Chapter Text
On this eerie sea, where the dead rise to live, and the living hide to kill, the waves roar and the veils whisper. The breeze carries secrets, smelling of smoke and tasting of salt.
Sometimes, even blood.
“I already told you, I don't know where he is!”
Sometimes, it shouts lies.
The stomp of boots against the deck makes the wood creaks with fierce, the sound of a ship that is already sunk despite still being afloat. The sharp edge of a sword threatens the life of a captain who has lost everything—his crew, his mast, and, if Thanatos reaches in time, his life.
For others, this ship has everything. Or one thing, to be precise.
“Lying doesn't suit your face, my friend,” Phainon says.
Above the man, he raises his chin with a smile that rivals the burning sun. It falls on his silver hair, almost painting it yellow. Eyes that match the sky itself fix on the hiccuping breaths of the old’s pathetic body. “Since I’m very nice, I’ll say it one last time.” His voice comes low as he asks, “What do you know about The Ruler’s ship?”
“I already told you! I don’t know—gah.” The man doesn’t have the chance to end his words, choking when a boot lands on his chest.
Phainon presses hard until the heel sinks into the skin. “I see, you are eager to feed the fish.”
The breeze stirs his coat, a mix of blue and golden, carrying blood on its edges. The tricorn hat lying on his head casts shadows over his face when he leans toward the man, hiding all but his sharp smile.
“I-I swear on my dead wife that I don’t know that ship!” The man shouts, his voice trembling in his throat. Phainon knows that tone—despair.
Silence crashes the same way a wave does against the hull.
“Is that so?” Phainon ends up speaking, moving his leg away.
The man turns his face aside to cough, the edge of the sword lining his neck.
“Yes! So, please, spare my life. You have taken enough of me.”
Phainon hums, tilting his head. His thumb caresses the hilt of his sword, his face showing apathy while threatening another’s life. “Alright, let’s—”
“Captain!” A sudden voice calls to him, emerging from the ship's cabins. It’s a girl, dressed in blue and purple, with pink hair and sea eyes.
“Cyrene!” Phainon says, turning his head to glance at her, “Did you find it?”
“Aye!” She answers with a grin. Raising her hand, she shows a map scroll that shakes in the air. “I got it! The map of The Ruler’s route.”
The rest of the crew cheers in unison.
“As expected from our navigator!”
“Cyrene is the best!”
She tosses her hair back, funnily, as she receives the compliments. A cute move, contrary to the polished dagger hanging from her belt.
“Oh?” Phainon utters, diverting his gaze from her to pierce it at the pirate. The man’s face has started to turn as white and stiff as marble. “Are you sure? My friend here told me he doesn’t know anything about The Ruler.”
“As sure as a compass pointing north!” Cyrene answers, “It’s very detailed, I must say. He was taking this research seriously.”
“Detailed? How convenient,” he mutters, a light chuckle leaving his lips, “We will have to thank our dear partner here for reducing our work.”
A growl floods the deck, sounding like a raging animal. The face of the wounded man beneath Phainon has quickly switched from fear to rage. “Insolent brat! I’ve spent many hours of my life on that map!”
There’s a sudden loud hit. A kick, straight to the pirate's chin. The force makes the man spit out what appears to be a tooth soaked in blood.
“Insolent?” Phainon repeats. His smile has quickly faded, as has the clarity of his eyes, now resembling a storm, “I’m not the one who swore on his dead wife. Pathetic things like you deserve nothing more than to rot in hell.”
The crew shouts in agreement.
“Bastard... Your glory will soon be over!” The man curses, “People are looking for your head. They… They would pay me a fortune to spill your whereabouts.”
“Oh, I agree,” Phainon says, flipping the hilt of his sword to point it upright, “but you have missed one detail.”
The man glances up at the tip of the steel aiming at his chest, his breath catching in his throat when Phainon lifts the sword.
Phainon shows a smile, wide, wicked, like the sea at midnight. “Dead men tell no tales.”
The sound of the sword thrusting into flesh merges with the final cry of a soul that soon falls under the claws of Thanatos. With a slight tug, Phainon pulls it off the corpse and wipes the blood on the deceased's clothes.
After sheathing the sword, he turns to his crew with his arms raised. “My hearties, today The Deliverer hosts a celebration!”
Cyrene and the rest of the crew shout with enthusiasm in response.
After jumping onto the deck of their ship, Phainon glimpses over his shoulder at the other one close to falling apart. At this point, it suits more as a cemetery than a pirate ship.
“Piso,” he calls out.
“Yes, captain?” Answers a brunette boy.
“Light the cannon,” he instructs, raising his chin to point behind him, “we can't celebrate without lighting a fire.”
───── ☸ ─────
That night, the deck is filled with chanting, the breeze smelling of food and wine. The sky gets painted in a mix of black and orange, thanks to the wood burning on the ghost ship in the distance.
Far from the laughter, Phainon spreads the map on his desk, examining his various drawings and annotations. From wind directions and important ports to a line that draws a route. He traces it with his finger, his brows frowning the moment he notices that it ends up in a spot in the middle of the ocean.
“Why does it end here? Is it not finished?”
“Let me see,” says Cyrene, who leans over to inspect. Her finger traces the man's notes as she reads them, until she taps lightly on the spot where the line ends. “It is. This is where The Ruler truly is.”
“In the middle of nowhere?” Phainon asks, still confused.
Cyrene nods. “From what I can translate from his notes, he had people hired to spy on their captain. I assume that's how he managed to outline a route.”
Phainon crosses his arms, bringing a finger to his lips to nibble the skin there—a gesture he often makes when he is deep in thought. “I still don't understand why they would stay so far from any port.”
“I know, but think about it,” Cyrene prompts, leaning toward him, “There’s a reason no one has ever found the ship.”
“You’re right…” He says, sharing a brief nod. Phainon caresses the map with his calloused fingers, the same that tremble against the paper in excitement. “Hah. This is incredible. Cyrene, we are one step closer to the Era Nova.”
Cyrene nods, too, placing a hand on his arm. The gesture is comforting, familiar. Of course it is. Cyrene is family—Phainon’s last family. “We can do this, Phainon.”
“I know,” he answers, the words leaving on a hopeful exhale. He places his hand over hers, offering her a thin smile. “We can save Aedes Elysiae. I need to.” He sucks in a breath, and he feels Cyrene’s grip tighten, “Even if I have to drive my sword into the back of the prince of Castrum Kremnos himself.”
“Don't fill your head with it now,” Cyrene advises. She pats his arm in a gentle gesture before, in contrast, pulling him away from the desk. The sudden tug almost causes him to stumble. Sometimes, even Phainon forgets how strong she truly is. “Come on! Let’s join the others. Today’s wind blows in our favor, perfect for a celebration!”
With a faint chuckle, he allows himself to be dragged out of the captain’s cabinet. As Phainon steps onto the deck, he is greeted by the flickering of lanterns, glowing like little stars. The breeze is strong but gentle on his face, carrying the smell of dried fish with the remains of rum already spilled on the floor. Swords grind to the rhythm of chants, accompanying a fife to the birth of a new song.
“I expect to see that cleaned up tomorrow,” warns Cyrene behind him. The sound of her boots repeatedly stepping on the wooden board causes the fife to mimic the rhythm.
In response, the rest of the crew raise their cups, filled to the edge.
She shakes her head with a defeated smile. “Out of their senses, already.”
“Captain! Come and try this fish!” says Livia, one of their crew members and one of the best cooks on the ship. Her brown hair, tied back, dances along the sea breeze.
“Gladly! But first, I'd like to speak a few words.” The wood crunches beneath him as he slowly walks among his crew. He borrows a glass from one of their crew, raising it above his head. “I'd like to propose a toast. For another success of The Deliverer. To us, the survivors of war!”
The crew shouts, raising their glasses in their captain's direction.
Phainon raises a hand, asking for silence. “As you well know, Okhema declared war on Castrum Kremnos long ago.”
By mentioning those names, the atmosphere switches like a sudden squall. The fife no longer plays, and the chants don’t follow the rhythm of the waves.
Phainon uses the silence to continue. “Aedes Elysiae showed its support for Castrum Kremnos, hoping they would win the war.”
“But they didn't! Bunch of useless soldiers,” states a crew member.
“Precisely! They didn't,” Phainon says, raising his cup to point at them. “Castrum Kremnos lost the war and disappeared from the map. As a result, Aedes Elysiae had a lot of losses. Our parents, families—we lost everything we loved.”
Some of his crew, with stirring gazes, give him a nod.
“But starting today, we have the opportunity to change our destiny. We have in our hands the map that guides us to The Ruler. The ship, whose captain is none other than the sole survivor of the royalty of Kremnos: the crown prince.”
