Archive of Our Own

Five days after the incident, Hyacine finally summons him to the infirmary. Her text is cryptic and vague. Mydei scowls at his teleslate as he walks, studying the words. Phainon is being released, Hyacine’s message reads. His curse has yet to be remedied. I have judged him ready to return to normalcy regardless. Please offer him your support as he deals with the remnants of the curse.

It makes no sense, Mydei thinks, as he pushes open the door. Why would Hyacine agree to release him if the curse is still in place? He was there when Phainon got cursed—it was awful. Mydei had to carry a delirious, strengthless Deliverer all the way back to Okhema. He kept trying in vain to struggle free of Mydei’s hold, like he was being kidnapped by a stranger rather than taken home by his dearest rival.

What a fucking idiot. Mydei misses him. Misses him like he misses the water of the Sea of Souls burning in his lungs. It’s only been five days.

“Mydei,” Hyacine says, sounding at once both relieved and apprehensive. “Thanks be to Kephale for your presence. Let me take you to him—he’s just in the garden.”

“I thought he’d be in a sickbed.”

Hyacine’s mouth flattens out. “He’s not ill, exactly. Physically, he’s perfectly fine.”

“A mood-altering curse?” He did seem out of spirits when Mydei took him back. Perhaps their ever-optimistic Deliverer has been struck down by a curse of depression?

“…Not quite. His mood is fine as well.”

Mydei frowns. “Then what is wrong with him? Why have you kept him away from m—from Okhema for five days?”

The lines around Hyacine’s eyes deepen. She leads him to a bench in the garden, where, sure enough, Phainon is sitting.

Mydei breathes a sigh of relief. It’s really him. He’s even sitting with that dumb perfect posture and those crossed legs. It’s his Deliverer, alright. He moves to approach the bench, when—

Hyacine places a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Mydei turns back around.

“You should know,” Hyacine says softly, an edge of hesitation in her voice. “You should know, he thinks—well, that is to say, he thinks that—”

“Mydeimos!”

Mydei whirls back around. Phainon is standing there in his full glory, his Deliverer’s armor and his chivalrous expression and his glorious greatsword. The light of Kephale bends to his will, falling on him like it was made solely to illuminate his radiance.

“In the flesh,” Mydei says, suppressing a horrendously fond smile. “Are you alright now, or do you need me to carry you across the threshold of your quarters?”

Phainon walks right up to him with full confidence. “Mydeimos,” he says. “I want a divorce.”

Mydei blinks. “You want WHAT?”

***

So. Phainon has lost his memory.

Aglaea and Hyacine have spent the past five days explaining the basic history and structure of Okhema, and for the most part Phainon’s pieced-together recollection is correct. The only discrepancy, as far as Mydei can tell, is…

“We’ve been married for about two years, obviously,” Phainon says, waving his hand in some indecipherable grand gesture. “The dressmaster said you arrived in Okhema four years ago, while I was in college. Which is ridiculous—I went to college? —but anyway, then we spent a year and a half courting—a respectable length, because you’re a prince, so obviously we’d have to take our time—and then we got married.”

Mydei feels lightheaded. He takes another long sip of wine and cringes. It isn’t sweet enough for him. But he really needs it, so here he is. “How did you manage to draw that conclusion?”

“It’s not hard,” Phainon says, leaning his elbow against the table. Mydei frowns. He never does that; he’s always the picture of politeness and composure. “Aglaea gave me the rundown on all the Chrysos Heirs, and you stuck out. Then, when Miss Hyacine showed me my quarters, I didn’t recognize them at all. The only possible conclusion is that someone else lives there with me. You. You live there with me. We’re married.”

Mydei rubs his temples, trying to dispel the building headache. “No, Phainon,” he says. “We are not married.”

“So you agree,” Phainon says, snapping his fingers like he’s made his point. “That we should get a divorce.”

“We were never married.”

“Then explain the decoration in my quarters!”

Mydei sighs into his glass. “You decorated them. You like all those fake relics.”

“Then the furniture?” Phainon says, louder than before. “Explain the furniture. It’s all horrendous. And my clothes? I don’t own a single piece of clothing that I would have chosen for myself.”

“Aglaea gave them to you. Because you can’t dress yourself presentably to save your life, you fucking idiot—”

“And Aglaea said we go to the hot baths together,” Phainon adds, even louder. “I hate hot baths! I get heatstroke! What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you make me go there?”

“You’re the one who suggests it!”

“But why?”

“They’re competitions.”

“I wouldn’t hurt myself for a dumb competition.”

“But you do. You go out of your way to compete with me.”

Phainon slams both hands down onto the table. “THIS,” he yells. “This is what I’m talking about. I’m clearly carrying this marriage all on my own.”

“We aren’t—”

“FOR THE LAST TIME, MYDEIMOS!”

Phainon is standing up now, both his hands braced on the table, his eyes lit up with passion. His shoulders are tense, an unfamiliarity in his posture.

“Don’t come home tonight,” Phainon says at last. And then he shoves the table away from him and stalks out of the restaurant.

Mydei sits at the table. He tips his glass to his mouth. It’s empty. His head is pounding. He hates alcohol.

Everyone in the restaurant is staring at him as he leaves, though they try, quite poorly, to hide it. He brings the payment to the front counter and plunks it down wordlessly.

“Trouble in paradise?” Kyros asks, counting out the coins.

“Something like that,” he mutters.

Kyros gives him a look. “You know Lord Phainon never means it when he tells you to stay away.”

Mydei sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

***

He shows up at Phainon’s quarters later that night with a shopping bag full of beef and vegetables in hand, and knocks thrice, two in quick succession and one a beat later. It’s their signal, the knock Phainon taught him so they’d always let each other in.

Phainon throws open the door with a huge smile. Then, upon seeing Mydei, it slips.

“That’s Cyrene’s secret knock,” he says quietly. “How did you know that?”

Mydei furrows his brow. “You told me to knock thrice so you’d recognize me.”

He exhales harshly, looking up at the ceiling. “Of course I did.” He opens the door further. “Well, come in.”

Mydei does. He takes off his boots by the door. The spot Phainon usually leaves for him is occupied with another pair of Phainon’s boots. Feeling a little slighted, Mydei puts his shoes to the left instead.

“At least you didn’t come empty-handed.” Phainon peers curiously at the bag in Mydei’s hands. “What is it? A gift? Do you apologize to me with rubies and sapphires? That must be why I’ve stayed with you all this time.”

