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Watching Phainon was, without a doubt, extremely pleasant.
Especially when he was finally, peacefully asleep, sprawled shamelessly across Mydei's lap, and Mydei — finally free from his playful teasing — could look his fill at Phainon.
At his hands, to be precise.
There was something about those hands that always drew Mydei's gaze — strong, narrow palms and that strange grace with which they moved. Strange because you rarely saw such a thing in a warrior.
Every bend of his joints, every light wave of his hand seemed blessed by Mnestia herself — sometimes Mydei thought that Aglaea's threads had gotten under Phainon's skin, because otherwise he couldn't explain where this compelling elegance came from.
Perhaps, in part, that was exactly it. After all, it was also part of the Deliverer's image. Aglaea's labors and Phainon's natural charm had sculpted him into what Okhema so desperately needed.
With these hands, Phainon addressed the people, raising them palms-up; with these hands, Phainon wrote letters to the Council, somehow managing to extract what Aglaea needed; with these hands, Phainon commanded attention during debates, predictably winning.
Strangely graceful, light and warm, like the rays of a real sun — long forgotten — people reached toward them in prayer, thousands of eyes gazed at them with hope.
That was how Okhema knew these hands. That was how Mydei often saw them.
But Mydei also saw how bloody rot spread in ugly stains across that fair skin whenever something terrible — and magnificent in its deadliness — broke through Phainon's feigned softness.
The hard, unwavering grip of a warrior — so different from the dainty palm-waves the Deliverer generously bestowed upon those who sought him — was far more familiar to Mydei.
The strength of those hands amazed Mydei to the point of foolishness — his heart skipped a beat, he nearly forgot how to breathe, whenever he saw Phainon raise his sword with the same ease with which he petted chimeras in the Garden or ruffled children's hair. Mydei, of course, was no poet, but something ridiculously lofty would sometimes force its way to his lips.
Fortunately, he could still control his foolish mouth. Phainon would surely latch onto him with all the determination of a clingy dog if Mydei ever decided to blurt out something about the beauty of his hands.
A mole on his pinky finger — which Phainon would bite when lost in thought, poring over documents or bending over some old vase — a small, silly habit that, for some reason, reminded Mydei of a dog trying to catch its own tail; calluses from constant training and endless battles; old scars, barely visible thin lines etched into his skin.
All of this belonged to Phainon — and Mydei loved every mole, every callus, every scar with the same unwavering devotion.
Perhaps that was why he could barely contain his irritation every time Aglaea circled around those features — imperfections — persistently trying to erase them. Mydei had often watched as Phainon, with unhealthy determination, cut away everything that might interfere with his image as the Deliverer. Although they had met after the beginning of all this; whether unfortunately or fortunately, Mydei hadn't witnessed the period when Phainon first arrived in Okhema.
With all due respect to Aglaea — Mydei couldn't watch calmly as Phainon carved away yet another of his habits, as he sometimes obsessively applied cream to his hands, as if the scent of roses could erase the traces of tense battles and long, arduous work from his skin.
It was unfair, it was so outrageously unfair. Oh, Mydei knew why all of this was necessary — Phainon had to convince the people with his mere flawless, serene presence, to strengthen their faith in a radiant tomorrow — but that didn't make it any easier.
Only worse — especially because he saw that it actually worked on people.
His own hands, encased in massive gauntlets, people feared. Chimeras hadn't immediately allowed his fingers — unused to tenderness and therefore ridiculously clumsy — to touch them; children in the early days only stared from afar, both afraid and wanting to touch the unfamiliar Okheman patterns on the gleaming metal; Council members still didn't shake his hand, and the market vendors had only recently stopped flinching nervously if they accidentally brushed against him.
His hands — the hands of a warrior, the hands of a mad Kremnoan, the hands of Strife itself — were drenched in blood up to the elbows. Dirty, terrible, deadly, capable only of endless destruction and defilement — Mydei listened to the gossip about the terrifying deformities and curses he hid under his gauntlets, and lazily wondered when they would finally tire of talking about it. Seriously, he'd appeared in public without gauntlets so many times — and with completely ordinary human hands!
So — yes, he understood more than well why Phainon did all of this.
And again — it didn't get any easier.
Phainon, as if sensing even in sleep these dark thoughts, stirred in Mydei's lap — Mydei gently touched his face, combing back his disheveled hair.
"Not tired of staring yet?" Phainon mumbled indistinctly, tilting his head toward Mydei's hand and looking at him from under his lashes — more out of sleepy reluctance to open his eyes than an attempt to make his usual playful face.