“How can we be sure he'll know where Nikador's treasure is?”
“Good question!” Phainon flatters, pointing at the crew member with one finger. “Cyrene, I'll leave this to you.”
“Sure!” She says, stepping back to have a seat on one of the barrels. “According to the records we have, Nikador was one of the most famous pirates on the coast of Castrum Kremnos. He had a close relationship with the former king, which tells us enough to suspect their majesty knew something.”
“Which leads us to their son,” Phainon continues, “Mydeimos. The Undying.” The name itself tastes like vinegar on his lips. He scoffs, raising a brow, “An exiled prince turned into the most feared pirate on the sea. He surely knows how to build himself a reputation.”
“Tch. Barking dogs never bite.”
“Right! He’s hiding because he's afraid someone will steal his crown.”
“If he still has one.”
The crew laughs in unison.
“Don’t fret! I’ll make him speak,” Phainon declares with confidence, “even if I have to make him walk the plank for that.”
“Then he will serve as food for the fishes!”
Everyone cheers, clinking their cups.
“With the moon as our guide, we’ll sail at night! ♪ ” Someone sings.
“To the Era Nova, where dreams take flight! ♪ ” The rest chant.
“We'll collect all the treasures!”
“And make Aedes Elysiae what it used to be!”
Phainon laughs, infected by the enthusiasm.
“Let's raise our glasses to the sky,” Cyrene says, lifting her cup with a smile, “For Phainon! Our captain, my brother.”
“Our savior!” Piso shouts.
“Our savior!” The crew repeats, shouting to the deep night.
Phainon, with a smile stuck on his face like salt to his skin, raises his glass towards them before taking a long gulp. Until the rum leaves a foul taste on his lips and burns his insides.
Tonight, he doesn't want to feel anything else.
───── ☸ ─────
Sun and horizon meet.
The seagulls herald the early hours of the morning, and the breeze chills one to the bone. Mydeimos stands on the bow deck with his chin raised, his gaze lost in the waves like a man enchanted by sirens.
As golden and bright as the first sunrises bathing the sails, the captain’s hair dances gently above his shoulders. A braid, once a sign of royalty, hits the shoulder of his coat, black as coal, golden in details, and red as blood on the inside. There’s shine in his eyes as there is on his neck and wrists, carrying the most refined jewelry of a dead kingdom.
Tales tell that none can tame The Ruler.
A ship that always sets sail, but cannot return home. Rumors claim it has blood coating in its hull, dragging the souls of its enemies beneath the keel. Others declare they have seen a corpse hanging as the figurehead of their bow. However, on deck, one can only hear the friction of a rope being tied, accompanied by the sound of a violin repeating the same notes over and over again.
“Peucesta, I think the violin has more strings,” says Ptolemy, sitting on a wooden box with his legs crossed and a book on his lap.
“Just like that book has more pages,” answers Peucesta, lifting his chin from the instrument to point with it, “and still, you've been on the same one for five minutes.”
“The language of Dolos is not easy to translate,” clarifies Ptolemy, “and is even more difficult with the sound of your erratic notes distracting me.”
“Or, maybe you two could get off your asses and lend a hand to adjust the sails,” interrupts Leonnius, who stands firmly with his legs spread as he pulls on the rope.
Peucesta and Ptolemy stare at each other before choosing to ignore the suggestion and continue with their activities.
“Sons of a...”
“Why don't you tell Perddikas?” suggests Ptolemy, “He spends all day inside with his herbs and remedies.”
“He's also the one who has saved us from catching infections, so let him be,” adds a voice, this time not Leonnius, but Hephaestion, who walks by with two scrolls under his arms. No one answers him, and Mydeimos assumes that Hephaestion has won the argument again.
Eight steps later, Mydeimos hears him behind him. “You seem more pensive than usual, Mydeimos,” he says, “Is anything on your mind?”
Mydeimos remains silent, eyes still on the sea. After two waves crashing later, he turns his head to glance at him. His face against the wind causes strands of hair to brush against his cheek. “The breeze carries the scent of battle.”
Hephaestion's smile gradually fades like a ship beyond the fog. The wind fights against his hair, tied back in a ponytail. “Here? We are far from any port.”
“The sea is not safer than land,” Mydeimos says, “It smells like burnt, like the remains of a cannon.”
“They are coming for blood,” Hephaestion states.
Mydeimos doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns around and passes by Hephaestion, who seems not to mind his momentary silence, and walks behind him toward the deck.
His voice, like the roar of a lion, echoes loudly throughout the ship as he says, “Strife is coming from the west! Inspect your weapons.”
“So soon? I thought I could read a little more.” Ptolemy mutters as he stands.
“If they come this far, it means they're sailing straight towards us,” says Leonnius, stretching his legs.
“Someone needs to tell Perddikas, I'm confident he will be eager to try the poisons he prepared last week…” suggests Peucesta.
“Any further instructions, Captain?” asks Hephaestion.
Mydeimos gives them a quick look before, with a thin smile, firmly nodding.
“Let them approach us, they have the wind’s favor on their sails,” He declares, his head turning towards the west side.
Everyone nods.
“We will not attack first. Eagerness is a flaw in battle. Observe their movements, and then…” There’s a pause, merely a breath, where the breeze grows stronger, filling the sails and carrying a command. “Fight with your heart in Kremnos!”
The crew shouts in unison. “Aye, my king!”
───── ☸ ─────
“Sail, ho! Sail, ho!” Piso announces from the crow's nest.
There are buckets of water spilled onto the deck, but the sponges stop scrubbing when they hear the shouting announcing a ship in sight. Phainon walks toward the bow, where Cyrene offers him the spyglass she was using.
“Where?” Phainon asks.
“Four degrees starboard,” she answers.
Phainon looks through the spyglass and turns his head slightly. In the distance, the silhouette of a ship appears on the horizon, clear and big enough to suggest that it is close to their position.
A loud, victorious laugh echoes across the bow. It’s Phainon’s. “We've got them. Everyone, on deck! Prepare your weapons!”
“Aye, Captain!” Comes as a response behind him.
Cyrene smiles, leaving his side to head to the deck as he has commanded. “You heard him, get ready for the assault!”
Phainon, after watching her leave, brings the spyglass back to his eye, taking another look at the ship. Lifting his chin, he manages to see a glimpse of the flag above, dancing in the breeze. The clear symbol of the Kremnos royalty appears in red on black fabric. It seems more like the brocade of a curtain than a flag itself, which makes him wonder if they took it from the palace before it collapsed.
Phainon shakes his head, lowering the spyglass. He needs to focus. After all, the day has finally come, and he needs to savor it like the traces of rum still attached to his lips. After years of searching, they have finally located The Ruler. With Nikador's treasure in his hands, no one could stop him from finding the Era Nova.
The breeze comes to find him, caressing his features and filling the sails in their favor. His fingers trace the hilt of his sword, eagerness crawling on his skin.
“I can't wait for our first and final meeting, Mydeimos.”
───── ☸ ─────
When his boots crackle on the enemy's deck, Phainon doesn't expect such an empty welcome. There is no sign of life, not even the sound of hidden breathing. The grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, enough to turn his fingers white from the pressure.
Why is no one here? Is this a message to tell him they don't find them worthy? Phainon clenches his teeth, his brow furrowed. No, Kremnoans are born and die in battle. Mydeimos is watching him from somewhere. He can feel it, even smell it, amidst the salt and dust.
Then, it hits as fast as thunder.
A shiver, from the nape down his back. It runs through him like a raging tide crashing in a storm, causing him to raise his head. There, from the crow's nest, Phainon swears to have seen a god.
The wind blows to starboard, moving his hair like waves in the air. It is golden, competing with the sun. Rumors branded the Kremnoans as careless brutes; however, in Phainon's eyes lies someone with smooth skin, marked with blood-red tattoos and a gaze as radiant as the most polished coin.
Such beauty could easily rival a siren.
He’s watching him from above, defiant but not intimidating. His arms are crossed, away from the two swords sheathed on either side of his waist.
Mydeimos is not ready to fight. He is waiting. What for? To see if Phainon is worth piercing his chest with his sword? A laugh slips past his lips, blood pounding in his ears. It is unexpected. It is exciting.
Phainon advances without taking his eyes off the man. It is then that, three steps taken, he hears it. Subtle as a ripple—the creaking of wood behind him. It pushes him to move his sword to his back, with his gaze still on the target. Ringing next to his ears, he hears the echo of metal collapsing. When he cares to look over his shoulder, he sees a tall man with scars on his face, blocking his sword.