Mydei doesn’t bother responding to the obvious provocation. He sets his groceries down on the kitchen counter. “Steak. The better cuts. Onions. Zucchini. Peppers. I’m making you dinner. And you never remember to eat fruit, so I brought an apple.”

Phainon’s eyes go wide. “I haven’t eaten fruit all day. How did you know that?”

“Of course you haven’t.” He grabs his favorite wooden cutting board and slices up one of the apples. “Here,” he says, sliding the cutting board and all the apple slices over to him. “Have some.”

Phainon smirks. “You’d think,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter next to him, “that my prince husband would have finer things to offer me than apple slices.”

“Take the damn fruit, Phainon.”

Phainon laughs. He takes an apple slice.

Mydei gets to work on cubing the steak. Phainon should have seasonings for the marinade already, so he didn’t bring any. Maybe he’ll add some onion for extra flavor.

“Look at that.” Phainon gestures to the cutting board and the knife block. “I wouldn’t own eight knives if I wasn’t married. I can’t cook at all.”

“Titans know it,” Mydei mutters, slicing the onion like it’s offended him. At least Phainon is self-aware. He tried to cook for himself, once, years ago. Mydei was angry with him for something or another and had made him an even worse meal than usual. Late that night he caught Phainon in the Marmoreal kitchens, making himself the most pathetic chicken he’d ever seen. Mydei scoffed, and then cooked him an entire feast fit for a king, just to make a point.

“So obviously I bought these for you.”

Mydei’s hand falters. Come to think of it, Phainon had bought the set of eight professional knives shortly after that incident. He’d shown them to Mydei proudly and asked if he liked them. At the time Mydei had thought Phainon was determined to learn to cook, starting with good equipment. Just another competition between them. But in retrospect, perhaps it was… a gift. A gift for him. Kept in Phainon’s own quarters.

To his chagrin, his face feels warm.

“The cutting board is mine,” Mydei says instead. “You stole it from me eight months ago. I should take it back—it’s my favorite one.”

“Take it back where?” asks Phainon, grinning. “You live here. With me.”

“I don’t. I have my own apartment.”

“Then obviously we switch,” he says. “We live here sometimes, and at your place sometimes. Is that where all my things are? At your place?”

Mydei scoffs. “No.” Then he actually thinks about it. “…Maybe a few things. Just some of your poetry books. And a few changes of clothes. And a second set of your sword oil and leather oil. Maybe an extra bottle of your shampoo.”

Phainon raises his eyebrows.

“Not all of your things,” Mydei says defensively. “Just… some of them.”

“You’re making a pretty bad argument here.”

Mydei pours vinegar into the marinade. He stares at the meat cubes and thinks about how many of Phainon’s possessions are stored with him, and how many of his own possessions with Phainon. About how odd it felt to live his Phainon-less life for just five days. “We’re not married,” Mydei says. “We aren’t.”

“Not for long, anyway,” Phainon says, licking apple juice off his index finger.

Mydei has never in his life seen Phainon do that. It makes his stomach feel odd. “Leave me alone,” he mutters, turning back to the marinade. “I’m cooking.”

***

“I don’t forgive you,” Phainon says, in between his third and fourth grilled meat skewer.

Mydei looks at him over the kitchen table. He frowns as he finishes his bite of zucchini. “For what?”

“For not letting me get a divorce.”

This again. Mydei sets down his skewer and exhales sharply. “Why do you keep making me say it? We’re not married. We have never been married. Neither of us have ever proposed marriage to the other. We aren’t romantically involved. We aren’t even dating.”

“Then why,” Phainon says, sharper than usual, “are you here?”

Mydei hesitates. Then he says, “Because I care for you.”

It’s the truth, but not the whole truth. The whole truth would involve telling Phainon about the gaping chasm in his heart. He can already feel that prophetic wound in his back, although it’s not yet there. He’s always known, in the back of his mind, who he wanted to deliver that blow. He’s known it since the moment he first admitted defeat to Phainon, when his eyes were sharp and they didn’t yet know how to live with one another. Dying at Phainon’s hands is a sweet fantasy. His greatest, most selfish desire.

Phainon looks at him sideways, like he knows something Mydei doesn’t. Even with his cursed memories, his piercing stare remains the same. “I know that,” he says eventually. “You wouldn’t have married me if you didn’t.”

Mydei is too tired to bother arguing. He slides the last piece of meat off his skewer and thinks about its wooden point. Even this tiny thing could kill him, were it placed in Phainon’s hands.

“You’re a prince,” Phainon continues, like he can hardly believe it. “You wouldn’t marry someone like me unless you cared for me.”

Mydei sets down the empty skewer. “Someone like you?”

“Someone unimportant,” he says simply. “A small-town farm boy with nothing to his name.”

The casual way he dismisses himself makes Mydei’s heart hurt. This is his rival, his equal. His only equal. “You do have something to your name. You’re the Deliverer. You’re Amphoreus’ hero.”

Phainon drops the meat onto his plate. He stares at Mydei with wide eyes. “What did you call me?” he whispers, his voice hoarse all of a sudden.

“Phainon.”

“Not that.”

“Deliverer?”

Phainon slowly sinks down into his chair. He laughs, dry and full of irony.

“What’s wrong?” Mydei asks. He reaches out for him, but thinks better of it just before they touch.

Phainon buries his face in his hands. He laughs and laughs until his voice dies in his throat, and all that’s left is the echo of his own shaking breath in his hands.

“Of course I am,” he says softly. “Of course I’m the Deliverer. I couldn't be just K—just myself, could I?” He looks up at Mydei, his eyes shining. His smile is wide as he says, “You wouldn’t love me if I weren’t.”

Mydei freezes.

Phainon looks at him with his smile and his tear-filled eyes. “I know,” he says gently, like he’s trying to comfort him. “It’s okay, Mydeimos.”

“I don’t,” he says, and then he cuts himself off. What can he say? That he doesn’t love Phainon? What an idiotic notion. They’d both know it was a lie, anyway. “I don’t know,” he says instead.

“It’s okay,” Phainon says again. In the chair, he curls his knees to his chest. “The Deliverer. Hero of Amphoreus. Married to a prince. It’s a good fate.”

Mydei stays silent. He knows well that Phainon’s fate is the heaviest of them all. He can see it hanging above him, sometimes: the weight of the world, just waiting to fall on his shoulders.

