the prince's face for jest, if this is just another layer to their competition. Or if Mydei is really flirting with him. But Mydei's expression is unreadable. The prince pulls his hands back, patting his own thighs with a deliberate slowness that feels like a performance for Phainon.
If Phainon dies of oxygen deprivation today, it's totally Mydei's fault.
"Come here, Phainon. Let's see if you can handle my magic."
"I— Mydei, maybe this isn't—"
"Phainon."
"Okay," Phainon manages, his voice barely above a whisper. He really is weak to this man. He scoots forward, lowering his head onto Mydei's lap. The contact is electrifying—Mydei's thighs are warm and firm, like the rest of his body, and the scent of bergamot and sunshine and something sweet overwhelms him.
It is grounding yet dizzying all at once.
Blood pounds in his ears as Phainon turns away, back to Mydei, acutely aware of every contact point—the muscles beneath the linen, the rise and fall of Mydei's chest.
He wonders if Mydei feels his fluttering heartbeat.
"Well?" Mydei asks.
"Well what?"
"Do you admit your loss?"
"N-no."
Mydei hums noncommittally. Then, Phainon feels a hand carding through his hair, tracing soothing patterns along his scalp. "How about now?" Phainon hears, feels the question whispered in his ear. He freezes, torn between leaning into Mydei's hand or running away. It feels too intimate, too vulnerable. Well beyond the bounds of their friendship. And Phainon is scared of change.
He chooses to pull away.
Phainon moves to sit up abruptly, turning to face his friend, his comrade, whose friendship he cannot lose due to a moment's folly. He shouldn't have started it. He shouldn't have been selfish.
"Okay, fun's over." The Deliverer forces out a playful tone that falls flat. "This isn't—"
Mydei shoves him down onto the grass, his hands landing on either side of Phainon's head, caging him in.
Phainon sucks in a sharp intake of breath.
The grass is cool against his back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Mydei's body above. Mydei's eyes, usually sharp with fierce determination and confidence, are now perturbed, beseeching. The weight of those golden eyes pins Phainon in place more effectively than the physical cage of Mydei's arms.
"Don't," Mydei says, pleads. "Stop running away."
This is dangerous for his heart. Phainon wants to look away, to break the intensity of Mydei's gaze. He knows Okhema like the back of his hand. Knows that Mydei is giving him an out by not pining his limbs down. Knows that if he were to run away now, with the exception of Aglaea and her golden threads, no one else can find him if he doesn't want to be found.
But those eyes hold him, searching, pleading, and Phainon suddenly feels the weight of every unspoken moment with Mydei—every lingering gaze, every laughter that felt too private, every touch that lasted moments too long.
They have danced around this for too long, both Mydei and Phainon, teetering on the edge of something more, but Phainon always runs away just before the fall.
How dare he call himself a warrior when he only knows how to run?
And so, Phainon stops running.
He wills his body to relax, forcing his clenched fists to open. "I'm scared, Mydei," Phainon confesses. He hates how small his voice sounds. "I care for you—more than... more than anything else." It takes him a while to find the right words, but he pushes through the silence. "But I'm terrified. Of losing you. Of ruining what we have right now. So... so it's alright if you don't return my feelings. We can pretend today never happened."
"You fool." Mydei's expression softens. "I have long been waiting for this day. How would I know your heart if you never spoke of it?"
"I... It might sound foolish, but you are… you are everything to me, Mydeimos. I don't want things between us to change."
"You mean the world to me, Phainon. Why else would I be here if I don't wish to? No one will be losing anyone today, I promise you."
Phainon blinks, the words sinking in slowly. "I'm still afraid of what might change. What we will lose. I don't want to lose you," he babbles. "I don't want you to hate me."
"No one will not be losing anything."
"And what if I'm not good enough? If I fail and we… break apart?"
Mydei exhales, shaking his head in fond resignation. He leans down, their foreheads nearly touch. Phainon can feel the warmth of Mydei's breath against his lips.
"You're an idiot," Mydei murmurs. There is no venom in it, only gentle affection. "Why dread things that have yet to come to pass? Do you think I would let anyone or anything take you from me?"
Phainon could only blink back at him.
"I am more affected than you think," Mydei continues. "You think I have not lain awake, wondering if I would ruin everything between us by courting you? You, who swoops in to steal my attention, then runs away the moment it's too much?"
"Mydei…" Phainon tears up, not from sorrow or the fear of rejection, but from the overwhelming weight of his own feelings, the ones he evaded for too long.
"I am a patient man, Phainon, but even I can't keep pretending. I can't keep acting like you are just a friend when every part of me wants more."
Words fail him, so Phainon reaches up to cup Mydei's face. Mydei's eyelids flutter closed, savoring the contact, a vulnerability that undoes Phainon's guarded heart.
"It's hard to promise forever, but I can promise you now."
"I like you," Phainon finally says. "I really do. I love you, Mydei. Is it alright for someone like me to love you? I want you. I always have."
Mydei's eyes snap open, and the relief in them is so palpable it makes Phainon's heart ache. A slow, almost shy smile curves Mydei's lips, and he leans down just enough to close the gap between them, their foreheads finally touching.
"Then stop running," Mydei whispers. "Stay with me."
Phainon doesn't answer with words. Instead, he tilts his head up, his lips brushing against Mydei's in a hesitant kiss.
Under the dappled canopy, the world falls away—the grass, the sky, the distant hum of Okhema. There is only Mydei, strong and imposing and loving. And for a moment, the world feels perfect.
"Are you happy now?"
"Yes."