He’s strong, Phainon feels it through the shaking of the hilt. Fast, too, he has to flatter. Not everyone can be as quick as a blink. Phainon whistles. “Fancy scars you have there,” Phainon says, offering him a smile. “Care if I give you another one?”
He doesn’t even need to detach his feet from the ground. Phainon swings his sword forward in a quick, abrupt motion. He makes it look weak, yet the man stumbles from the force, his sword crashing away from Phainon's.
“Leonnius!” Someone calls out from the port. Another man, emerging like smoke in a fire, throws a dagger in Phainon's direction.
“Perdikkas,” he hears the other man, Leonnius, mutter under his breath.
The dagger, however, doesn't even brush Phainon's skin. Another one, wrapped in sheepskin, deflects its trajectory and sticks into the mast. Phainon immediately recognizes its owner.
“Not a single pretty girl aboard,” Cyrene says, walking with a sword dancing in her hand. “That’s too sad.”
Ignoring the stares, she crouches down to inspect the dagger on the ground. She doesn't touch it, but her nose moves as she sniffs it. “Poison, hm? Interesting.”
“You have a good sense of smell, miss,” says Perdikkas.
“Oh, thank you!” She answers with a smile. But then, her sword rises to aim in their direction. “Sorry to say that my brother is not your quarry. Do you mind entertaining this cute lady?”
Phainon catches her winking at him. Right after, she whistles with her fingers, a sign for the rest of his crew to jump onto the deck. When Piso approaches them, another man appears behind him to block his path.
“Well, it looks like they're going to be worth after all, if Peucesta has joined too,” says Leonnius with a grin.
Livia appears from the stern, quick as ever, until a man points his sword at her neck.
“Ptolemy, don't be too tough on the girl.”
“I hope you don't hold back,” warns Livia.
Phainon stares at his crew. There’s silence before a mere nod gives the order.
When he turns on his heels, the smell of moisture suddenly becomes stronger. Behind him, he hears the sounds of steel clinking together, rapid footsteps crunching into the wooden boards of the deck, and shouts that fade away with the strong wind. Phainon doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes rise again, where, like a memorial to pray to, Mydeimos stands in the same position. Watching him.
Waiting.
As he holds onto the rigging ropes, he climbs up to the crow's nest at a fast speed. Phainon expects someone to restrain him, to pull him down, to cut the rope. Nothing happens. When he reaches the top, the sweet smell of pomegranate wafts across the breeze. He doesn't need to look around to realize it's coming from Mydeimos.
Up close, Phainon can see his features better—the bridge of his nose, the sharp edges of his eyes, his plump, chapped lips. His eyes drift down for a second to the neckline of his shirt, revealing a muscular chest.
Phainon huffs, raising his brows. What a meal.
Then, like a shot of hot air, a deep voice echoes through the sails.
“Your name.”
Phainon snaps his head up to the prince, who, despite having spoken, has not shaken even a finger. “Not even a good morning or what a nice breeze today?” He teases, gesturing with his hands.
“No.”
“…”
Alright, this guy is not easy to taunt.
He adjusts his coat, clearing his throat. “Phainon, captain of The Deliverer.”
Mydeimos, unexpectedly, raises one brow. “Never heard of it.”
“Then you'd better check your ears, my friend.”
“Why are you on my ship, Deliverer?”
Phainon blinks. No one has called him that before. Regardless, the intonation with which he says it is like a purr shuddering on his head. Even his voice is pleasing, what a waste to end things like this. Well, that's just the way it is.
If Mydeimos is getting to the point, why not lighten things up? As he draws his sword, Phainon slowly points it at the other man’s neck. He remains calm as a lullaby, waiting for his reaction. There is none. “Where is Nikador's treasure?”
There. Phainon sees it, finally. A reaction. It's only a brief twitch of his eyelids, but it happens at the mention of the pirate’s name. It’s enough to make him grin widely. “Hah. I hit the nail on the head. If you tell me where it is, maybe I’ll spare your pretty face from being stained in blood.”
“Are you challenging me?” Mydeimos asks instead.
Phainon brings his sword closer to the skin of his neck, causing a line of blood to spill down the steel. “Sure, whatever you want to call it, sweetheart.”
Mydeimos sighs. It gets away by the sudden force of the breeze, threatening to throw them to the bow. The sails are taut with the wind, accompanying the sound of the ropes moving on their hold.
A hand comes to grab the edge of Phainon’s sword. He watches as the prince closes his fingers around it in a fist, ignoring the blood that stains the steel, despite the slight sign of discomfort shown in his frown. “Alright.”
It happens fast. Far too fast.
Phainon doesn’t even blink, and the hilt of his sword slips from his fingers as if it were soaked. Mydeimos snatches it with a single move, throwing it toward the bow. Before he can even try to lean over and catch it, a kick to his chest knocks him off the crow's nest.
Phainon falls with a loud gasp, luckily to be saved by a rope that burns his palms but eases his fall. The wooden floor creaks with his impact, the pain in his back rushing like a flood of water.
As quickly as he can glance up, he catches Mydeimos falling on top of him, the heels of his boots pressing against his stomach. Phainon chokes, pain quickly turning into adrenaline. He grabs the other man’s ankles to drag him down to the ground. From the look on the prince's face when his back hits the floor, he doesn't seem to have expected Phainon to be that strong.
Good. Let him be way more impressive.
Phainon grins, jumping from the floor to grab his sword and aim at him without wasting time. Mydeimos stops the blow with one of his swords, still sheathed. The force results in a loud crash, enough to make anyone’s ears ring. Phainon forces, the prince resists. The strength of both men makes the steel sound with its tremors. The air already smells of blood.
“You won’t draw your swords?” Phainon asks, voice cracking with the effort.
“Not worth it,” Mydeimos answers.
A vein bulges in Phainon’s neck as his smile tightens. “I see. Then, I’ll have to make it be.”
It's immature. It's satisfying.
When Phainon kicks him in the stomach to knock him back, he returns the favor. As the other man’s feet readjust to the floor, he spins his sword and hits squarely towards his face with the hilt. The prince's groan is music to his ears. Phainon watches as Mydeimos touches his nose, his hand staining crimson.
Yet, his eyes gradually widen when, instead of cursing, a grin spreads across Mydeimos’ face. Phainon follows those bloody fingers reaching to tempting lips, showing a tongue that tastes them until they are clean.
Fuck. If that’s not the most erotic thing Phainon has witnessed.
“Not bad…” Mydeimos mutters, “... Deliverer.”
Phainon smiles, lifting his chin and savoring victory the moment he watches the other man finally draw his two swords. Their shine is immaculate, gold-plated at the hilt.
“That’s it,” he says, readjusting his own sword. He raises it to chest level, sliding one foot back. Ready. Waiting. “Don’t hold back.”
The breeze whispers against their coats, taking away the smell of blood and bringing the scent of sea salt. They run towards each other at the same time.
The bow soon echoes with the sound of wood creaking, the steps moving in unexpected unison. Both men create a harmony of swords crashing in an endless dance, dangerous and fiercer than any tide. At one point, Mydeimos slashes both swords toward Phainon's chest, who, despite easily dodging one, feels the deadly caress of the other against the skin of his abdomen. His white shirt, torn by the cut, dyes in red on a tilted line that covers his chest.
Phainon embraces the pain, smiles at the itching of the salty breeze brushing against the wound, and with a laugh that echoes against the sails, lunges again toward his target. One crash leads to another, and another. Another. Steel screeches towards each other, like the waves against the ram of the ship.
None delivers the final blow.
As the sun burns on their skins, the swords sync with their chests, desperately catching their breath.
“Still not going to tell me… where the treasure is?”
Mydeimos halts. Phainon, despite being able to take advantage of that moment to attack him, stays a couple of feet away from him. He feels his breath taste like blood and the cramps in his legs reaching his stomach.
Mydeimos, taking short breaths, swallows before uttering, “No.”
Phainon, hunched over with pain in his ribs, still burst out laughing. “You keep resisting... Good. I like that about you. You won't stop until one of us is dead.”
“If that’s your concern, we can put an end to this now.”
There’s a sudden voice behind him, yet Phainon fails to recognize it.
With it comes the sound of a loaded gun, the cold metal of the muzzle kissing his nape. Slowly, Phainon raises his hands—one still holding his sword—to the sides of his head. He looks over his shoulder to find a man with long hair tied back in a ponytail, staring at him with fingers confidently placed on the trigger.
Phainon hums, smiling despite the threat. “Is this how you kill your enemies in Kremnos? Cowardly from behind?”
“Don't use your filthy mouth to speak about Castrum Kremnos.”
“Hephaestion.”
Mydeimos’ voice catches them both off guard.
Phainon turns his gaze toward him, stepping aside. Regardless, the gun follows his moves.