“It’s a good fate,” Phainon repeats. “Cyrene said it was a good fate.”

Mydei stands up and takes both their plates.

Phainon doesn’t follow him into the kitchen. Behind him, he thinks he hears a shuddering breath, a wet, ragged gasp. He lets the tap drown out the sound and washes the dishes.

When he’s done, he heads back to the table, half-expecting Phainon to be crying. But he’s sitting there just as strong as usual, his posture straight and his shoulders held high.

“I’ve changed my mind,” says Phainon. “You can stay here again.”

Mydei’s heart stutters in his chest. “I thought you didn’t forgive me?”

Phainon smiles, just a little. He looks exhausted. “I forgive you enough for this.”

***

Mydei wakes up to warm breath against his lips. He jolts awake and slams his forehead into something hard.

Phainon yelps.

Mydei mutters a halfhearted, dull curse in Kremnoan, blinking his eyes open blearily. “Sorry.”

Phainon grimaces, rubbing his forehead. “See if I ever try and do something nice for you again.”

“Something nice?” Mydei asks, bewildered. He sits up, his head still faintly stinging. “I’m a warrior. You can’t be two inches away from me while I’m asleep and expect me not to retaliate.”

“I was trying to kiss you awake.”

Mydei’s brain grinds to a halt. His face feels warm.

Phainon laughs, the pained grimace sliding away. “Is that unusual?”

“We don’t kiss,” Mydei tells him. “Because we’re not married.”

“Uh huh, and the sky is green.” He taps his finger against Mydei’s nose almost affectionately. “Get up. Aglaea said the professor’s going to look at me today and ask about the curse.”

The professor. Anaxa. He’s forgotten Anaxa, his favorite professor and beloved debate coach. If Mydei had any doubts about the curse’s effects before, they’ve all been dispelled. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.”

“I’ve got to go see the professor.”

“Have fun with that.”

Phainon sits down on his legs.

“OW,” Mydei groans, trying to kick his weight off. “You can’t just sit on me. You’re heavy, Deliverer.”

Mydei knows he’s messed up the minute the title slips out of his mouth. Phainon flinches minutely. He stands up without putting up a fight.

“I won’t call you that anymore,” Mydei says quickly. “I just—I do it sometimes. It’s not supposed to be cruel.”

Phainon looks at him with a wry smile. He opens his mouth.

“It’s because I believe in you,” Mydei says in a rush, before he can stop himself. “I call you that because I believe in you.”

Phainon closes his mouth.

Mydei has never told Phainon that before. He thought Phainon understood it subconsciously, the way Mydei understood that every time Phainon knocked him down, he would offer a hand to get back up. Then again, he thought he knew a lot about Phainon.

“You should come with me,” Phainon says eventually. “Since we’re—close, you can help me explain myself. Maybe you’ll even help me remember something.”

Mydei can’t refute that argument. Begrudgingly, he drags himself out of Phainon’s bed and searches for something to wear. He left a change of clothes at Phainon’s place a few weeks ago after a particularly intense spar. He finds them right where he left them, folded up in Phainon’s left-side drawers. Next to them are another two pairs of pants that he doesn’t remember leaving here. Maybe Phainon wore them once and forgot to return them.

As he pulls out the clothes, Phainon looks at him oddly. Then he says, “Aglaea told me you were with me when I got cursed.”

Mydei hums his confirmation. He strips off his sleeping clothes and starts putting on his pants.

“She said you carried me back,” Phainon says. “All the way to Okhema.”

“I did,” Mydei says. He’s a little surprised that Phainon isn’t turning around while he changes. “It was a pain in the ass, too. You were wearing full armor. And I carried back your greatsword.”

Instead of arguing with him, Phainon just smiles. “You wouldn’t do that for someone you didn’t love.”

Mydei stares at him.

“Come on,” Phainon says, already lacing up his boots by the door. “Let’s go.”

***

“So I did debate?” Phainon asks, practically skipping down the walkway leading to the Grove of Epiphany. “Cyrene always said I was sharp. Was I any good?”

“You were okay, I guess,” Mydei lies through his teeth. “I never saw you debate. I don’t know.”

“You do,” Phainon says, elbowing him in the side. “You do know. Don’t tell me—I was champion four times in a row, and you just don’t wanna admit defeat.”

“Ten,” Mydei corrects. “Ten consecutive championships.”

Phainon tips his head back and cackles.

“Don’t sound so smug about it,” Mydei grumbles. “If I had gone up against you, your record wouldn’t be so perfect.”

Phainon leans his head against his hands as they walk. “Why didn’t you go to college, actually? Aglaea told me almost every Chrysos Heir was educated at the Grove.”

Mydei closes his eyes. “I was busy.”

“Busy with what? Polishing your sword?”

“I don’t fight with a sword.”

“It was supposed to be an innuendo.”

Mydei opens his eyes again to glare at him. “I thought you were an innocent country boy.”

Phainon snorts. “Mydeimos, I know we’re married. I know what married couples do with one another.”

“I was busy helping my people settle into Okhema,” Mydei says pointedly, instead of thinking about what married couples do. Has Phainon— this Phainon, this pre-Deliverance version of him—laid next to him and imagined them making love? What a question. Mydei isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

“Oh.” Phainon kicks at a rock with his beautifully polished boot. When he reaches it again, a few steps later, he kicks it again. “I suppose being a prince isn’t all riches and glory, huh?”

“I’m barely even a prince,” Mydei admits, staring at the rock Phainon’s kicking. “Honestly, if we were married, people would think you were doing charity work.”

“With a body like that?” Phainon asks incredulously. “Have they seen you?”

Mydei glances up from the ground, surprised. “Most people think I look intimidating.”

“But you’re beautiful,” Phainon blurts. He walks right past the rock he’s been kicking without noticing it. “Surely you know that. You can’t go around looking like you’re the reason Kephale shines down upon this barren earth and—and not know that you’re gorgeous.”

Mydei huffs a laugh. “The reason Kephale shines? What the hell?”

Phainon’s face flushes brilliantly red. “It was just an example,” he mutters. “Obviously I think you’re beautiful. I married you. Surely I’ve spouted bad poetry about you before.”

He has, actually. Many times. One of the most frequent things Phainon demands after winning spars is for Mydei to listen to his latest composition. In the public bathhouse. With an audience. He writes terribly romantic epics about some grand lover and gestures evocatively in Mydei’s direction and sighs before falling into his arms. The public loves it. Mydei does not.

