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“Tell me something, Zagreus.”
Candlelight flickered in the corners of his eyes. The heat was infernal. That was how Nyx fashioned their shared room: dark as the night skies, and hot as a blazing pyre, as is all of the underworld.
Zagreus rolled onto his side. Thanatos’ golden gaze met him. “Yes?”
White eyelashes whispered over his eyes. “Do you hate him? Your father?”
It wasn’t a question that he was expecting; it landed like a blow. Their argument continued to echo across the House, ringing sharp in his ears. Had he hated him during that? Had he hated the way his father could turn his words into weapons, how they pierced him repeatedly? The constant murder of his soul? How he felt imprisoned, trapped–owned?
But the brief moments between them, where it felt like love, were enough. When his father could hold him, could offer him a grunt of approval in the administrative chambers; when he would pause and watch his son spar with Achilles. Zagreus felt important when his father spoke to him as though he was an equal. Like a prince, a fit ruler of the underworld.
He never was, though.
Zagreus stared at Thanatos, unblinking. “I… I want him dead.” The other’s breath hitched. “But I… I want him to love me, too. More than anything in the world.”
Thanatos blinked. “Oh,” he breathed. “I see.”
“Thanatos. Do you love him?”
He sucked in a breath. Slowly, Thanatos extended his hand, offering his palm up to Zagreus. The touch was gentle. The connection was distant. Thanatos rubbed his thumb on the side of Zagreus’ hand. His skin was soft like silk, and cold in his grip.
“My father, I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” he whispered. Zagreus considered him; the sternness of his nose, the sharpness of his chin, the furrow of his brow, the strength of his gaze. His dedication to his terrible work. His solemnity. His quietness. He considered the posters of Thanatos in the administrative chambers, his portrait hung up on the board almost all the time. In a way, Thanatos was more of his father’s son than he ever could be. He made his father proud. He received his honor, his… justice, at times.
And yet. How they differed. How his father, the heat emanating from him, lacked the warmth Thanatos possessed. How his father loomed over his dear friend, always under his clutches, under his watchful eye, no matter where he went. They were both his family; Hades, his father, and Thanatos, something like a brother to him. But when they were alone, they weren’t just brothers. It didn’t matter how hard they tried. When Achilles described the differences in love, Zagreus had felt a pit in his stomach.
“Sometimes,” Thanatos said, slowly, unsure, “you can’t control who you love, Zag.”
Ah.
You really can’t. Zagreus gave Thanatos’ hand another squeeze. Thanatos didn’t know, but he was everything Zagreus wanted in a person. In his father.
“Even if he… even if he can be a lot. Even if it’s… it’s wrong.”
“Do you think you’re wrong," asked Zagreus, "for loving him?”
“No—yes—maybe? Because he hurt you. And I love…” Thanatos trailed off. Gnawed the flesh of his lips. How beautiful he looked, then, the candlelight slanting over his cheekbone. “And you’re my dear friend. But, I wouldn’t be who I am without him. I never had one, but he’s like a father to me, too.”
Zagreus understood. He understood.
Thanatos sighed. “It hurts, sometimes.”
A sliver of him knew it was not just Hades they were discussing. Zagreus searched Thanatos’ eyes. He intertwined their fingers, and now they were properly connected. He wished that they could hold on to each other like that for eternity, that he could feed warmth back into the other’s body like this for eternity.
“We have each other,” Zagreus murmured. “That’s enough for us both.”