“Put the weapon down,” Mydeimos warns.
Silence fills the bow.
The breeze has weakened, caressing Phainon's bangs as it tickles his cheeks. He waits, shifting his eyes between the two men.
“He wounded you,” says that man, Hephaestion.
“He looks worse than I.”
“I would not say worse—”
“Silence,” demands the long-haired man.
“Phainon!”
Cyrene’s voice breaks the tension, coming from the stairs that connect to the deck. Her hurried footsteps resound over the wood as she appears behind them, catching her breath. Phainon lets out all the air in his lungs on a relieved sigh the moment he sees that there is not a scratch on her.
“Cyrene, stay there!” Phainon alerts, shaking his head when he notices her eyes look down at the wound on his chest. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”
Mydeimos’ eyes turn to glance at the girl, his voice turning more commanding when the gun on Hephaestion shifts from Phainon to aim at her. “Hephaestion. The gun. Down.”
Phainon witnesses another ripple of silence.
Then, “Are you certain?”
Mydeimos gives him a brief nod.
At that, Phainon slowly tilts his head to the other man. “You heard your captain.”
Hephaestion ignores him. Instead, he keeps staring at Mydeimos until he ends up lowering his arm, holstering his weapon on his belt.
“Deliverer,” Mydeimos suddenly calls.
Phainon drops his arms, tilting his head to glance at him again.
“You have proven yourself to be my equal in this duel. For that, I will reward you.”
“Oh?” Phainon raises his brows, a smile appearing on his face. “Are you going to tell me where the treasure is?”
“No.”
The smile vanishes. “Ah. Too easy.”
“I grant you the privilege of sparring with me again,” Mydeimos states, walking closer towards him in slow, loud steps. The wooden creaks beneath him with his approach until he stands close to Phainon’s face. He can even smell his breath from his position. It doesn’t stink; on the contrary, it smells agonizingly sweet. “If you manage to defeat me,” Mydeimos speaks again, every word hitting his skin, “I will tell you where Nikador's treasure is.”
Phainon moves to sheath his sword, holding the stare. “And if I don't?”
Mydeimos scoffs, tilting his head. “Then you will die, either by my hand or by others, without knowing.”
“Well. What is life without risks?” Phainon says, smiling with ease. He decides to raise a hand, an offering to the prince, no, to the other captain, as a seal of their deal.
Mydeimos drops his gaze to his hand. Then, it slowly rises again at him. He ends up mimicking the gesture, raising his hand to take his, giving it a brief shake. His fingers squeeze his palm tightly, and the smile on Phainon’s face turns into a grin because of it.
He takes advantage of the grip to bring his bloodied lips to the captain’s stainless knuckles, closing his eyes as he leaves a kiss over them. It is merely a brush, but he presses hard enough for its sensation to last longer.
“I accept the challenge.”
The moment his mouth leaves the skin, Phainon lifts his head again, meeting golden eyes that stare at him in disbelief. It's subtle, maybe it is just the sun, but Phainon swears on his life that he sees a slight flush beneath his eyes.
With that, he takes a step back, turning around to face Hephaestion, who is staring at him as if ready to end his life. Cyrene, on the contrary, has her brows raised in curiosity.
Showing a smile to both, he raises his hands in false innocence. “Alright, alright! We are done here today.”
Phainon gestures to Cyrene with a tilt of his head, enough for her to understand the command. Answering with a nod, she lets out a loud whistle, ending the sounds of commotion on the deck. “Everyone! Lower your weapons and jump into the boats!”
From the bow, Phainon hears shouts of approval, the signal to withdraw.
He takes that opportunity to retreat backwards until his boots get wet from the waves that rise higher into the ship, soaking the floor. Phainon leaps onto the wooden railings, balancing himself, to share a final wink with the other captain. The winds blow his blood-stained clothes like a flag, carrying his farewell words before he jumps backwards into the water.
“I can’t wait until our next encounter, my dear Mydeimos!”
───── ☸ ─────
The next encounter happens sooner than Mydeimos anticipates.
Their current location is the middle of a market in Aidonia, a small seaside town far to the east, where death is revered and outsiders are unwelcome. It's excellent for avoiding marines or foolish pirates, as well as for finding supplies that can last at least two months.
The sandy ground leaves the mark of his footsteps as Mydeimos approaches a fruit stand—green and red apples, oranges, and grapefruit, among others. Their skin is shiny as a ship's hull, the color even gleams in the sun. It looks and smells fresh. A straw basket full of pomegranates catches his fancy out of the corner of his eye. He moves closer, picking one to trace the shape with his fingers.
If he took a basket, he could try to get some goat milk to blend it. Ah. But milk at the open sea lasts no more than three sunsets. Mydeimos sighs, dispelling his disappointment with a slight tilt of his head towards the seller. “I’ll take a basket of pomegranates.”
“That will be fifteen coins, sir.”
He reaches the small bag hanging from his belt, shaking the coins down on his palm to start counting them with his fingers. Until, like bells warning of danger, a clattering sound makes him lose count. He catches a glimpse of a hand displaying a bunch of coins against the wood of the stall, long calloused fingers tapping the table.
“There you go, seventeen coins! The last two are a gift.”
A voice comes from his side. Mydeimos follows that arm as it leads to silver hair, light as the moon's reflection. Blue eyes are staring at him, garnished with a smile that reaches the bottom of his eyelids.
“Do you come here often, darling?” says Phainon, captain of The Deliverer.
A strange coin among many of the same kind. Its shape is the same, but the engraving is different, irregular to the touch, bringing the eye to land on it even if a hundred others have already been in your hands.
Mydei huffs, visibly amused. “Impressive, Deliverer.”
Phainon raises his chin, seeming pleased with the compliment. “It was not easy to find you. You are like an elusive fish.”
“That's the whole point,” Mydeimos answers. As the seller gathers the coins that Phainon has falsely, courteously offered, he returns his gaze to the ones still in his hand, counting them with his thumb. After that, he grabs the other man’s wrist and flips his hand to put them over his palm. “Seventeen coins. No gifts.”
He sees Phainon stare blankly at the coins, yet before he can notice his gaze moving up again, Mydeimos has already picked up the basket of pomegranates and taken his leave. Unfortunately, not long after a few steps taken, he hears footsteps behind him that soon catch up with his own.
“You won’t accept my generosity? You wound me, Mydei,” Phainon says, lips pouting and a hand on his chest in feigned sadness.
“Mydei?” Mydeimos echoes, giving him a quick sidelong glance. “Ease that confidence, Deliverer.”
“Why? Sounds lovely, like you,” Phainon presses his lips to emphasize the compliment, yet Mydeimos pays him no mind. Not giving him a reaction, the other captain continues, “I thought Kremnoans reinforced friendships by fighting. Since I’m your only current equal, doesn’t that make us friends?”
Mydei ends up tilting his head to grant him a glance. “How are you so certain that you’re the only one?”
Phainon leans to put an arm around his shoulders, bringing their faces closer. Like this, Mydei notices a faint cut on his cheek, probably still healing from their last encounter. “I've been sailing for a long time, searching for you. Of course I know.”
Mydei puts his arm amid them to push him away with his elbow. “Then you should’ve known that those traditions date back thousands of years.”
Even though he retreats, Phainon doesn’t leave his side. He starts circling him, barring his way like a dog seeking attention. “That’s not important. When are we going to pick up where we left off on your ship?”
Mydei takes a sudden stop on his steps, causing their chest to collide. At least, it makes the other man halt. “I said I’d give you another chance, not when.”
Phainon gazes at him, tilting his head as if he didn’t understand the question. Mydei keeps staring at him, watching the quick shift in his expression. How, after a blink, a smirk extends on his face. “Oh, I get it. You're playing hard to get.” There’s a subtle chuckle before he leans closer, and Mydei can feel his breath, reeking of rum, hitting his face when he adds, “That’s fine. You are more alluring like this.”
Mydei narrows his eyes, brows rising in disbelief. He puts a hand on his chest, pushing him away again. “You’re starting to get on my nerves, Deliverer.”
“Then fight me,” Phainon says, as if it were the obvious choice, “when I win, you simply need to tell me where Nikador's treasure is, and it will be over.”
Mydei looks at him, prolonging the silence as if he’s thinking about it. The truth is, his eyes instead travel with curiosity across those insistent blue eyes, clear as the sea beneath good weather, down to that smile that awaits his response.
He ends up parting his lips, catching the slow move of the other man’s eyes, following their move with an anticipation that crashes when he answers, “No.”
He takes one last glimpse at that grin—satisfied with how it drops as fast as an anchor—before he wastes no more words and turns around to walk away. At least, that is his intention until he hears a loud, guttural laugh that even startles the sellers of the stalls nearby.