“I bet it was one of the things that charmed you,” Phainon says, grinning widely. “That’s why you’re all quiet now, isn’t it? You like my bad poetry.”

“I do not,” Mydei says, appalled. “My own library houses far better poetry than the nonsense you weave.”

“So I do write you love poems.”

Mydei pauses for that one fatal second. “Not love poems, exactly—”

“Hah! You hesitated! You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“I’m not lying,” Mydei lies, like a liar. “Shut up and try to pinpoint your last memory. We’re nearly there.”

Phainon gives one last dramatic, world-weary sigh, and then obediently shuts up. They make their way to the Grove’s main building in silence.

Anaxa is waiting for them in the reception hall, just inside the doors. His eye sharpens when he spots them. “Mydeimos,” he says, nodding cordially in greeting. Mydei nods back. “And… you. Who are you, again?”

Mydei frowns. Obviously he knows who Phainon is. He was Phainon’s debate coach for five years, and his teacher for even longer. But Anaxa is probably already investigating, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Ah, I’m Phainon,” he says, extending a hand. “You must be Anaxagoras?”

Anaxa raises his eyebrow. “That woman wasn’t lying. You’ve indeed had your memory impacted.”

Phainon slowly retracts his hand. “Were you looking for a certain answer?”

Anaxa’s smile looks almost sad. “Not particularly. It’s… a running joke between us. I always pretend not to know you, and you introduce yourself by some ridiculous—well, it’s not important now, I suppose.” He turns around. “My office is this way.”

Mydei usually avoids the interior of the Grove—it makes him feel out of place, seeing the education he never got—but this is an extenuating circumstance, so he follows Phainon into the office.

“So,” Anaxa says, sitting on top of his desk with his legs crossed. He looks at Phainon and puts his hands together. “Tell me what you recall. Not what Aglaea’s told you, but the last things you can clearly remember independently of her lessons.”

“I remember falling asleep at home,” Phainon says slowly. “I was in my hometown, Aedes Elysiae—a little farm village with wheat and wild bulrushes. It’s on a cliff overlooking the sea. Have I told you about it before? It’s really beautiful. I ought to take you there, Mydeimos. We could go in the Month of Weaving, when the heat isn’t—” Phainon suddenly cuts himself off, looking a little embarrassed. “Sorry, Professor. I got sidetracked.”

“Aedes Elysiae,” Anaxa repeats, something complex in his expression. “Can you recall anything after falling asleep? Anything about Okhema, or about your quest of Deliverance?”

Phainon’s jaw tightens. “I know about my destiny. The Deliverer. Cyrene told me about it years ago. I… didn’t want to believe her, at the time.”

Anaxa’s expression grows even stranger. “I’m sorry, Phainon,” he says quietly.

“Don’t be,” Phainon says, pasting on a lightless smile. “It’s a good fate. And I even get to be married to a prince!”

Anaxa’s focus returns abruptly. “To Mydeimos?” he asks. “You remember your wedding?”

Mydei’s face burns. “Professor,” he hisses. “There was no wedding. We are not married.”

Anaxa raises his eyebrows. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“See, this is what I’m saying!” Phainon throws up his hands. “It’s so obvious that we’re married. I mean, what else could possibly explain all of this? Everything about me is different now—my clothes, my lifestyle, my living space, even my damn name—”

Mydei freezes.

“Your name?” Anaxa asks, standing from the desk. “Phainon?”

Phainon’s mouth twists. “I know that name is mine,” he says softly. “But… it’s not the one I use. Used. At the time I remember.”

“Aglaea said when she met you, you introduced yourself as Phainon,” Anaxa says, frowning. He taps his fingers against his mouth. “This fits with your lack of memory of every Chrysos Heir. Memory loss curses usually fixate on one significant event in the victim’s life. Your last memory must be something between your ordinary life and the time when you chose that name.”

“If it helps,” Phainon says, “I think I also remember being carried in someone’s arms. A little after falling asleep, maybe? I thought it was a dream.”

“Fascinating,” Anaxa says, his eye widening. “Carried? By whom? Can you recall anything about it? Was it a loved one, a stranger, a—?”

Mydei coughs. “That was me.”

Anaxa visibly heaves a sigh. “Of course it was.” He leans against the desk again. “Where were you two when the curse hit?”

“Returning from a mission,” Mydei recalls. “Clearing refugees out of a fallen city four days’ travel outside of Okhema. We were about half a day away from Okhema when our group was attacked by black tide monsters. A few of the refugees knew magic—they were followers of Phagousa. They cast blessings upon us during the fight. We were easily victorious, and yet when I turned around, Phainon was on the verge of passing out.”

“Black tide monsters shouldn’t have such abilities,” Anaxa mutters, almost to himself. He turns around to the chalkboard behind him, staring at it like it holds the answers. He mutters some more for a few seconds, then whirls back around. “You said they were priests of Phagousa? Which sect?”

“I don’t know.”

Anaxa closes his eyes. “Give me time to think it over. Phainon—I hope to reunite you with your lost time soon.”

Phainon nods. “Thank you, Professor,” he says, though he looks considerably unhappier than he did beforehand. He doesn’t smile once on the entire journey back to Okhema.

***

“Why do you want a divorce, anyway?” Mydei asks, as he gathers all of his perishable ingredients from his pantry to move to Phainon’s kitchen. If he’s going to be living there, he might as well take them with him.

Phainon takes one of Mydei’s shopping bags and begins loading it with the vegetables on the counter. “It seems like a terrible marriage,” he says. “Aglaea said we regularly beat each other senseless. Hyacine said it’s unusual for you to be nice to me. Castorice said it’s a miracle you can tolerate me. Anaxagoras seemed surprised to see us together. You hate the way I like to dress. You apparently make me terrible meals when you’re angry with me.”

Mydei supposes all those things are true, to some extent. He picks up an apple from his fruit bowl, examining it for dark spots that might have formed in the two days he’s been away.

“And you won’t even let me kiss you.”

Mydei drops the apple in his hand.

“You didn’t let me,” Phainon repeats, his eyes intense. “This morning, when I tried to kiss you, you refused.”

“You weren’t really trying,” Mydei says, a little breathy. “I wouldn't have stopped you if you’d really tried.”

