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Phainon is unusually quiet as they stand in front of the vegetable stall in Marmoreal Market, studying the colorful array of vegetables in front of them as if he’s deep in thought.
Mydei had been about to turn and ask Phainon’s opinion on dinner, but he lets the question dissolve in his mouth. Instead, he watches Phainon’s bright blue eyes narrow ever so slightly as he stares down at the brown lentils and carrots and tomatoes, and when his gaze drifts over the onions and celery and heads of garlic and back to the lentils, it doesn’t seem like he’s looking at them at all. It’s as if he’s looking at something far away, something just out of reach; something that makes his expression turn wistful and melancholy.
When the shopkeeper shifts and opens her mouth, glancing at Phainon as if about to start a sales pitch, Mydei looks up and catches her eye. He shakes his head subtly, and the woman’s mouth closes obligingly. She looks confused, but turns away nonetheless. Instead, Mydei takes a step closer to Phainon, until their shoulders brush, and waits for Phainon to pull himself from whatever reverie he has fallen into.
“What is it, Mydeimos?” Phainon asks, after a long moment. He looks up and meets Mydei’s gaze, the melancholy in his expression scattering like rainclouds after a storm to make way for the warmth of the sun as he offers Mydei his usual bright smile. “Was I taking too long?”
Mydei scoffs, a quiet sound with no real heat to it - there is nowhere they need to be today, nor are they on any strict timetable for their outing. Phainon cannot still doubt that Mydei prefers to be in his company, even if they are doing nothing at all, so Mydei ignores the question entirely.
“Lentils?” he asks, instead. Phainon blinks, as if momentarily confused, then his smile softens from the too-bright hero’s grin to that gentle, achingly fond way he looks at Mydei and Mydei alone. The smile that makes warmth rise to Mydei’s face unbidden, and he looks away under the full force of Phainon’s affection, back to the vegetables in front of them. “Is that what you want for dinner?”
Phainon laughs - like the little scoff Mydei made earlier, the sound is quiet and somehow soft around the edges. “I think so,” he says, speaking with painted-on cheer. Mydei does not point it out - he only glances back up to the shopkeeper who has been politely rearranging vegetables on the other side of the stall and trying not to listen to their conversation. When he catches her eye, he gestures to Phainon with a hand and she hurries over.
“Get whatever you want,” Mydei says, and when Phainon hesitates, he raises an eyebrow. “There is nothing here I cannot eat or cook with. If these vegetables have captured your attention, get them. Where’s all that usual energy of yours?”
“No, I know,” Phainon says. He searches Mydei’s expression, and just when Mydei is about to call him out for making such a big fuss over some vegetables, he speaks again. “Would you mind if I cooked tonight?”
“Knock yourself out,” Mydei says, and when he says nothing else, Phainon hesitates again, as if trying to decide if he is going to say more, before he just nods gratefully and turns back to the shopkeeper to pick out the vegetables he wants. Mydei just watches him, taking a bag of his purchases from the woman when she packages the vegetables and holds it out. This isn’t one of their usual challenges - if this is something that Phainon wants to do for whatever reason, then Mydei has nothing to add.
Their walk home is quiet, too. Phainon’s mind still seems far away, and he only points out little trinkets or interesting sights once or twice. As soon as they get inside, Phainon removes his outerwear and bracers and sets them aside, immediately busying himself in the kitchen and leaving Mydei to watch him start sorting through and soaking the lentils in a pot of water and set the other vegetables out to chop. He still does not seem particularly inclined to speak, so Mydei sits in the living room and removes his gauntlets, greaves, and pauldron, setting the armor in front of him alongside Phainon’s, and begins to clean them.
For a long while, their home falls into that same steady sort of quiet; a lull of domestic peace punctuated only by the sound of Phainon cooking and Mydei cleaning and polishing their armor. The aroma of sauteeing onion and carrots and celery and herbs permeates the air, then shifts to the richer scent of boiling vegetables and tomato.
Mydei has finished maintenance on their armor before Phainon has finished whatever he is making. The only thing that remains is Dawnmaker, resting on its stand nearby. Mydei does not move to take it - instead, he casts it a glance and then rearranges their now-clean armor and begins to pack up the supplies.
“You can clean it,” Phainon says, from the kitchen. When Mydei looks up, he sees Phainon standing at the stove, face flushed from the steam of the pot he’s tending to, a bright purple apron over his clothes. He just smiles. “Dawnmaker, I mean. Only if you want to. Thanks for cleaning my armor, Mydei.”
“I was already doing mine,” Mydei says, waving off Phainon’s thanks. He obliges, though, taking the greatsword from its stand and resting it across his lap, inspecting the blade closely for any signs of wear and tear. As he goes through the motions of cleaning it, every gesture careful and purposeful, he keeps his treatment of Dawnmaker almost reverent. For any warrior, their weapon is their lifeline; trusting another to take care of it is akin to trusting them with their life. An improperly maintained blade could be the difference between victory and death. With that in mind, Mydei focuses solely on Dawnmaker’s care, letting the ambient sounds and smells of Phainon’s cooking fall to the background. He will not repay Phainon’s trust with anything less than all he has.
As if they are in sync, Mydei returns Dawnmaker to its stand at the same time as Phainon sets two bowls on their dining table. They look up at the same time; Phainon laughs, and Mydei cannot contain the little smile that tugs at his lips.
“Come and eat while it’s still hot,” Phainon says, then. That melancholy is back in his expression, and his voice has that quiet softness to it again.
Mydei finishes putting the supplies away and washes up, then joins Phainon at the table. When he looks at the bowl in front of him, the aroma of lentil and vegetable soup wafts up to greet him. The soup itself is a warm brown color, almost closer to a stew in its consistency, with roughly chopped pieces of carrot, onions, and celery among the lentils. It looks good, and smells just as appealing. He glances up at Phainon, who gives him that same smile and picks up his spoon. “Well, dig in.”
The soup is warm in both temperature and taste, the simple ingredients cooked in a homey way that gives Mydei the impression that this is a time-honed family recipe, the kind of thing he’s never had the luxury of inheriting. And as much as they taunt each other about every little thing, Mydei will admit that Phainon is quite skilled at cooking, especially with vegetables.
“It’s good,” Mydei says, after taking a few bites. He watches Phainon taste the dish, bringing the spoon to his mouth and chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. He lets out a little breathy laugh afterwards, but the sound is somehow heavy.
“It turned out right,” Phainon says, sounding relieved. He sets the spoon down again and is silent for a long moment.
“My parents would make this when the weather turned colder,” Phainon says, then. Mydei meets his gaze and waits for him to continue. “When I saw the lentils at the market, the recipe came back to me. I hadn’t thought of it in years.”
So that was what the distant look was. Phainon must have been remembering the smell and taste of this soup, lost in the sensory memory of his childhood. Mydei can only imagine it from what Phainon has shared, but the visage of a warm home and this soup sitting in front of a small, smiling boy isn’t so hard to bring to mind.
“I’m glad you made it,” Mydei says. He knows Phainon isn’t seeking platitudes or coddling, so he says what he’s thinking, just like always.
Phainon looks at him and smiles gratefully. “I’m glad you like it,” he says in return, voice still quiet but not quite so melancholy. And when he takes his next bite, his expression is lighter, as if a weight has been lifted off him. The next laugh that escapes him is sunny again, and Mydei thinks again about rain clouds parting after a storm, the gentle glow of sunlight on damp grass and the soothing smell of petrichor drifting through the fields.