“I see… I see! I'll have to lead this time.”
Mydei spears him a glance over his shoulder, his brows creasing in confusion at his words. Then, as fast as a ripple flaring, fingers find his neck, almost caressing it, before they sink with pressure, pushing him backward until his feet stumble. He’s forced to take a few steps back, the force of it taking his breath for a second, enough to make the basket of pomegranates slip from his hands. From the corner of his eye, he sees a tricky arm catching up the basket of fruit before it falls, the same way those fingers leave his neck.
Mydei coughs, his breath barely catching again when he turns around, fast like a rush of thunder. “Deliverer!” The name leaves his lips with a sharp groan as he shouts, hot blood pulsing through his veins with anger.
The Deliverer himself smiles at him, his chin raised with satisfaction. Upon his hands rests the basket of pomegranates, tucked under his arm. “If you want me to give you back your fruit, you know what you have to do!”
“Enough with your nonsense. Fighting is not child’s play.” He split out.
Phainon hums, accompanied by the tapping of his nails over the straw. Loud, like an open provocation. “Are you backing out on our deal?”
Mydei resists, even if his teeth clench. “No.”
“Then fight me,” Phainon insists, the smile on his face turning devious, haunting him as he adds, “Unless the prince is getting afraid of losing.”
His jaw tightens so hard it pops out a vein on his neck. He tries, he’s trying to keep his mind calm. Phainon wants to evoke a reaction to achieve his goal. He’s trying to provoke him with pathetic and childish moves. To think that he considered him a worthy equal in that battle. “Read the room. There are locals here.”
In battle, Kremnoans never let themselves be carried away by strong emotions. They could cloud your mind, causing you to rush into the wrong step.
So, he—
“You can read?” Phainon asks abruptly in false amusement.
…
He’s going to kill this guy.
Mydei charges at him like a lion about to tear its prey apart, grabbing his shirt with both hands to lift him off the ground. Phainon lets out a gasp, this time genuine, before he is thrown against one of the stalls, crashing onto a table.
The basket of pomegranates falls to the ground, scattering the fruit. Not what matters right now. Mydei draws one of his swords and lunges at the other captain, forcing him to quickly pull out his own before he drives it into his chest. The seller next to them yells, Mydei even hears a few curses, yet his mind is flooded by that sea of blues shining with anticipation, hungry to strike the next blow.
Everything around him becomes blurred—the market, the voices, the blended smells of food and flowers. Mydei only sees the silhouette of the other man, the same one who halts and matches every move he makes. At one point, Phainon pins him against one of the market tables, his back straight as the end of the steel points at his side.
Mydei rolls over, the sword digging into the wood. The second that Phainon struggles to pull it out is enough for a kick to knock him to the ground, detaching him from the weapon. However, he is not backing up either, delivering another towards him that drives into his knuckles, sending his sword flying from his hands.
Both end up collapsing on the floor, Phainon falling on top of him, with the basket of pomegranates toppled beside their heads. Their breathing sync in rapid pants, their eyes fixed on each other as if drawn together.
As the weight of the other captain releases from his abdomen, Mydei gazes up to find him with his knees braced on either side of his body. Beads of sweat gleam in the sunlight as they fall like small tears down the sun mark on his neck, down his chest.
His skin is slightly flushed on his cheeks and collarbone, and when he glances up, oh, Mydei finds his prey staring at him with even more hunger. Phainon shoots him a smile when their eyes meet, and Mydei decides to ignore how his heart pounds even harder for a few seconds.
“A tie?”
Mydei scoffs. “Can't you go on anymore?”
“Can you?”
He evades the question.
Phainon laughs, his arm reaching out to grab one of the pomegranates lying on the ground. Clenching his fingers around the fruit like a claw, the skin cracks and breaks in his hand, the liquid dripping like blood down his arm.
Mydei follows that red tear, his eyes then shifting to watch how he picks out the arils from inside the fruit, staining his hand, to bring them closer to him. He raises himself on his elbows, meeting halfway a thumb that stops him, landing on his lower lip.
“Since you like pomegranates that much…” Phainon starts, pushing his jaw open to oblige him to take them.
The liquid drips down his chin, landing in drops on his chest. It's blood-like, but sweet, just like he remembers it tasting. However, when his tongue runs over those fingers to catch the seeds, Mydei finds another, saltier taste intruding on his mouth, coming from the Deliverer’s skin.
He notices the lump in Phainon's throat as he swallows, disguised by a smile that shows his teeth. “I expect you to think of me every time you eat them from now on.”
As he swallows the arils, Mydei realizes that he will.
───── ☸ ─────
“Finally! We have it! Aidonia’s wine is among the best on the coast.” Leonnius says, his steps merging with the sound of the three bottles clutching to his chest.
“That lady was kind enough to give us some herbs at half price,” adds Hephaestion, carrying the scent of medicinal herbs in a few jars stored in a cloth bag. “After treating Mydeimos, Perdikkas used almost all our supplies.”
“Speaking of him,” interrupts Peucesta, “Is that not Mydeimos?”
Upon hearing his name, Mydei turns around, revealing traces of crimson smearing his lips and chin, as well as the drops on his chest. A second later, they all stand around him, taking the basket from his hands to ask him in unison about his condition.
“Are you hurt?! Who did this? Was that silver-haired bastard?”
“Calm down, Leonnius. Mydeimos seems stable,” Ptolemy tells him.
“Are you not seeing the market in shambles? It feels as if a tornado hit here.”
Mydei parts his lips but doesn’t speak, partially because his mind is still rumbling in a haze, the other because he’s taken aback due to all of a sudden ruckus. Why is everyone so concerned? Then, a pair of familiar fingers rest on his chin, Perdikka’s, turning up his face. “Your jaw doesn't seem to be broken. Can you talk, Mydeimos?”
“Of course I can,” Mydei answers, his brows frowning in confusion.
He hears sighs of relief beside him.
“Excuse me for a second, Mydeimos,” Perdikkas says before bringing a thumb beneath the skin of his chin, smearing it with the red remains. He guides it to his nose to sniff it, his eyebrows slowly rising in realization. Short after, he turns to the others, raising a hand to hush their murmurs.
“It's pomegranate, not blood. You can calm down.”
“Pomegranate?” Repeats Hephaestion. Mydei notices the baffled look on his face when he turns to him. “Were you that hungry?”
“What are you talking about?” Mydei asks, equally confused.
Seeing everyone staring at his face, he brings a hand to his mouth to touch his lips, watching as his fingers turn red when he wipes them.
Then, realization hits him like a tidal wave.
A few minutes earlier, Phainon had climbed on top of him, staining him with pomegranate and, shortly after, disappeared amid the broken woods of the stalls with a whispered promise of meeting again. Mydei still remembers that smile on his face, that tongue coming to those calloused fingers to clean his own hands of the juice, with a final wink towards him before spinning on his heels and walking away.
“Mydeimos?”
Mydei stares at his hand, his face gradually setting ablaze. With a loud cough, he quickly wipes the rest with the back of his hand. “I'm fine. Let’s head back to the ship.”
“But your face was...”
Before anyone can press further, he turns away and adjusts his coat, starting to walk away with quick steps. He doesn’t even glance back, only hearing footsteps following him among the voices of his crew.
“It's okay if you were hungry. We all get carried away sometimes.”
Mydei starts walking faster. “Let's cease talking for a moment.”
He hopes for the cool air of the shore to calm the heat on his cheeks.
───── ☸ ─────
Phainon, this time, meets Mydei by accident.
The Deliverer docks on the west side of Dolos, a small city on the way to Janusopolis. Many merchants and pirates pay a visit to their streets to rest, eat good food, and drink the best liquor of the coast. People don’t mind wasting their coins in taverns, drinking, or even gambling. However, the sea breeze also brings with it mischievous hands that take the gold away.
Reason why it has also been honored as the city of thieves.
“Everyone, watch your pockets!” Cyrene warns as they pass by the shopping street. Phainon feels an elbow dig into his side as she adds, “especially you.”
“Ouch! What?” Phainon glances at her out of the corner of his eye with a confused frown, his fingers rubbing around his ribs, “Why me? I’m always wary of my surroundings.”
Cyrene huffs, her hands interlacing behind her back as she walks beside him. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’ve been distracted for the last few days. Something’s on your mind.”
Oh, that.
Phainon commits the mistake of slightly changing his expression. A subtle raising of his brows it’s enough to, when he tilts his head to face her, meet a narrowed, teasing gaze, accompanied by a thin smile. “Ah, I get it. It’s not something. It’s someone.”
He finds himself swallowing, fastening his steps.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” He lies, his voice coming out more hoarse than he intends. Unfortunately, he knows. Trying to sound credible, he clears his throat before he adds, “My only thought has been Nikador’s treasure.”