Phainon’s face is flushed faintly pink. “Yeah?” he asks. “How do I really try?”

“Like this,” Mydei says, and he takes Phainon’s face in his hands and kisses him.

Phainon’s face goes even brighter red. His hands brush Mydei’s waist, then tentatively hold onto him. Phainon’s fingers are cold against his skin. It makes a shiver run up his spine.

Mydei lets go of his face. He draws a reasonable distance away. “If you had done that,” he says, feeling a little stupid, “I would have let you kiss me as much as you wanted.”

He tries to go back to the vegetables on the counter. Phainon’s grip on his waist tightens.

Mydei huffs and turns back to him. “What now?”

Phainon looks at Mydei strangely, his eyes murky, unreadable. “As much as I wanted?”

“Hm,” says Mydei, because he didn’t really think that one through. “It’s not exactly—”

Phainon’s thumbs dig into his waist. He presses Mydei back against the kitchen counter and sighs against his mouth, so close that they’re inches away from touching again. Mydei’s eyes feel hazy, half-lidded. Phainon is so close that he’s going cross-eyed trying to keep track of him. He can’t look away.

And then Phainon lets go entirely.

“I want a divorce,” he says tonelessly. “I want it as soon as possible.”

Mydei’s head is spinning. He can still feel the pressure of Phainon’s fingers on his waist, although the bruise is surely fading by the second. We’re not married, he thinks. We never were. We never will be.

“Okay,” he says instead, turning back to the vegetables on the counter. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the Hall of Talanton and get a divorce.”

Phainon’s mouth is a flat, unreadable line. “Thank you.”

They walk back to Phainon’s apartment in complete silence.

***

Mydei is wide awake by the time the entry hour rolls around. When the bell tolls, announcing the dawn, he finally shifts to get out of bed.

Phainon blinks his eyes open. “Don’t go,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around Mydei’s chest.

His grip isn’t particularly strong, but it’s stronger than Mydei’s desire to leave, so he lets himself fall back into bed. He lays his head down on the pillow, facing Phainon. “You said you wanted the divorce as soon as possible.”

Phainon breathes a laugh. “I’m stupid. Don’t listen to me.”

Mydei rolls his eyes. He turns his head up to look at the ceiling.

“One more day,” Phainon mumbles, tracing his fingers up across Mydei’s bare collarbone. “Give me one more day of this.”

Mydei’s heart stings underneath Phainon’s gentle hands. “We don’t have to get divorced at all,” he says. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll be nicer to you. We’ll never fight. I’ll go with you everywhere.”

“No, you won’t,” Phainon says, pillowing his head on Mydei’s shoulder. “You’ll keep being mean to me.”

Mydei gingerly slides his arm to rest on Phainon’s back, moving his head into the crook of his shoulder. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’ll keep being mean to you. But I’ll make you dinner, and bring you fruits when you forget to eat them.”

Phainon exhales against his collarbone. His voice vibrates through Mydei’s chest. “I guess you’re not so bad.”

Mydei has heard love confessions with less fondness than the sound of Phainon’s breath as he lies there. His heart thrums in his chest. “Phainon.” Then he hesitates. “Do you mind if I call you that?”

Phainon lifts his head. “You always have.”

“You said you don’t go by that name.”

“I like the way you say it.”

Mydei hadn’t been expecting that answer. He shifts his arm on Phainon’s back. “Do I mispronounce it?”

“Yeah,” Phainon says, deadly serious. “You’ve been emphasizing the second syllable too strongly all these years.”

Mydei blinks. “You’ve never told me this before.”

Phainon stares him down for another three seconds. Then he bursts into giggles. He rolls over again to lie next to Mydei, their hands intertwined and their hair tangling together. “You say it like you care.”

Mydei doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He doesn’t think he says Phainon’s name any particular way. Phainon’s never expressed a fondness for it before. “I’ll call you by it more often, then,” he says.

Phainon smiles up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes. “I think I’d like that.”

Mydei doesn’t feel like waking up anymore. He turns and drags Phainon’s arm around his waist again, so they’re pressed together facing away from the window. “Go back to sleep.”

Phainon tucks his head into the curve of his neck. He fits there nicely; they don’t usually sleep like this, even when they do sleep in the same bed, but it’s sort of comfortable.

“Can’t sleep like this,” says Phainon. “It’s too hot.”

Mydei frowns. It’s the perfect temperature for him, but perhaps that’s the sacrifice he’ll have to make. He lifts Phainon’s arm away again.

“Nooo,” Phainon whines, slinging his arm back around. “I don’t mind. I’ll just lie here. You can go back to sleep. You look tired.”

Admittedly, Mydei is tired. Usually when the stress piles up, he just finds Phainon and loiters menacingly until Phainon finally gives in to his unspoken request and duels the stress out of him. He can’t do that now, for obvious reasons, but at least he can lie here, with Phainon’s arms around him, and rest.

“You said you get heatstroke,” Mydei murmurs, as he readjusts the blankets to let Phainon get more comfortable.

“Aedes Elysiae gets hot in the summer. Somehow I never got used to it. Cyrene has to take me down to the sea at least once a day just to cool off.”

“Cyrene,” Mydei repeats quietly. “She sounds important to you.”

“She is,” Phainon says. “She’s my sister. My family. I love her.”

“She sounds like a good person.”

“You haven’t met her, then? I suppose you can’t leave your people alone just to travel to a tiny farm town. Maybe someday I can get her to come to Okhema.”

Mydei’s chest hurts. He knows, by now, what price Phainon’s people paid to make him into the Deliverer. Surely Cyrene paid it too. Perhaps she paid most dearly of all. “I’d love to meet her,” he says, a little strained. “I really would.”

Phainon is quiet for a long moment. His breath ghosts across the back of Mydei’s hair.

“She’s gone,” Phainon says quietly. “Cyrene’s gone, isn’t she?”

Mydei says nothing.

Phainon pulls Mydei closer to him. Together, they let the morning sink over them.

***

Instead of getting a divorce for a marriage they never had, they go to the market.

Phainon can’t remember ever seeing it. He’d been confined to the Courtyard when he was under Hyacine’s care. Mydei hates going to the market alone—when he had first arrived in Okhema, the market vendors refused him service, and he still hasn’t gotten over that bitterness—but going with Phainon is alright. Everyone loves Phainon, and when Phainon shows someone kindness, so does everyone else.

