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"One and a half portions, with a sprinkle of honey," Mydei contemplates, his eyes anchored at the small package in Phainon’s hand. "Still the same combination, huh."
The air smells like freshly-made caramel and beside him, Phainon laughs loudly, his eyes crinkled at the edge. Mydei doesn't join that crude parade of excitement. Phainon then rubs his right eye; traces of his cheerfulness slowly fade from his expression.
“Of course it is. Why are you looking at me like I’m a stranger from another planet?” Slowly, he begins to open the food package. “I don’t mind adding more honey, but too much sugar in my blood apparently makes it hard to fall asleep at night.”
Mydei hums. Now they walk side by side, allowing the hustle and bustle of the Marmoreal Market breaking through their ears. Their clothes brush occasionally. Mydei can smell Phainon’s soap, his faint perfume lingers on his nape.
“I don’t know how to treat you as a not-stranger, though,” he adds after a while. Mydei then allows himself to turn his head—his smile threatens from the side of his lips when he spots a drop of honey on Phainon’s chin.
Phainon blinks, ever so clueless. “Why?”
When Mydei clenches his hand, his gauntlet clangs lightly. These days, he keeps questioning himself whether he should wear these armors everyday or not. It’s like his brain intentionally processes everything too slowly; his synapsis dances lazily on larghissimo tempo. If the black tide is gone forever, if this world’s prophecies end up being epic stories sealed in a fancy book, then what else is left for them? Does he even have any reasons to keep fighting? He exhales heavily when his steps suddenly stop. Mydei starts unbuckling the gauntlet on his right hand, then he puts it rakishly on the street.
Without really thinking, Mydei extends his bare hand afterward. Silence falls as Phainon stands still; his slice of apple peeks ridiculously from his mouth. Mydei pushes it inside—he gives Phainon approximately five seconds to bite and swallow it.
“I don’t even know how to address you properly,” as he murmurs, his thumb wipes the honey from Phainon’s chin. “Right now, who am I talking to? Is he Phainon? Khaslana?”
Phainon blinks. He just needs one second to perfect his distant smile. “What if I’m both?”
Mydei keeps his thumb on Phainon’s chin, resisting the urge to pinch the man’s cheek as hard as he could. Mydei succeeded for once, but he failed to languish the ceases between his brows. “Enough with your frivolous riddles.”
“But I’m not giving you any riddles, though?” Phainon tilts his head. “You can just call me Deliverer like usual. I don’t even remember the last time you called me by my name.”
But you are not our saviour anymore. The war and the mourning is finally over. The only way to get my lips smeared with blood is when I kiss you hard right now, right here. Mydei bites the inside of his cheek, feeling his face gradually getting warmer.
“What is your wish, then?” He speaks in a low voice, their mundane morning blankets them with colors like a dream. Pink skies. Shadows of their capes sway on the gray-cobbled street. The sun reflects on rooftops sparking like golden threads, “What do you want to be called from now on?”
It’s not what he really wants to ask, but Mydeimos thinks he could begin everything from there. His thumb traces Phainon’s cheek, completely disobeying the weak protests from his brain. The blue eyes that stare back at him waver like a wounded animal. Mydei tightens his lips; the rest of his words scatter like defeated soldiers on his tongue.
When Phainon finally touches his bare hand, with his food package slightly crumpled in his other hand, once again Mydei’s memories begin to flash in his mind.
This is the hand that doesn't hesitate to kill him in every cycle, but why does it feel so warm on his skin? Abruptly, he remembers soft lines on Phainon’s cheek after he accidentally fell asleep on his shoulder, on a sunny day when both of them had finished their patrol. Somehow, Phainon always starts with Mydei’s waist when he hugs him, and in every cycle he always hugs like a coward, his warmth quickly left him if Mydei dares to hug him back. Ah. Come to think again, what is it that he wants to ask Phainon this morning? What will happen to his gauntlets when he chooses not to use it anymore? Moreover, what else is left for them in this beautiful place, where the glory of Kremnos is finally free from the tears and blood of Strife—
Phainon closes his eyes as he brings Mydei’s hand to his warm cheek. Mydei counts from ten to zero, thinking about Phainon’s classic cowardice, but Phainon’s fingers just hold him tighter. His eyelashes paint a beautiful shadow on his reddened cheeks. For some reason, Mydei suddenly thinks about running away, borrowing Phainon's cowardice for a second, but Phainon holds his hand as if he’s afraid he’s just trapped in another endless cycle. Mydei feels the stings behind his eyes. He takes a step forward, letting his fingers sink into Phainon's cottony hair.
“Khaslana,” Phainon finally murmurs between Mydei’s bare fingers, “I’ve always wanted you to call me Khaslana.”