“Right, the treasure,” Cyrene repeats, hiding a giggle in her tone. “Whose location is only known by a certain Kremnoan captain.”
Phainon wrinkles his nose, lips pressed together. “And he’s not making it easy for me.”
In fact, life at the sea has been rough after his last encounter with Mydei.
Nothing has tormented his mind more than those burning golden eyes. He has been feeling sick, dizzy, and extremely aroused.
If he blinks slowly, he can envision that mouth around his fingers again. Inviting, parted lips soaked in juice, sucking them as he eats the seeds. Gods, these past few days have been horrible. Absolutely wretched.
He has been unable to cease the memories of that tongue curling around, sucking his fingers as if they were a treat. It has haunted his dreams, driving him to picture the warmth of that mouth enveloping his cock instead. Those eyes, once fierce, now appear in his thoughts half-lidded, glancing up at him, teary-eyed, while he slowly swallows him whole. Phainon always rolls his hips in those dreams, disappearing past glistening lips that eagerly devour him until it hits the deepest part of the other man’s throat.
“—inon?”
The same man whose gaze lights up like the spark of a cannon, burning with a smile that twists into a grin the moment his sword almost grazes his skin. It’s addictive. Overflowing. Phainon only wants Nikador’s treasure. That’s his goal. He’s just fooling around, taunting the exiled prince until he submits.
That’s all it is. This is just—
“Phainon!”
Cyrene's voice vanishes his daze, the images of the golden-haired man dissolving like a wave into the sand. He feels a hand tug his arm, causing him to snap his head towards it. Phainon blinks, slowly, until he starts to be aware of his surroundings. He realizes that his steps had halted, who knows when, causing them to stand in the middle of a street.
Cyrene’s expression has changed, her big eyes conveying sincere concern. “Are you sure you feel alright?”
“Huh? Ah, yes! Yes, uhm, I just…” Phainon tries to find the words, yet as he gazes at her, he realizes he doesn’t have any. Only a resigned sigh ends up escaping his lips, his eyes casting down to her hand. As he takes it gently, he moves her away. “Sorry, I just need a drink.” His words carry an apologetic smile before he turns around, “Let's meet later.”
Phainon pretends not to hear his sister calling his name in the distance when his steps quicken, heading toward one of the alleys.
He walks like a man in the desert, desperately searching for that oasis, that liquor that will help cloud his mind. He wants his thoughts null, black as the bottom of the ocean. Until he can’t remember anything, not even that low, attractive voice calling him the Deliverer of nothing.
After turning a corner, he is welcomed by a commotion of people in the distance, accompanied by the clinking of glasses in sync with music. Raising his head, he catches a glimpse of a tavern in a corner, unseen by the light of day. The street carries a strong smell of alcohol, vomit, and sweat. Perhaps that is the right place to lose yourself.
As he resumes his steps, something suddenly catches his arm and drags him back. He halts abruptly, turning his head to meet the slight figure of a woman. Her face seems sculpted in porcelain, pale and smooth. Almond eyes gaze at him beneath long, curved eyelashes, fluttering as their eyes meet. Her hair bears an old gold color, quite similar to a certain person, although duller.
Phainon stares at her, visibly confused. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Yes,” the woman utters with a sigh. She leans her torso closer, pressing her weight against his arm. “You see, I came here sailing on a merchant ship, accompanied by boring, impolite brutes.” A pause, where Phainon feels her hands coming to rest on his. “I would love to have the company of someone who knows the sea better. A loyal, brave, and exciting man who can tell me his stories.”
Silence spills like a ripple.
This woman has no idea what pirates are like.
“Forgive me, I don’t think I would be the best company,” he answers, stepping aside to take some distance.
“Why not?” She asks, tilting her head. Her hands seek his wrist, trying to retake a grip on him. “Does your mind already have someone?”
Phainon raises his arm, not allowing himself to be touched. Even so, he still wears a smile. “Yes,” he confesses in a low voice.
“Yet you are here alone, my dear.” Her eyes glow with interest, like a siren who has found a weak spot to catch her prey. “I can be your company today,” she continues, voice almost purring when she adds, “I can even help you forget her.”
Unfortunately for her, Phainon is deaf to those enchants. “Him.”
Her endearing facade suddenly falters. She takes a step back, confusion invading her face with a blink. “Pardon?”
“It’s a man,” Phainon clarifies, his voice carrying complete sincerity. With her sudden retreat, he catches her lips slightly quivering. He takes hold of his hat, offering her a brief nod. “Excuse me, but I must leave. I hope you find someone to spend a lovely day with.”
The woman’s face sets ablaze, shame turning her pale skin crimson.
Phainon hears a shout in the distance, yet it fades with the loud chanting of drunk men as he enters the tavern.
The smell of rum welcomes him as soon as he steps inside. Music blends with voices that speak of tales of the sea, creating a raucous tune. There are filled glasses and empty bottles, accompanied by laughter and clapping. While others take the darker corners, where secrets are bought, others drink breaths as passionate moments.
Phainon averts his eyes, heading to the bar.
As soon as his gaze drops to the wooden stools there, his heart misses a beat. Blue eyes widen, the word suddenly buzzing when he catches the silhouette of a black and red coat. The gold jewelry on that wrist shimmers with the faint light of the lanterns, reflecting on a half-empty glass. He must be hallucinating. Perhaps the smell of alcohol has already intoxicated him.
Dolos is a city with thousands of taverns to take refuge—there’s no way he’s here. Yet Phainon would never mistake that golden hair. Even if he shuts his eyes, he would be able to find him in an empty chamber just by the sweet scent he carries around. He feels like an enchanted man, his feet walking on their own.
A man is sitting next to him, his body already gone as he lies unconscious above the bar. Phainon grabs the collar of his coat, his nose wrinkling as the stench of alcohol reaches him. He drags him back with a quick pull, throwing the man onto the floor. The loud thud the body makes when it hits the ground doesn't catch anyone's attention, not even the person beside him.
Phainon passes over the man to sit down in his place, cross-legged. While resting one elbow on the bar, he leans forward until he can see better the profile of the other captain, outlined by the shadows produced by the flicker of lanterns above him. Not even three bottles of rum can save him from the way those eyes look at him when Mydei turns his face.
Phainon doesn’t even blink. All he does is watch the other captain's eyes widen at the sight of him.
He answers his surprise with a smile. “Did you miss me?”
Mydei's features relax soon after he speaks, his fingers leaving the drink to turn fully toward him. One of his forearms rests on the bar, presenting his full attention.
Ah, what a perilous move.
“What are you doing here, Deliverer?” Mydei asks.
“Can't I decide to have a drink too?” Phainon says, his gaze shifting from his face to the glass next to the other man. The ice inside is melting, floating around an amber liquid. “I didn’t know you were fond of rum.”
“I’m not, it’s juice,” Mydei answers, as if it were obvious, “It's the only place that serves drinks with no alcohol.”
“So the rumors of the prince having a special palate were true, huh?” Phainon teases, a faint chuckle escaping his lips between words.
He raises a hand to catch the bartender’s attention, pointing to one of the bottles as he whispers an order. Shortly after, a filled glass slides next to him.
“I don't enjoy the aftertaste of it,” Mydei confesses, his gaze casting down to the drink he just ordered.
Phainon brings his glass to brush his lips, taking a sip under the gaze of the other captain. For some reason, the taste of this one doesn’t feel enough. “A shame, it helps not to think sometimes.”
“I can tell by your inability to do it.”
Phainon snorts as he takes another sip, this one longer. “How cruel. Your words wound more than your swords.”
Mydei rolls his eyes, landing on his own drink again. “Even so, sometimes it wouldn’t hurt to have something to shut my mind, too.”
“Oh? Is something bothering the prince’s mind?”
“Many,” Mydei mutters, golden eyes returning once again to glance at his. “Especially one next to me.”
Phainon breathes a faint laugh, his head inclining to rest his cheek on his fist, “Ah, to be in your thoughts is such an honor.”
“Hm. Your false flattery never ceases.”
“It was never false,” Phainon clarifies, too quickly. Words carry the taste of rum, whispering to him thoughts of daring. “I’m not a man who pays empty praises.”
Mydei huffs, the wood of the bar creaking when he digs his arm to lean closer. “And what do you gain from that?”
“Your attention,” Phainon answers faster than he intends to, “and from what I see, I’ve succeeded.”
“No tricks will take you to know Nikador’s whereabouts, only one victory,” Mydei says.
“I know,” Phainon breathes, “that’s our deal.” A pause, where his tongue wanders to wet his lips. He catches Mydei lowering his gaze to them, and he blames the alcohol for making him do the same with him. “But there are other, how to say it, methods for a fair challenge.”