What would he do if Phainon were gone for good? Mydei has never had to think about it before. Phainon has always seemed so invincible in his mind. His equal, his match. Undefeatable. And yet, if it came to pass, how would Mydei ever go to the market again?

A hand waves in front of his face.

“Hello?” Phainon says, raising his eyebrows. “Stop looking so grim. We’re going to the market, not the gallows.”

Mydei blinks himself out of his thoughts. “You know, I don’t mind the gallows. It’s not a terrible way to die.”

Phainon gives him a bemused smile. “I’d think any death is unpleasant.”

“Some are less pleasant than others.”

“Give me your death rankings, then,” Phainon says, looking fascinated. “What’s the most fun way to die?”

“You’re so weird,” Mydei mutters. And here he thought Phainon would be a little less morbid before he did all the killing and revenge-seeking and whatnot. Apparently he was always that way. “No deaths are easy, but…”

“But?”

“Being beheaded isn’t so bad.”

Phainon snorts.

“It isn’t,” Mydei insists. “It’s a bitch to heal from, but the death part is okay. And it’s interesting to see your own headless body, if you’re morbid like that.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime,” says Phainon, grinning at him. He stretches his hands above his head. He’s not wearing his armor today, just civilian attire. It’s unusual for him. Mydei rarely sees him go out in public without his hero regalia. But here they are, in matching civilian clothes, walking to the market together. Talking about death.

“Don’t,” Mydei tells him firmly. “Don’t try it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be dying anytime soon.” He stares at Kephale’s statue for a moment, then looks back down. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask about the worst way to die, huh?”

Mydei thinks of the water in his lungs. The desperate, deadly need to inhale. “No,” he agrees. “You shouldn’t.”

Phainon sighs through his nose. “What’s your favorite way, then?” he says quietly. “The way you’d most like to die.”

Mydei stares at him. “Really?”

“It was just a question.”

Mydei glances over at him. He imagines the point of Phainon’s sword between his vertebrae, the sweet, final kiss of metal against his skin. “I don’t know,” he lies. “Whatever I can heal from the fastest.”

“Hm,” says Phainon, like he knows Mydei is full of shit.

They aren’t quite walking in sync. This Phainon’s steps are longer, less measured. It’s harder for Mydei to fall into step with him; although they’re the same height, Mydei’s legs are shorter, his steps more careful. “Your steps are longer,” Mydei notices, looking down.

“Huh? No, they aren’t. I always walk like this.”

Mydei looks at his own feet, willing them to take longer steps. They don’t.

Phainon looks at him, then bursts into cackles.

“What? I’ll have you know you’ve never been taller than me; you just have the longest legs known to—”

“It’s not that,” Phainon interrupts, elbowing him. “I just realized, I probably changed my steps to match yours.”

Mydei stares down at his own feet. At Phainon’s. He’s right. It makes no sense for Phainon to take short steps with legs like that. And yet when he’s with Mydei, he does.

Phainon snorts. “And here you say we aren’t married,” he says, looping their arms together. “Yet we go to the market together every week, and I walk slower than usual so our steps will line up.”

Mydei huffs, but doesn’t unlink their arms. “You only come with me so I don’t get denied service.”

Phainon frowns. “Why would they deny you service? You can pay, certainly.”

“Not everyone thinks as kindly of the Crown Prince of Kremnos as you, Phainon.”

“Oh,” Phainon says, suddenly looking a bit sad. “Wouldn’t they have stopped that after we got married? Everyone loves the Deliverer. Everyone would love the Deliverer’s husband, too.”

“Everyone loves you,” Mydei corrects. “Everyone loves Phainon.”

Phainon blinks. His ever-steady feet falter.

“You’re overly talkative, and a little gullible, and endlessly accommodating,” Mydei continues. “You go out of your way to help everyone you can. You remember everyone’s names and ask after their children. You laugh like you want everyone in the world to hear. Of course they all love you.”

Phainon suddenly looks at him, his eyes intense and clear. “And what of you?”

Mydei’s mouth goes dry.

Phainon’s fingers tighten around Mydei’s wrist. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Mydei says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. “I always have.”

Phainon’s fingers trail down his palm, then to touch his fingertips, intertwining their hands. His smile is blindingly bright.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Mydei grumbles, his face flushed under the morning’s glare. “You knew that already. You said it yourself.”

“Said what?” Phainon asks, the picture of innocence.

Mydei’s face heats up further. “That I—feel that way. Towards you.”

“Come on now,” Phainon says, bumping their shoulders together. “Say it properly.”

“That I hold you above all others,” Mydei says. “That I—” Here he leans in closer, dropping his voice so no one else will hear. “—adore you.”

Phainon blinks. His grip on Mydei’s hand loosens.

Mydei smirks, just a little. It was a hefty price to pay for his victory, but it was worth it. “What? Lost for words?”

“That’s hardly what I said,” Phainon mumbles, his face brilliantly red. How easy it is to fluster this Deliverer, unused to Mydei’s antics. “Never mind. What do we usually like to do at the market, anyway?”

The subject change is obvious, but Mydei is just as eager to drop the topic, so he doesn’t fight it. “I make my grocery purchases for the week. You spend exorbitant amounts of time and money on fake antiques.”

Phainon’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t need any more antiques.”

Mydei snickers.

Phainon looks at him, his eyes lighting up. “You laughed!”

“I’m making fun of you. You’ve never said that before in your life.”

“But you laughed.”

“Because you’re ridiculous.”

“You think I’m funny,” Phainon says dreamily. He sighs and leans in against his shoulder as they walk. “The most handsome man in Amphoreus thinks I’m hilarious.”

Mydei rolls his eyes. He tugs Phainon down the market again, past the clothing stalls and the antique store. “Come on. Produce is at the end.”

“My beloved, the most handsome man in Amphoreus, the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, thinks I’m the funniest person in the world,” Phainon announces, waving his free arm dramatically.

The crowd at the market is starting to stare at them. Mydei flushes under their stares and tugs Phainon to walk a little faster.

“And he adores me,” Phainon calls, swooning into Mydei’s arms.

Mydei lets go of him. Phainon yelps and falls flat on the pavement.

“HEY!” Phainon drags himself to his feet and dusts off his pants with a pout. “You’re so cruel to me, Mydeimos. What of my pride?”

Mydei scoffs. Everyone in the damn market is watching them. “Get up, you fool. For that stunt, I’m making you pay for our groceries.”

