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The sun is delving under the horizon by the time the battle ends. It is Phainon who comes to him first, as Mydei is checking the bodies of the fallen titankin to ensure their deaths. The chances of any of them surviving the two of them in all their swift brutality is low, but it never hurts to be safe.
“All in one piece?” Phainon asks, coming to prod him with the tip of a finger that Mydei hardly feels through the metal of his pauldron.
Mydei turns to him, catching his wrist before he can go for another prod and tilting his head in an unamused fashion. “Naturally.” He lets his own gaze roam over Phainon's sturdy figure, clothes a little disheveled from the battle. “And you?”
Phainon smiles, in the pleased, almost sly way that he usually does. “Fine enough, now that it's over.”
Mydei can't seem to see anything that contradicts the statement, so he releases Phainon's wrist with a nod, casting his eyes to the sky. It's too late to travel back to the city now, and too dangerous to move in the dark. “We should leave.”
“Whatever the prince insists,” Phainon says lightly. Mydei swats half-heartedly at him, withholding the urge to roll his eyes. He waits for Phainon to hilt his greatsword on his back before he begins moving, westwards towards a cluster of old ruins they had passed earlier. They’ll make fine enough cover for the night, and Phainon seems to catch quickly onto Mydei’s train of thought given how he follows without question.
By the time they make it to said ruins, the orange in the sky has faded to a deep, dark blue, and stars are twinkling already against the backdrop. The adrenaline thrumming through his blood has finally calmed thanks to the mundanity of traveling, along with the lighthearted quips of his companion. He leaves Phainon sheltered between two dilapidated walls to conduct a quick perimeter check, ensuring there are no enemies nearby before they properly settle.
When he returns, Phainon is aglow in a warm orange from the light of a newly made campfire, his sword leaned against the wall beside him and his jacket draped over his crossed legs as he prods at a spot on his left side.
Mydei pauses for all of a second before he stomps over, scowling. “You said you were fine.”
Phainon blinks and looks up. “Oh, welcome back,” he says, though Mydei is already dropping to his knees to snatch Phainon’s wrist and yank it away from the spot of interest. “Ah—hey, really, I am fine. Hardly a scratch.”
When Mydei peers there himself, he sees a hint of red beginning to bleed through the white fabric of Phainon’s undershirt. His scowl grows deeper and he moves his gaze upwards to meet Phainon’s somewhat amused, somewhat fond stare. “Liar.”
“Now that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Phainon protests. Mydei lets him go and moves to begin undoing his gauntlets, allowing Phainon to pull his undershirt over his head, revealing the defined muscles of his torso, the finely carved lines of his chest; the product of his many hours of training and battle.
He pulls the first gauntlet off, sets it on the earth with the soft clinking of metal. The other comes off easier with his now free hand, and he sets it beside the first before reaching to his belt, pulling a vial of healing oil that he had brought along. It is not the sort of thing he regularly puts to use himself, but with Phainon accompanying him, he thought it better to be safe. He is glad for his foresight now.
Phainon is smiling when Mydei shifts over, knees planted in the ground. Phainon raises his arm wordlessly to allow Mydei access to his side. “It really is just a scratch, you know. I only started to feel it a minute ago.”
“Shut it,” Mydei grumbles.
He yanks the cork out of the vial and produces a folded cloth from his robes, something he typically uses to wipe blood off his hands after battle. Now, he pours a healthy dose of the oil onto it, wrinkling his nose slightly at the pungent smell of crushed herbs. When he peers at the wound proper, he does see that Phainon’s words are not unfounded. It’s a shallow wound all things considered, bleeding sluggishly and hardly deep enough to break skin.
Still.
“You’re reckless,” he says. Phainon is the hero of Amphoreus, and because of that he cannot afford to be so careless about himself. He wipes away the blood and presses the cloth against the wound firmly. Phainon, to his credit, does not even flinch. “If it were poison, you’d already be dead.”
“You and I both know that those titankin didn’t have any properties of the sort,” Phainon snorts. “And if they did, I would have been more careful about coming into contact with them. In fact, you probably would’ve been my first worry.”
“I’ve no use for your worry,” Mydei says. It’s true that his manner of fighting lends itself to closer combat than Phainon’s, given the hero's penchant for swords as opposed Mydei’s own need for nothing but his hands, but he is hardly that unskilled, and beyond that he is Mydeimos the Undying. Practically immortal.
“I suppose not,” Phainon agrees. When Mydei looks up, that pair of icy blue eyes is already fixed on him, softened even more by the gentle light of the crackling fire. “Yet you seem to remain on my mind nevertheless.”
It is said so tenderly that suddenly the warmth on his skin is not just from the flames at his back. Mydei flicks his gaze away, back down to the wound. When he peels the cloth off, he is satisfied to see that the bleeding has stopped. With the healing oil's effects, it should mend itself quickly.