He hears Mydei’s exhale quiver for a second. “Feeling insecure about your sword skills?”
Phainon can feel them closer, their faces mere a palm part.
“No,” he utters, almost a whisper. “Just testing new waters.”
Their stares hold together.
The sound of a glass breaking can be heard in the background, voices rising in unison. A lantern flickers, casting shadows on their faces. Phainon can smell, taste, and feel the alcohol, yet nothing brings a reaction from him as it does the rare smile that peeks from Mydei’s lips.
It crashes into him, like the grabs of a siren, drowning him. No. It’s worse. Drowning in the ocean would take less of his breath away than Mydei’s words brushing his face when he says, “Go on, show me. I’m not going to make it easy for you.”
Phainon’s grin can rival that of a madman. “I wouldn't accept it any other way.”
───── ☸ ─────
By the time Phainon remembers to breathe, his skull hits the stone wall of a closed avenue with a loud thud. Pain spreads like a sharp wave through the neck to his back, all dissolving when his eyes meet fiery gold ones for a second. The chants of the tavern are no more than a haunting whisper, while Mydei’s grip on his wrist when he dragged him through the streets still lingers hot on his skin. His vision soon turns dim, hands grasping the collar of a coat before lips crash together, stealing his next breath.
Phainon has never had anyone else take his mouth, nor has he ever felt the desire to. At least, until now. Mydei kisses him with the same inexperience he returns, neither of them speaking on it, too busy moving their lips in imperfect rhythm. It’s messy, it’s rushed, their mouths are pressed together with an urge that could bruise Mydei’s mouth by how hopelessly he’s devouring him.
Teeth crash against each other, noses bumping with every approach, yet neither of them cares. Even Phainon groans when a tooth scratches his upper lip, responding with a bite on those tender lips. Mydei parts for a second, taking a breath that he drinks like a thirsty man lost in the ocean.
Mydei tastes of tea with subtle vanilla, the bitter remains of alcohol in his mouth melting with the hint of saltiness stuck on the other captain's lips—the kisses of the ocean breeze. He feels his breath, hot and racing against his face, along with his nose sinking into his cheek, while he tilts his head to reach better.
A noise escapes Mydei’s mouth, near a stifled moan, muffled between stolen breaths. He hums pleased against his lips, that sound alone making him dizzier than the lack of air. With the pass of each kiss, their lips get smeared with the blend of their saliva, creating a thin thread that connects their mouths when he draws away for a second.
As soon as he looks up, Phainon's throat goes dry with a quivered breath. Mydei’s gaze focuses on him again with a blink, cheeks flushed and lips glistening. His eyes follow a tongue that peeks out to lick them, golden eyes dropping fast to his mouth with a hunger that stirs heat beneath his lower abdomen.
He raises a hand to grab his hat—it has been annoying him by hitting Mydei’s forehead every time their mouths meet—to toss it far away. Seconds after it falls to the ground, he feels fingers sink into his hair, long nails digging deep into his scalp, eliciting a hiss from his lips.
Phainon leans again, moving his mouth lower to kiss his chin, pressing against the lump of his throat until his teeth nip the skin there. He feels the vibration of Mydei’s groan against his lips, the grip on his hair tightening until it pushes his head back. Phainon growls as a complaint, their eyes meeting.
Mydei's frown is immediate. “Who said you can leave a mark on me?”
Phainon breathes a laugh, raising his hands to grab the ones tugging on silver locks. He places a brief bite on them, teasing, feeling the slight twitch of their fingers beneath his lips. Mydei doesn’t know how much he wants to paint that salty skin with red and bruised purple, until getting dressed aches so bad he can only walk bare.
“Why not? Are you afraid that people will find out you submitted to me?”
“You think you are the one in control here?” Mydei scoffs, breaking free from his hold to grab the collar of his coat tightly, “This doesn’t get you anywhere near victory.”
“Of course. I may be at a slight disadvantage in terms of experience,” Phainon confesses, his body taking a step closer until their chests bump together, his back getting away from the wall, “but I learn fast.”
His hands travel down to find the hem of Mydei’s shirt inside his coat, lifting the fabric to press his fingers there. He is warm, too warm, his palms might melt from a single touch. Despite his boldness, the placement of his hands reveals his hesitation. Mydei seems to notice, as he feels those eyes piercing his face. He waits for any reaction, yet the other captain does not give him the satisfaction he seeks, trying to look unfazed. Even so, his body betrays him, shivering at the touch of his fingers.
“You speak as if we weren’t on the same page,” Mydei suddenly says.
Phainon breaks his sharp stare with a sudden blink, confusion taking his face. “What?”
“Why are you surprised, Deliverer? There’s no time for this on the open sea,” Mydei’s grip on his collar tightens, pulling his body closer, if that is even possible. “Not even out here, so let’s make this quick.”
Phainon, whose jaw dropped open just a second ago, shuts with a huff. He’s unable to contain the smile that spreads across his face, revealing his bliss. Mydei, Mydeimos, the undying, feared captain. A man with a face and body worthy of worship, possessing a strength capable of ripping someone's arm, has given him the privilege to touch him. He says there’s no time, yet he gives him a moment. It’s thrilling, risky. This man gets his blood pumped more than sailing in the middle of a thunderstorm.
As he wets his lips, his fingers dig even deeper into that red-marked skin. “You can’t blame me, it’s hard to believe with a body like yours.”
Mydei tries to open his mouth, perhaps to complain about his flattery again, yet his words end up drowning in a broken exhale when Phainon, too impatient, rolls their hips together.
“I’m honored, you know,” Phainon breathes, his face leaning towards the crook of his neck. No teeth are scratching the skin this time—he’s kind enough to consider Mydei’s words—instead, lips land there to leave open-mouthed kisses, slow, sloppy, persistent. “I will make sure that your body will only be satisfied with me.”
He catches, over the corner of his eye, the way Mydei bites his bottom lip upon hearing his words. “Who says I’ll let you—”
A gasp cracks his voice when Phainon suddenly turns him around, throwing him against the wall. Mydei’s back makes a loud thump when it collides with the rigid stone, raising his head just in time before a forearm presses against his neck, keeping him there. It’s harsh, delirious. A thrust of his hips makes Mydei’s body twitch, pressed against him.
“Oh, you’ll let me,” Phainon says, ignoring the itching on his arm as Mydei’s fingers scratch his skin, digging his nails to break free. Another roll of his hips spreads the heat under his navel, the increasing bulge in their pants hard to deny. “You’ll beg me to do it.”
“Keep, hah—dreaming,” Mydei spits out.
There’s a shift in Mydei’s eyes. Phainon can’t catch what it is before he feels a leg wrap around him, making their hips meet halfway. Mydei starts grinding into him—fast, ruthless, with purpose. The building pleasure caused by the friction of their clothed erections falters his smile, his arm leaving his neck to rest on the wall instead.
Mydei lets out a faint chuckle, echoing between them. Phainon sees him rest his head against the wall, a grin appearing on his face, “A change on the rudder, and you’re already crumbling? How embarrassing, Deliverer.”
Phainon raises his brows in amusement, the edges slightly trembling with the persistent, non-stop rub of their cocks with every roll of Mydei’s hips. So that’s his deal. He wants to drown him first. This is their challenge. Fine, this makes things even more interesting. If Mydeimos wants to make him walk the plank, he’s going to ensure that he sinks first.
A shaky laugh escapes his lips, thrusting to meet Mydei’s motions, seeking that friction. “You seem—hah—more desperate than I, clinging to me like an animal in heat.”
Mydei’s eyelids flutter, his thigh pushing Phainon closer to him. “Shut up… and come already.”
“Why? Are you in a hurry?” Phainon asks, his voice a little strained.
Mydei’s hands cling to his clothes like a claw, his brows quivering, “We are in the middle of a street. Have, ah—some dignity.”
He notices Mydei’s leg losing strength, slipping slowly from his hip. Phainon lowers a hand to grab his thigh and hold him steady, each thrust making their chest collide. The garments adorning Mydei’s chest tinkle with every move above his skin, composing a lustful melody.
“Getting shy now, Your Highness?” Phainon teases, leaning his face forward until their foreheads touch, sweat sticking to their bangs. “I’m only savoring this moment…” A pause, his voice coming lower when he adds, “I can make you lose whenever I want.”
Mydei huffs, a hand coming to grab his nape, nails digging there. “I would like to see you try.”
Phainon's smile turns into a grin.
With hands rising to grip his shoulders, he pulls him away from the wall to turn him around. The other captain’s feet stumble with the spin, the loud hit of his face against the wall echoing in the empty street, followed by a low groan. Phainon pins him with his weight, one hand grabbing his shoulder to keep him still.