Phainon winces and rubs at his back. “Yes, yes,” he says miserably. “What’s mine is yours, Mydeimos darling, light of my life.”

Mydei grabs his hand and starts dragging him in earnest. “People are staring, Phainon.”

Phainon’s eyes light up with mischief. He plants his feet and wrestles his arm free of Mydei’s grip. “Are they, now?” he asks, making his voice dramatic and pitched loud enough for all to hear. “Mydeimos, my dear, are you shy?”

Mydei scowls and tugs at his hand again, to no avail. “Give me your wallet. I’m leaving here with it.”

“Come and get it, then,” Phainon says, grinning.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Mydei warns, staring him down.

Phainon’s smile is just as sharp as usual. “Oh, but I think I do.”

Mydei hesitates.

“Come on,” Phainon murmurs. “Remind me what you can do.”

Good enough, Mydei thinks, and lunges for him.

To his surprise, Phainon easily whirls out of the way. His tunic swings in his wake, the fabric brushing against Mydei’s hands like a mockery of his failure. Mydei is dizzy as he chases him down. They’re in civilian clothing, sans gauntlets and greatsword, so the fight is quite different from their typical close-range spars. Phainon keeps distance between them, forcing Mydei to chase him down continually. He laughs delightedly as Mydei stumbles after him, spinning him around in circles.

“Do you even know where I keep my wallet?” Phainon calls, breathless, as he spins around the pole holding a vendor’s tent to change the direction of his momentum.

Mydei grinds to a halt and turns back around, running after him. “Of course I do,” he yells back. “Left front pocket, just above your hip.”

“Impressive!” Phainon leaps to the right, then up along the balcony of a house. “But I’m not wearing my coat today.”

“Left pants pocket, then,” Mydei guesses, chasing alongside him on ground level.

Phainon laughs, exhilarated. “Good!” He jumps down, landing just beside Mydei. He stops, catching his breath. “Go on, then—get it.”

Mydei frowns. This has to be a trick. He reaches his right hand out.

“Go on,” Phainon repeats, grinning.

Feeling a bit foolish, Mydei reaches for his front pocket, low along his hip.

Just as he reaches his fingertips inside the pocket, touching the top of the wallet, Phainon grabs his hand and kicks Mydei’s foot out from underneath him. Before Mydei can hit the ground, Phainon catches him and sweeps him into a grand twirl, ending with a little flourish and a dramatic bow to their waiting crowd.

“An excellent performance,” he says, beaming. He helps Mydei to his feet again. Then he hands Mydei the wallet. “You wanted brussels sprouts, right?”

Mydei’s heart is still racing. He gapes at this new, exhilarated Phainon. “That’s not how we usually fight,” he says at last, once he’s regained some of his composure.

“Isn’t it? It felt… familiar. Like I had done it before.”

Mydei opens his mouth to protest. They were dancing, celebrating, chasing each other down. But isn’t that what they always do? Aren’t they always spinning each other around, keeping each other drawn in their orbit? Doesn’t Mydei always feel like this after a good spar, with his heart singing in delight and his eyes clouded with fondness?

“I suppose,” Mydei says eventually, “it wasn’t entirely different.”

“I must say, I’m not used to such a crowd,” Phainon admits, a little sheepishly. “But it was fun! I don’t mind a larger audience, especially if they’re cheering me on.”

Sometime while he was distracted, Phainon has slipped their hands back together. Mydei glances down at them, then back at the market in front of them. “They all love you,” he says. “I told you.”

Phainon laughs, just once, a bright sound that could bring a man back to life. “Yeah,” he says, with eyes only for Mydei. “They do love me.”

***

While Phainon is bathing that afternoon, Mydei’s teleslate lights up. It’s Anaxa. They don’t talk much. They haven’t texted each other in nearly six months, when Mydei escorted the Ladies Tribios to the Grove for history examination proctoring.

Mydeimos, the message reads. I have hypothesized the effect of the curse, and thus its cure. That woman—I say this with great distaste, if you are envisioning me reading this message aloud—informed me that you were aiding members of the Sorrowless Brigade, a subsect of extremist Phagousa devotees. They believe that Phagousa’s promise of “joy” means that one should experience no suffering in their life.

Then, in a second message: The “blessings” they cast upon you both are in fact the “curse” Phainon is experiencing now.

Mydei starts typing: His lost memories are a removal of his suffering?

Anaxa’s reply takes several minutes—long enough that Mydei even turns off his teleslate. But right after he gives up, the message arrives.

Yes, it reads simply.

Then Anaxa calls him.

Mydei picks up immediately. “Yes?” he asks softly, urgently. He doesn’t want Phainon to hear him from the bath.

“I’ve figured out a theoretical cure,” Anaxa says, right to business.

This is why Mydei likes him. He never wastes time. “Whatever it is, I’ll work towards it.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“I don’t care,” Mydei says, rougher than intended. “I want him back. Okhema wants him back. We need him. I’m—” I’m in love with him, Mydei thinks, loud and clear. He swallows the words back down. “I’m prepared to offer my assistance.”

“This blessing returns the person to the last time they loved someone without reserve.”

Mydei frowns. “But I was unaffected. My memories are entirely intact. I remember fighting with Phainon at my back, and everything beforehand.”

“This,” says Anaxa drily, “is because you are in love with him. Unreservedly.”

Mydei’s face burns. It makes perfect sense. He does remember his faith in Phainon being particularly strong during that battle. “…Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “I guess I am.”

“You guess?” says Anaxa, scoffing. “You baked him cakes for winning debate competitions. Your affection was never in doubt, Mydeimos.”

“I just happened to be practicing my baking.”

“You frosted the eighth one with a full drawing of Phainon’s face.”

“That is not relevant, Professor.”

Anaxa sighs, full of weariness. It’s a sobering noise. “I suppose it isn’t,” he says quietly. “Not when Phainon is in this condition.”

“You said he’s been returned to the last time he could love without reserve,” Mydei repeats. “Does this mean—since arriving in Okhema, he hasn’t…”

“No,” Anaxa finishes for him. “He hasn’t loved any of us.”

They both fall silent. Mydei stares at the closed window. He forgets, sometimes, how much Anaxa cares for his most promising student. How much Phainon looks up to him, and how hard Anaxa tries to set the right example for him in return. It makes Mydei’s chest hurt.

“You and I both know what happened to the last people he loved,” Anaxa says at last. “Perhaps… he still fears that his love is a curse.”