Phainon lowers his arm, curls it around Mydei instead to slide cool fingers beneath the long hairs on the back of his head and cup his nape.
His skin is always so cool, as opposed to the smoldering warmth that Mydei always seems to emit. Blunt nails scratch against him until Mydei relents, raising his eyes once more. The corners of Phainon's mouth tick upwards when they meet eyes, always with that tint of playfulness.
“Useless flirt,” Mydei mutters. Yet he still allows Phainon to pull him closer, pressing their lips together in a manner entirely unbefitting of the one pursuing the Coreflame of Strife.
Phainon kisses him softly. Tenderly, as he always does after they come out of any sort of battle. He pulls Mydei closer and closer, forcing him to lean over him with a hand planted on the ground for purchase, the other finding its way to the smooth planes of his waist. Skin to skin. He curls his fingers and drinks in the hum that rumbles in the back of Phainon's throat, feels the faintest tug on his robes when a hand fists into the crimson fabrics over his arm.
“Mydei,” Phainon sighs into the minimal space between their lips when they part for the briefest of moments. Caressing the back of his neck, pulling him closer and closer until Mydei all but cages him against the soft earth, Phainon's legs spreading around him. “Mydeimos,” he purrs before Mydei kisses him again, frustration bleeding into the way he nips at Phainon's bottom lip and slips his tongue into his mouth.
He tastes better than even the sweetest wine. Like something divine, something worth worshipping. Mydei could never grow weary of having him like this, soft and pliant and wanting beneath him. So easy, leaning into his touch and chasing the press of his lips.
Phainon lets out a shuddering exhale when Mydei draws back again. His skin is flushed red and his mouth taking on a shade not far off, spit-slicked and beginning to swell already. It is a sight that not even the most skilled of artists could recreate in their wildest dreams, and Mydei is the crown prince of Kremnos yet even this feels like something his eyes are undeserving of, something holy that his bloodstained hands must not touch for fear of ruining it beyond repair.
An enticing thought as much as it is the exact opposite. Ruining Phainon, the prized hero of Amphoreus, the vessel of humanity's hopes and dreams. The idea of it makes Mydei's mouth water with temptation at the same time that he wants nothing more than to cherish the man with every inch of his rotten, unworthy heart.
Phainon makes a pleased sound when he leans in again for another kiss, though it tapers off into a gasp when they part and Mydei attaches his lips to the sharp edge of Phainon's jaw instead, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses that delve down the smooth, untouched skin of his neck. He skims over the soft leather of the choker, finds his way to the golden sun marking so often hidden by the high collar of Phainon's coat.
Phainon squirms when his tongue darts out to drag over the skin. The hand on Mydei's neck wanders higher, nails scratching against his scalp when he takes a fistful of his hair. Tugging softly, drawing a rumble from the depths of his chest before he pulls Mydei’s head down impossibly further until the press of his teeth can be felt.
“Please,” Phainon breathes, the word tickling through the hairs by his ear. The idea that Phainon wants the evidence of Mydei on his body is enough to send tingles of delight through all the nerves of his body. So Mydei does not hesitate when he parts his lips and digs his teeth into Phainon's perfect skin.
He does not bite hard enough to taste blood, but it is a sharp sting nevertheless that makes Phainon jerk beneath him, arching up with a breathless moan and a hand clawing at Mydei's shoulder. Mydei draws away and presses his lips to the indent just as fast, until he knows that it is going to bruise and only then does he cease, dragging his tongue over the forming mark and rubbing circles into Phainon's hip until he relaxes back into the grassy earth.
When Mydei leans back properly, he observes his work. It'll likely be hidden almost entirely under Phainon's coat in the morning, but it is enough for him to know that it is there at the very least.
Phainon himself is disheveled, even more so than he had been in the aftermath of the battle. His hair mussed, falling into his eyes as he pants softly, thighs still hooked around Mydei's waist.
“Done already?” he chuckles breathlessly. “The night is still young, dear prince.”
“You are insatiable,” Mydei grumbles. But when Phainon raises his arms, beckoning him to return like some sort of bewitching siren, he is helpless to resist. Helpless to deny Phainon anything. And it is then that Mydei knows Phainon has all the power to be his undoing; he would follow this man into countless battles, all the way to the ends of the planet if he so wished.
This is a war that Mydeimos the Undying has already lost, and there is little point in trying to turn the tides now. Thus he allows himself to be coaxed down into Phainon's waiting arms, the soothing chill of his body, back to the golden sun marking that seems to glint at him in the light cast by the flames. Always managing to pull him back again.
There are worse orbits to be caught in, Mydei supposes.