It’s not easy, Mydei is trying to fight back with his hands pushing off the wall, almost matching his force. One slip could drive him to get knocked to the ground, so he wastes no time in thrusting his hips again, his cock rubbing against the perfect curve of his ass.
Brushing hair aside from his nape, he presses his lips there, smiling against the skin when he feels Mydei shiver beneath him. “This was easier than I thought.”
An elbow appears above his face, attempting to hit him. His reflexes manage to dodge it, his head pulling back with a chuckle. “Careful, darling. If you hit my mouth, I won’t be able to kiss you.”
“You—ah—” Mydei's words fade away as soon as his hand moves down to the belt of his pants, fingers moving quickly to undo and make them fall to his knees. Phainon has to bite his lip to avoid being too obvious about how much he dreamed of touching him bare.
His hand closes into a fist over his cock, pretty, hard, throbbing, and already leaking with pre-cum. He wets his fingers with it to spread it across his shaft with a few strokes, slow and tempting strokes, watching as the other captain’s resistance begins to slacken. Mydei's cheek rests against the wall, his teeth sinking into his upper lip to silence any sound. A hand comes to grab his hold, yet Mydei’s grip speaks for him by how weak it is.
“Hah… You are enjoying this,” Phainon points out with a smile.
Mydei shoots him a sidelong, murderous look. “As if. You are… terrible at this.”
“Right,” Phainon snorts, the moves on his cock becoming unsteady for a moment as his attention shifts to undo his own pants. “Let’s make this worse, then.”
“Fuck—ngh—you. You are not going to—”
“I know,” Phainon interrupts him, a sigh escaping his lips the moment he feels the air kiss his hard cock, the head brushing against the gap of Mydei’s cheeks. “I’m not going to give you everything here.”
To explain his words, he guides his cock to the gap between his legs, sliding himself until he feels his shaft disappear against muscular thighs, almost making him moan. “This is just a treat.”
With short, tentative thrusts, he starts rolling his hips against the flesh, returning his attention to the other captain’s cock to mimic his moves. A few more attentive strokes, and Mydei’s pants become easily audible, shocking in a moan when he presses his thumb against the tip.
Unlike his wrist, his hips move slowly, as if he were just testing those warm muscles. Even so, it’s hard to hold back. Phainon would love to grab his hips and use those thighs until the friction reddens the skin. Until Mydei could speak nothing but words of pleading.
Yet he can’t, he mustn’t.
He can feel victory over his soaked fingers, the vibration of Mydei's body with certain moves of his hand telling him he’s almost there. As he raises his head to him, he catches his brows quivering when his fingers stroke at a specific pace.
“Is this how you like it?” He asks, the muffled moan that Mydei lets out by biting his lip being his answer. “I see, like this.” To amend his words, he quickens his wrist, just as it pleases him.
“Shut—hah—up,” Mydei murmurs, his lips painted with blood from how hard his fangs have dug into them.
“When I win…” He pauses, wetting his lips before leaning over to kiss his ear, his teeth catching the earring before licking over his lobe, “I’ll take you as a captive to my ship… Fuck you from dawn to dusk over my desk.”
Fuck. Just the thought of it makes his cock pulse against those thighs, his thrusts almost raising his pace.
Mydei’s body jerks as an answer.
“You still think… You are winning this?” Mydei asks under his breath.
Phainon is going to say yes, he is. He’s the one making him shake only with the touch of his hand. Yet, before he can answer, those soft and rigid muscles close around his cock, feeling Mydei moving his hips to slide his shaft against his thighs. Phainon’s breath turns into a moan, the sudden, rapid friction setting a blaze across his body like a ripple.
“Fuck… Mydei,” He breathes, his hips betraying him by meeting his moves.
Mydei huffs, a trembling smile peeking out from the side of his face. “You bark too much just to be a whining dog.”
Phainon can’t help but laugh, moving his hand faster over his cock as a response. He strokes him almost to the point where the rub over his palm starts to make his skin ache. Mydei arches his back, the change of pace causing his legs to begin shaking, making him feel the vibration every time his cock disappears between those firm thighs. “You’re good, I admit it. Too good, fuck, Mydei, you feel so…”
Perfect. There’s no other word to describe it.
Mydei is moving his body like he longs for it, every thrust causing their skin to slap against each other. Phainon has forgotten that they are in the middle of a street until the echo of their lewd sounds rings in his ears.
Anyone could turn the corner and catch sight of them. Not just him, but Mydei. Mydei, with his cock dripping and pulsing onto his hand. Mydei, whose body screams how much he enjoys the way he is touching him. A thumb presses over the head, and Mydei parts his lips, his moan getting muffled in time by his hand covering his mouth.
“Shh... Your voice like this is only for me to hear.” He speaks in a whisper, breath quivering against his ear.
Mydei tries to answer, only to end up panting against his hand, his breath hot and saliva coating his palm. Phainon feels it as much as he senses the pleasure rising like a tidal wave, making his hips move on their own, close, so close to being consumed by that heat. Like a drop about to shed, his self-control hangs on a thin thread.
So, before it breaks, he works on Mydei’s cock faster, feeling his body trembling as a response. His hand moves to grab his own, pushing it down from his mouth.
Mydei's head tilts to the side, trying to look at him over his shoulder. “Wait, fuck—”
“Come on… Fall apart, darling.”
Mydei throws his head back, and he makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. That shiny gold, once fierce, now gazes with a glimpse of watery, his eyelashes trembling, one blink from being gone.
“Phainon—” His name slips amid a moan, quivering from those bloodied, bruised lips.
Shit.
Phainon leans, Mydei meets him halfway, lips crushing together.
Pleasure overflows, and his body floods.
Phainon finds his release with a rogue wave of pleasure that spreads all over his body, taking his breath as he drowns in it. He spurts everything between Mydei’s legs, staining thighs in white until it leaks down his legs like tears. At the same time, Mydei falls apart against him, back arching like a bow as he shoots everything onto the wall, the rest soaking his hand. Phainon keeps working on him while he’s still pulsing on his fingers, until his body ceases its tremors, and he gets dry of pleasure.
His hips do a few more thrusts on those abused muscles, allowing himself to float in that sensation. Until the waters calm after the storm, and the fog dissipates from his reason. Mydei turns around, his body slumping against the wall. Their eyes meet, and Phainon realizes that this has ended in another tie.
Reality aches worse than a stab on his chest, even if the thrill, the smell of their intimacy, still lingers in the air. There are no afterward kisses or whispers of affection, nor the aftercare of a limp body. With calm breaths and a piece of cloth cleaning the proof of their encounter out of Mydei’s body, clothes go back on, neither of them speaking a word.
As he crouches down to pick up his hat, he hears the sound of Mydei's boots receding behind him. He’s leaving, just like that. Without pressing further on what has happened, or whether it will happen again. Wait. Why would it happen again? There are no ties, no feelings. Mydei could do this with another if he pleases. A bitter feeling overwhelms him as he looks over his shoulder to witness a back that moves away.
Gods, no. That’s not it.
His body acts on its own, rushing steps echoing through the street walls until a hand grabs the other captain’s wrist. When Mydei turns around, he meets a face frowning with confusion. Phainon opens his mouth, words leaving in the form of a sigh.
“I want to see you again.”
The words sink into him, his eyes widening with the same surprise Mydei’s gaze shows, his brows rising in surprise. An unreasonable confession. Once they are over, they disappear. Until he finds him again. Until they face each other with nothing but their swords. Phainon cast his eyes down, expecting him to shake his hand away, to dismiss his words with rejection, and turn away.
Silence hits him, yet he doesn’t.
Instead, he sees Mydei’s step closer, feeling a hand on his cheek that causes his head to snap up. A blink, before lips press against his, stealing his thoughts, doubts, breath. Fangs dig deep into his lower lip, painfully tearing the flesh until he tastes metal and swallows blood. A crimson tear slips from the corner of his mouth, falling onto his chin. When Mydei steps away, Phainon drops his gaze to those lips stained with his blood, blending with the remains of his own dried.
“If you manage to find me before this wound heals,” Mydei speaks, quiet despite confident, “I'll reveal Nikador's treasure whereabouts.”
A deal.
Phainon stays there, as if their feet had taken root, while Mydei turns around to soon disappear into a corner, the sound of his jewelry and heels gradually fading away. A second, or perhaps several minutes, may pass before it hits him. A huff turns into a laugh, clean, genuine, until it empties his lungs. His lips spread a smile on his face as he blows a kiss into nothing, hoping the breeze will help him be received.
“See you tomorrow, Mydeimos.”
A promise.