"At you? Never," Mydei replied seriously, flicking Phainon's nose — he snorted and squeezed his eyes shut, the sight ridiculous.
"Dearest Mydeimos," he began fidgeting more actively, fully waking up — titans, no peace with this man, "my love," he sat up, gazing into Mydei's eyes with fervor, " my pretty kitten," Mydei's cheek twitched in indignation — Phainon's face spread into a nasty smirk, "tell me honestly. Did Mnestia hit you over the head?"
"I'm going to hit you over the head in a second," Mydei snapped back, pushing that stupid face away from him.
What an insufferable creature. Mydei came to him with all tenderness, faithfulness, eternal love, and he...
Jokes aside, it really was a problem — as it happened, Phainon avoided compliments with suspicious frequency. He accepted all of Mydei's punches and kicks during their sparring matches with far greater pleasure than tenderness and sweet nonsense from him.
Every compliment Phainon deflected into a joke, every admiration into irritating mimicry, every confession into awkward mockery.
Just like now.
Mydei wasn't particularly eloquent, and his nature demanded action over words — which Phainon accepted more willingly, though still grudgingly — but nevertheless. Kremnoans, while not known for saccharine speeches, preferred to express their feelings openly, so Mydei was never shy about speaking them.
And in those moments, something inside Phainon always broke. Mydei knew exactly what was going on in that disheveled, troublesome head — Phainon had somehow gotten it into his head that he didn't deserve any of this. His eyes sometimes held a strange surprise and disbelief whenever Mydei tried to say something again. It was a little insulting — he never, absolutely never hid his feelings, he had been utterly honest from the start, but still...
Still, this was what happened — Mydei would confess his eternal love and unshakable devotion, and Phainon would sneer, as if something would fall off him if he just accepted it.
"Oh, Kephale, look upon your unfortunate child!" Phainon clutched his heart theatrically, collapsing back onto Mydei's lap. "I'm in a relationship with an actual tyrant!"
Well, he was even a little bit right.
Mydei sighed, grabbed that menace by the face — like the jaw of a chimera that had stolen something inedible — turned it toward himself. He gazed into those insolent — beautiful, bright, bottomless — eyes. Phainon himself went still, not daring to look away.
"Kephale would go blind if he dared to look upon you," Mydei declared solemnly, holding Phainon firmly in his grip — already ready to catch him if he tried to twist away, "for you shine brighter than the sun, and your eyes eclipse the very sky above Okhema."
Mydei had composed this nonsense — truth, essentially, but sounding disgustingly ridiculous — with extreme diligence, together with Chartonus. Then he had proudly shown it to their friends: Cipher had laughed louder than politeness allowed, and Castorice, awkwardly covering her smile with her hand, offered her help if — or, well, when — he ever decided to do this again. Aglaea… well, she liked it. Mydei, at least, chose to believe so.
There was plenty of romance in these speeches, to say the least.
"Mydeimos," Phainon began slowly — his lips trembling strangely, as if trying to hold back a smile — or a scream of horror, "what is this..."
"Kissed by Mnestia," all the vulgar pomposity of the address somehow evaporated from his voice; the mockery sounded too tender to remain mockery. Phainon's face grew amusingly long — Mydei took more and more delight in this, loosening his grip on his jaw, "even the last tyrant would bow his head before your beauty."
Those hands — those wonderful, gentle, and firm hands — suddenly rose to Mydei, cupped his face, and pulled him down. He leaned forward obediently — his braid sliding across the gold on Phainon's neck as he moved.
"By Nikador's sake, shut up," Phainon begged, covering his own smiling lips with his palm — Mydei pressed a brief kiss to it.
"Even Nikador himself..."
"I get it, I get it," the pleading turned into an irritated hiss in an instant — Mydei couldn't help but smile even wider, "Mydeimos," — his full name, and for the third time already! "what's gotten into you?"
Mnestia had hit him over the head, that's what.
"I hadn't planned on showing you the drafts of our wedding vows so early, but you've forced my hand," Mydei turned up his nose and — Titans, when had he managed to absorb some of Phainon's theatricality? Bad influence. Krateros had been right.
"Our what?"
And Phainon — being a mature, grown man — certainly did not squeak like a frightened chimera just now. No, no, he merely expressed his confusion politely. That was all.
"Our wedding vows, you deaf fool," Mydei replied peacefully — even too peacefully. At Phainon's squeak — ah, apologies, at the soft expression of confusion — his heart somehow felt warmer.
