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These days, their mornings unfold like a well-read story.
The budding dawn peeks through half-shut curtains, its gentle rays of sunshine cast them into soft relief against the clean sheets of their bed—three figures tangled together, limbs intertwined and bodies only half-covered by the blanket.
Phainon rests at the center of the embrace, the cheerful glow of his countenance softening into a calm, content smile as he nestles his face into the mane of Mydei's hair. To his left, Mydei's mouth hangs slightly open, steady snores rippling through the rise and fall of his chest. There is none of his usual tense gruffness to be found here, no furrowed eyebrows or clenched jaw—only the unguarded ease that came with peaceful repose. On Phainon's other side, the morning light melts away the impassiveness etched onto Anaxa’s face. His mouth is parted, just slightly, enough to let a faint trace of drool escape past his lips.
In a few minutes, Phainon will wake, carefully extricating himself from his lovers' embrace to brush his teeth. Mydei will follow soon after, blinking awake with a soft grumble when he finds that Phainon isn't in bed anymore. Then, much later, Anaxa. They'll bid their murmured good mornings to each other, voices low and still rough with sleep's influence, before settling into their routines, weaving past each other through the rooms of their apartment like they'd choreographed their actions to fit like puzzle pieces.
Mydei will head to the kitchen to start on their breakfast, while Phainon lingers behind to tidy up the bedroom and let the rest of the sunlight in. Anaxa will disappear into the bathroom, off to take a shower and clean off the bit of crusted drool sitting on the seam of his mouth.
Outside their warm bubble, the world is waking up with them, the air humming with the quiet rhythm of morning life. The morning is something of a cycle, as well, but it is a far kinder one than anything else they'd already been through. For the next hour, they'll do the same things that they did yesterday and the days before that, and they'll do it over and over again as they head onwards to the future they've been building for themselves.
What a wondrous idea, the future.
Phainon slips out of the bedroom at the same time that Anaxa steps out of the bathroom, towelling his still-damp hair as they both converge in the kitchen, where the sizzle of eggs on an oiled pan reigns king in Mydei's deft hands. Mydei has a pink apron over his bare chest—something originally bought for a practical joke—his flame-like tattoos peeking from behind frilly cotton. Anaxa ambles past Phainon, neatly hanging the damn towel on a rack before pressing a swift kiss to Mydei's cheek and settling beside the kitchen counter.
Phainon pauses at the threshold between hallway and kitchen for a heartbeat, taking in the sights and sounds as if they would all crumble away like dust if he blinked for even a moment. He's almost scared that they might. That he'll return to all those painful cycles, and this idyllic normalcy was nothing more than a long, long dream conjured up by an aching soul.
Just a heartbeat, and then he joins them, bare feet padding against the hardwood floor.
He takes his seat beside Anaxa, just as he does every day, leans against his shoulder and breathes in fresh mint, and admires the strong visage of Mydei's back while he works the pan with ease.
Later, just as he does every day, Anaxa will tell Phainon to stay seated as he helps Mydei set the table. Later, just as they do every day, the three of them will eat together, knees bumping against each other as their topics of conversation drift from vague ideas to nothing at all. Later, maybe they'll go and be heroes again, break the blissful refrain of their domesticity and splinter off into their own stories for a while.
For now, however, the morning belongs to them.