Mydei’s throat feels odd. “Perhaps,” he says, a little strangled. “How can we—cure him?”

“It’s simple,” Anaxa says. “He simply has to want his memories back.”

Mydei waits for more. When there isn’t, he says, “That’s all?”

“If he believes those memories will bring him joy, the blessing will return them.”

“…He doesn’t think he’s been happy,” Mydei infers, his heart sinking. “Even now, he’s more content without his memories. Without any of us.”

A dull thunk echoes from the hallway.

Mydei jolts. He hangs up on Anaxa without another word. But it’s too late—Phainon is staring at him from the hallway, obviously fresh from bathing, wearing his houserobe. His hair is dripping onto the floor. His eyes are wide.

“What happened,” says Phainon slowly. “To the last people I loved.”

It isn’t a question. Mydei slowly sets down his teleslate. “I’ve always known you to be capable of making inferences.”

Phainon closes his eyes tightly. He leans against the wall. “It’s not easy being a Deliverer, huh?”

Mydei nods.

“And here I thought I might have been the one Chrysos Heir who hadn’t suffered,” he says, smiling wryly. “I spent all this time thinking I had just… run away! That’s it—I ran away from home one day, after I got too bored in the winter.”

“You didn’t,” Mydei says. “Your hometown was burned. You told me you were the only survivor.”

Phainon doesn’t look surprised. His smile grows sadder. “It’ll happen soon, won’t it? That’s why I can only remember falling asleep—I’ll wake up to everything in flames.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “You’ll never wake up to flames again. It already happened, Phainon. Your hometown is already gone. Don’t torture yourself thinking it’ll disappear again.”

Phainon looks out the window, at the day-bright world beyond the curtains. “You said I don’t believe I’m happy here.”

Mydei nods.

“But that isn’t true,” Phainon says, his eyes shimmering wet. “I am happy here. I had one of the best days of my life today. I’ve never been happier than I am here, in this city, with all these people, and with you.”

“Then why,” Mydei asks, “do you want a divorce?”

Phainon’s smile cracks in half. “Because this life isn’t mine.”

Mydei falters. He steps closer.

“I’m living someone else’s life,” Phainon says. A single wet drop clings to his eyelash, but stubbornly refuses to fall. “And it’s—it’s terrible, because I want it. I want it so badly it makes me ache.”

“It’s yours. This life, it’s yours.”

“It’s the Deliverer’s,” Phainon corrects. He tugs the curtain shut further, dimming the room’s lights. “And I’m not him yet. Without my memories, I don’t know if I ever will be.”

“Fuck’s sake, Phainon,” Mydei snaps, his voice coming out faintly hoarse. He pushes on: “You’re still not the Deliverer, even with your memories. You think you’re perfect? No—you never have been. You’re dense and oblivious and stubborn and prideful. You always forget who paid last for our meals. You get fooled by fake antiques and keep them in your apartment anyway. I know you, Phainon. I know you’re not there yet. Maybe you’ll never get there.”

Phainon looks at him, his eyes wide. The single tear falls down his face, down his jaw. No others follow it.

“But I believe in you anyway,” Mydei finishes. “I believe in you. Not because of what you’ve gone through, but because of who you are. That will never change.”

“You miss him,” Phainon chokes out. “You said you miss him.”

“He’s right fucking here.”

Phainon laughs, a wet, half-choked, glorious sound. He finally reaches out and closes the distance between them, burying his face in Mydei’s shoulder.

“You’re right fucking here,” Mydei repeats. He shuts his eyes tight. Feels his Deliverer breathe in, and out, and in again. Feels the steady beating of his heart.

“I am,” Phainon says into his shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.”

“I know,” Mydei says, holding him tighter. “I know.”

“I won’t ever want to leave.”

“I know.”

Phainon’s arms tighten around his back. For just a moment Mydei wonders if he knows—if his hands are going to dig into him and tear out his heart through his singular weak point. Mydei thinks of the dozens of times he’s imagined it: the sweet comfort of knowing Phainon’s touch one last time, before knowing the touch of Thanatos.

For the first time, the fantasy doesn’t seem right. Not yet, Mydei thinks desperately. I’m not ready.

But the moment passes, and Phainon’s hands finally release him.

“I’m tired,” he says, smiling with his weathered eyes. “I’m so tired, Mydei.”

“Then rest,” Mydei says, still holding onto the sides of his waist. “You can’t save Amphoreus if you can’t save yourself.”

Phainon breathes a half-laugh. “I have you for that.”

“I’ll save you, if you’ll let me,” Mydei promises. Then, before he can lose his nerve: “Because I love you.”

Phainon closes his eyes. He smiles. “I know,” he says. “I love you too, Mydei.”

***

Mydei jolts awake just past midnight. He shakes Phainon awake next to him. “Phainon. PHAINON.”

Phainon groans, swatting at his arms. “What? I told you, I’m tired. Leave me alone.”

“Phainon, you called me by my name.”

“So?” Phainon asks, dragging his eyes open with seemingly great effort. “Let me go back to sleep, or I’ll never call you by it again. All ‘bastard’ and ‘idiot’ for the rest of our lives.”

“No one told you that,” Mydei says. “No one told you that you usually call me Mydei.”

Phainon heaves a sigh. He punctuates it with a low-effort kick at Mydei’s legs under the covers.

“You remembered,” Mydei realizes. He gapes at Phainon’s half-asleep, half-annoyed face. “You remembered everything, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Phainon groans and shoves his face back into the pillow.

“Hold on. You said you loved me. That was—that was you. That was you with all your memories.”

Phainon kicks him again. “Do me a favor. Have your grand revelations at entry hour.”

“You love me,” Mydei says slowly, a grin spreading across his face. “You have a crush on me. You want to get married and live out the rest of our lives together. That’s so embarrassing for you.”

Phainon lifts his head to look at him. He wraps his arms tighter around Mydei’s waist, fitting them together like nesting pieces. “Maybe a little,” he sighs, like it’s the world’s greatest suffering. “Go back to sleep, Mydei. I can be in love with you in the morning.”

“We should get married right now,” Mydei says, although he makes no move to get up again.

“We can get married at entry hour.”

“You know what? We don’t even need that. Didn’t you say we’re already married? That we’ve been married for two years?”

Phainon buries his face in the back of Mydei’s neck. “I think I want another divorce.”