That's how it always happened when Phainon was near — when he smiled his stupid, sly smile, when he raised his eyebrows, when he lifted a gaze shining with tenderness, when...
Phainon simply needed to exist, and Mydei could breathe more easily.
"Is this you proposing to me? Ugh, so unromantic," one of his hands slid down Mydei's cheek, traced his throat, and stopped at his braid, slowly winding it around his finger and gently tugging, "I thought you'd challenge me to a fight and court my hand in front of all of Okhema for at least a week!"
Fool, an absolute fool. Mydei couldn't even be angry or curse at him — one of Phainon's hands was still on his cheek. Against all his reputation, Mydei was, in truth, an extremely weak man when it came to Phainon.
So now, he simply took Phainon's palm in his own, squeezing those strangely graceful yet strong fingers, and turned his head to leisurely kiss them. The urge to sink his teeth into them was overwhelming.
"Incredible. Sounds very familiar," Mydei said dryly.
"No, no, you don't understand," Phainon waved his hand impatiently, releasing the braid from his fingers and miraculously managing not to hit Mydei in the forehead. Mydei sighed heavily — a moment ago, this monster had squealed in embarrassment and almost, almost blushed, and now — here you go. About to say something stupid again. "That fight doesn't count!"
And now he dared to call their magnificent battle — memories flashing in Mydei's mind of that shameless, trembling smirk, of disheveled hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, of blood, spilling like gold beneath them — "that fight."
"We fought for ten days," Mydei said slowly, very, very slowly, stubbornly guiding Phainon's hand back into his hair, "and ten nights."
"Yep," Phainon's lips spread into a smile — sinister and smug — and his gentle touch didn't match his expression at all, "and we ended in a draw."
Mydei sighed in defeat, fighting the urge to blissfully close his eyes as Phainon gently traced his fingers along the back of his neck.
"It doesn't count because you didn't beat me!"
So that was it. That's what this restless creature wanted. He was waiting to be thrown onto the dusty ground of a ruined training ground and claimed as his — what did he say? ah, yes — in front of all of Okhema, was it? Mydei was almost certain he'd read something like that in a book that Phainon himself had slipped him.
"I understand," with a feigned thoughtfulness that made him wonder where on earth he'd picked it up, — Mydei nodded, "you want me to thoroughly beat you up first, then throw you over my shoulder and carry you off as my trophy, because that's exactly what barbarians do with their beloveds."
"Yes! No, wait, not like that..."
All the smugness slid off his face in an instant — Phainon stared uncertainly into the eyes before him. Mydei couldn't hold back — he snorted and burst out laughing.
"Kremnoans aren't wild conquerors. Ritual fights with beloved ones aren't conquest," — impatience flickered in Phainon's blue eyes — of course, Phainon knew Kremnoan philosophy better than anyone, there was no point in lecturing him, but… "we fight for the right to call ourselves equal to our chosen one. But if the chosen one makes such strange... demands," impatience in his eyes flared into indignation — how ridiculous he was "then what can I do? As a responsible fiancé, I'll have to fulfill them."
The gentle grip in his hair grew firmer — Phainon grabbed the light strands, forcing Mydei to lean back down toward him.
"Titans, you're absurd," Mydei expected indignation, flustered excuses, or yet another inappropriate attempt at a sneer, but Phainon just looked at him so piercingly, with such burning love, that Mydei suddenly lost all his thoughts, — "no man in my life has ever tried to propose to me in such an unromantic way."
Mydei, still entranced by that intense, hot gaze, answered the first thing that came to mind:
"You've had other men try to propose to you?"
Light lashes trembled with laughter.
"No. You're the only one special enough."
Warm, dry lips pressed to his nose, making a loud smacking sound — Mydei squinted in displeasure, and Phainon laughed again, kissing his cheek.
"Tomorrow," Mydei declared, while Phainon diligently kissed all over his face, "I'm going to challenge you to a fight. And I will court your hand for ten days and ten nights in front of all of Okhema — if, of course, you don't give up sooner."
"Don't even dream of it," Phainon perked up, "I'll obliterate you so thoroughly that Krateros will have to scrape your face off the ground."
Something hot swelled in Mydei's chest — he knew Phainon would accept the challenge, knew he wouldn't hold back, knew he wouldn't dream of giving up until the very end.
An equal, honest fight, where Mydei would prove himself worthy to stand beside Phainon until the end of their days — and that was all he had ever wanted.