Chapter Text
“First to get to the Bacchanal's wins” the sound of hurried footsteps hit his ears way before the voice did, even within the noisy Okheman market. Another day, another competition.
Even if the upbeat voice of Okhema's very own golden boy hadn't been so intimately familiar to him the challenge itself would have given him no doubt of who he was dealing with, pushing his buttons has never been on many people's agenda. Only one fool would always dare challenge him, only one fool would always be capable of roping him along with his shenanigans without fail and today too would be no different, dancing along to the other's whims.
“Loser offers” he shouts back as if they hadn't done this tens of times before, terms already carved in stone.
They quickly switch to the roofs to avoid the crowd and consecutively the disasters that came with the first times around where Aglaea punished them to four days of public service and the race continues, not without a fair share of dirty tricks courtesy of his one and only HKS.
“Aha–behold! Tonight's rightly rewarded freeloader!” the scent of alcohol was still around despite being quite early, the clinking of glasses resounding and being an apt background noise to the declaration, many of the patrons looking at the door flung open by the histrionic man in a practised fashion “Ayah, old Eudoxos, ear that? Hope you have enough in stock!” The frequent visitors all knew this song by heart, and in fact you could see some exchanging money, one of them even updating an inconspicuous tablet hung on the eastern wall.
“You got guts boasting about a victory steeped in dishonour, Deliverer” the blond man crosses his arms with a mocking tone “Ah, you know how it is in love and war~” the other man extend his hand as if reciting, eyes closed, before brusquely opening them to stare him with, as if seriously thinking about something important “But I feel quite hurt that you still can't remember my name Mydeimos, is «Deliverer» really all you remember? I don't think it's such an apt nickname, or are you having memory problems due to old age? ” there it is. And Phainon almost manages to look serious for the whole sentence, would it not be for his voice cracking and the crinkles in his eyes towards the end “I think it's quite apt, every day, every time you deliver an headache straight to my cranium” the so implied ‘old man’ deadpans; they have arrived at their booth by now, the crowd is less noisy but the smell of alcohol hits a spike and more and more people recognize and greet them.
“Lord Phainon! Lord Phainon! Won't you consider this old friend o’ yours, I still need to offer ya a few amphorae worth of wine” the young man was around 20, with the build of a warrior and quite drunk, a not too abnormal sight during Phagousa's month.
Everyone knew that Phainon was one of the most approachable Chrysos heirs, the perfect behaviour for the perfect PR for the perfect vessel, hence the familiarity most displayed–from the sellers to the guards to the everyday citizen–not as much, though as the inebriated young man at this point practically leaning on him, decorum be damned.
The smell of alcohol and sweat was overwhelming and he really didn’t lack any moving shoulder accessories so Phainon raised his head to excuse himself a second, if anything to appease the barely standing drunkard and send him to his table, his eyes didn't meet his companion's though. Mydei was looking at the arm around his shoulder as if it had personally insulted him, like if it didn't disappear in seconds he would break it himself, 'twas quite fortunate the soldier was too far gone too notice, lest they have a heart attack victim on their conscience and a spread of rumours about how cantankerous the crown prince truly is.
Uh, could it be? Suddenly he was reminded of all the people he used to talk with at the market that stopped being touchy-feely when they were together and a theory that tasted more like hope formed at the back of his head.
He didn't want to be hasty, and maybe his own desires were just clouding his judgement, but maybe he could test it a bit. He quickly got rid of the doormat shaped drunkard on his shoulder and promised him to come back in a few days. When he came back the drinks had arrived and his companion looked more relaxed if not a bit irked.
“Well then, my dear Mydeimos, since I'm very generous, how about a rematch, who drinks faster! Loser pays next time's tab!” he announced sitting back down “What game are you playing at?” the man narrowed his eyes trying to read whatever prompted that unusual challenge, they both knew they didn't drink much on normal days, he couldn't help but be suspicious of the craftiness hidden within that friendly façade “Oh? Whatever would l play at? I just thought I could give our poor loser an opportunity to win at least once” he shrugged innocently “But I guess I get it, losing twice in a day would really be soul crushing for you, right?” He knew exactly what buttons to push to get a reaction, call it being in tune with Mydei, call it being his own natural talent, every time, just like today he would just have to wait to see it and hear it, that fire in his eyes blazing with the strength of a thousand suns and the most determined and oh so satisfying “You're on”
The plan was simple: purposely drink a bit slower so that Mydei gets drunk while he stays sober, that way he can use a drunk man's truth in exchange for answers.
Competitive spirit be damned, he was getting these answers!
“What? Slowing down already?” the prince mocked between glasses. Don't fall for provocation, remember the plan. “Don't worry, since I'm paying you can drink your sorrow away later, you can cry however” Onlookers swear that at that moment the sound of a lyre's string breaking resounded through the busy kapeleion, clear as the seemingly everlasting day of the Holy City and as powerful as thunder, shattered only by an half-chocked “You-!” as Okhema's great Saviour [1]violently regained drinking momentum.
And had any coherent thought graced his head the maxim would have been but one: plan be damned.
An incense stick time later a feast's worth of empty cups adorned the table and the two Chrysos Heirs were keeping themselves from laying half-sprawled on the table with sheer willpower, they battled fiercely, unfortunately in the heat of challenging stares and provocative words they had both forgotten how many cups they'd each drank.
“In conclusion: I obviously won” slurred the swordsman, first to succumb to gravity, accepting the sticky embrace of the wooden table “that cup was drunk by yours truly” they had been arguing over every cup in an alternating game of prosecution and defence, missing all but an «Objection!» to complete the trial.
“Keep dreaming, Deliverer, were you not blind you would notice that the cup is cracked, I obviously did that and because of you nonetheless” the Kremnoan prince was still barely standing, still with both arms conspicuously on the table, the infuriating taunting grin he'd been subjected to still fresh in his mind “ Oh? Were you really so enraptured by my grandeur that your hand slipped?”
"Tch, as if, you—" he nearly bolted, Phainon had raised his head the slightest and had started playing with his gauntlet-ed hand with a nearly mesmerised look on his flushed face
"Can you… let me try it?"
And if Mydei was a stronger man he could have at least entertained the thought of refusing him, but alas…
A drowsy Phainon put on the gauntlet and used the newly clawed index finger to trace the other's chin, leaning in the crown prince's space unabashedly "I always wanted to see how your colours would look on me…" he drawled, beholding the golden hues and the sharpness of the claws.
Then Mydei had the first sober thought from when he arrived at this Titans-forsaken kapaleia: he needs to get out of here.