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It is a rare day that Demeter offers the world even the slightest reprieve from the chill winds and the snow-strewn sky. When one such day comes, for a time even the most bloodthirsty of warriors seems to pause, defanged by the warmth.
Yet it is only a pause.
As the armies shuffle back to the battlefield, blinking blearily at the bright morning light around them, Ares finds himself in good spirits. They remain with him as the soldiers surge forward, Ares among them, his cheer bolstered by their courage, their fury, the sense of companionship in the movement. He is in good spirits as they clash and fall to his blades. Good spirits when, with a flash of green, Thanatos appears, hovering at his side.
The day is bright; the light reflected back from the snow that still coats the ground. It glints off the edge of Thanatos’ scythe, sharp enough to blind him, and settles strangely over his sallow skin.
Ares comes to halt and sheathes his swords, grinning.
“Beautiful out, isn’t it?”
Thanatos squints down at him from under his hood. “It’s awful.”
“Awful?”
“Don’t you find it too bright?”
“I…can’t say I’ve ever thought such a thing, my friend,” Ares says slowly. “Although, I suppose that it must be quite different in your underworld, hm?”
“It is far lovelier,” he grumbles.
Ares looks around the battlefield to the blood and the shining armour. Looks to the trees in the distance and the dark rise of mountains sat behind the city. Looks to the parting of the clouds and the sky that breaks through, bluer than even the sea.
He looks back to Thanatos, who watches him with yellow eyes as still as the air. How clearly out of place he is. Far lovelier, indeed.
“Would that I could see it.”
Thanatos looks at him sceptically before softening. “Would that I could show you.”
Ares turns back to the fighting thoughtfully. It is not so bright for him, really, especially not from within the shadows of his helmet.
He pauses at the idea that suddenly comes to his mind.
“Thanatos—come here, my friend.”
“Why?” he asks warily.
“Do you not trust me?”
“Tsch,” he mutters, flicking at his fringe. Ares cocks his head to the side and waits. Finally, Thanatos sighs and floats nearer.
“What—?” he trails off as Ares grins and reaches out to brush his hood away, then reaches up to take the helmet from his own head.
Thanatos gawks as Ares brings it toward him. “Ares, what are you—?”
“Trust me, my friend; it may yet help.”
Ares brings it down over his head without another word as Thanatos stares back at him with open horror. The helmet goes on easily, loose as it is, even as Thanatos splutters, “I am not wearing this.”
Ares smirks, looking him up and down. “Ah, but it appears to me that you are.”
Thanatos glares back at him through the eye holes, expression mortified. “No.”
The helm shines in the sun, metal gleaming the same as that which Thanatos already wears. The same shade that Ares is sure must be rising in his face. How lovely he is, dressed in the materials of war; how lovely, the easy way their colours join.
How it warms him.
Ares reaches across and brushes a thumb over his chin. “It suits you.”
Thanatos pauses, mouth half open with protest. Whatever he’d been about to say, he seems to have forgotten it.
Around them the battle rages on, the sounds of sword and flesh as thick as blood, but Ares pays it no mind. He tips Thanatos’ chin up gently. Leans in and kisses him through the gaps of his own helmet.
How quick Thanatos is to return it, his eyes drifting shut. How hard, the unyielding metal that shields his cheeks, his nose. How soft, the giving move of his lips.
Ares brings a hand up between his shoulder blades and draws him close; bats aside a mortal spear as it flies unwittingly toward Thanatos’ back. Shrouds him in his arms and deepens the kiss. Warms at the way Thanatos catches a hand in the bottom of his hair and sighs against him. Warms at the way he can feel his grin against his lips.
When he finally breaks away, Thanatos is still smiling.
It’s loud, the battle thick save for the small pocket of calm carved around them, but when Thanatos opens his eyes and meets Ares’ the world is quiet.
His eyes are crinkled through the vents of Ares’ own helmet, their yellow deepened by the shadow.
Ares laughs under his breath. “Thanatos Areios,” he murmurs. “How terrifying a sight.”
“I am not warlike,” he scoffs, frowning unconvincingly. “Ares—I’m not wearing this.”
“I suppose it is yet lacking,” Ares says as solemnly as he can manage. “Perhaps next you join me in my halls you ought to try the paint too, hm?”
“Tsch—I’ll have to pass.” Thanatos squirms away enough to take the helmet from his head. “Truly, Ares, I cannot wear this.”
“Does it not help lessen the brightness?” Ares asks seriously.
“Help to—?” Thanatos breaks off with a laugh. “Ares. I have a hood.”
“Ah—indeed, you do,” he says slowly, mind racing as he searches for something to redeem himself. “Though I thought, perhaps, that the looseness of such a thing may lessen its effectiveness.”
Thanatos watches him sceptically, then lifts away the helmet and returns it carefully to Ares’ own head. “…it suits you more.”
Ares frowns, but, before he can complain, Thanatos leans in and catches his lips gently. “It was a kind thought of you.”
“I am not known for my kindness.”
Thanatos looks across at him, his hair still pleasantly ruffled. “And yet you are kind,” he says.
“Kind?” Ares asks with a sudden agitation. He casts the feeling out to the mortals around him; revels in the way their hatred spikes at the touch of his influence. Feels the way they hurt and die. Inhales, drawing it back into his chest, back into the raging ache of his heart. “Don’t mock me.”
Thanatos glances about the heightening carnage around them, expression strange. Ares braces himself—then Thanatos reaches through the scarlet hurt of the air to set a hand lightly on his chest atop that ache. Ares stares down to where he touches his armour, pulse racing, then looks back to meet his gaze.
“I’m not mocking you,” Thanatos says softly.
The ground around them darkens with magic. When it collapses inward, the dying mortals still, and Ares’ anger with them. Thanatos looks down at his side, expression gentle, to where Ares knows he must now hold those same mortal souls, distracted momentarily in silent conversation.
How strange a creature he is.
Ares places his hand over Thanatos’ where it lingers at his chest, weaving their fingers together. When Thanatos looks up, startled, Ares squeezes his hand. Raises it to his lips and presses a kiss to the rise of his knuckles.
Thanatos smiles sheepishly and clears his throat. “Well—work calls; I’ve already stopped for too long.”
Ares squeezes his hand again, then lets him go. “As have I. Be well, my friend.”
“Be well, Ares,” Thanatos says gently. He begins to float away, then pauses and looks back. “Perhaps I will see you later? If, of course, I would not be taking too much of your kindness.”
Ares grins. “If I have kindness, then it is only for you to take from.”
Thanatos’ lips twitch at the corners; he flicks at his hair. “Yes, well—until next time, then.”
“Until next time.”
He disappears in a flash of green and Ares laughs to himself, giddy with the brightness, the warmth, the beautiful rage of the world around him. Giddy with the promise.
Ares lets the sunlight sink into his skin and turns back to the battle, redrawing his blades.
The pause ends.