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If someone asked Phainon when he got the idea, he’d answer that it was while he was in the middle of trying to pick the lock to a family heirloom.
The box was old, from several generations before his grandparents. Made of wood carved from what must have been the predecessors of the trees that are plentiful around the outskirts of Aedes Elysiae, symbols of wheat carved into the sides. The lock itself is iron, covered in rust. He sweats a bit as he jostles the lockpick, tongue poking out of his lips as works slowly.
“Ahhh, you’re killing me here Deliverer Boy!” Cipher drawls, lazing across from him on the wooden chair in his parent’s kitchen, “Just get it over with! Or leave it to a real expert! That’s me, by the way, but I claim 70% profit for opening it.”
“Lady Cipher,” He says, much more calmly than he feels, “I hold the weight of my ancestors in my hands. Please let me concentrate.”
Perhaps this was his fault for thinking this was a good idea. When he decided that he wanted to find his true calling after Era Nova, he’d gone around asking his fellow Heirs for any ideas. So far, he’d tried Tribbie’s suggestion of fortune teller (he could read the cards just fine, but apparently telling people that they made their own fate was the opposite of what he should be doing). Next up was Lady Cipher’s suggestion of locksmithing.
He really, really, should have realised when she said locksmithing, she meant lockpicking.
To open puzzle chambers and locked treasure chests, she said. Well, he did enjoy his relics, so there was no reason to refuse! He just didn’t think that his first real attempt would be an old box that his mother dug up from beneath the floorboards. Passed down from her great, great, great, great grandmother, she said. Stressed out that he was going to accidentally destroy a piece of family history, Phainon was.
Beside him, his father guffaws heartily. “The Hero of Amphoreus, bested by a box?” He claps Phainon’s shoulder - Phainon suppresses a shriek as the pick jostles at a terrible angle.
“Dad! This is an ancient relic of our family! An irreplaceable treasure!” He delicately cradles the box to his chest, “The slightest mistake means we lose whatever’s inside!”
“No need for the dramatics dear, we could just pry it apart with force if that happens,” His mother says, amused, a hand on her husband’s shoulder as a gentle sign to stop bullying their son.
“No! Anything but that!” Phainon busies himself again with the lock. Another five minutes pass of careful listening, brows furrowed. With one final click, the lock creaks open.
“Well done Deliverer Boy~” Cipher is on her feet as soon as she hears the release, eyes sparkling, “What’s inside?? Gold? Jewels? A deed to the town?”
With a curious hum, he slowly props the lid open, Cipher crowding him in her eagerness.
Her face fell comically. “Ugh, that’s it?”
There was no sugar coating it; everything inside looked very… rustic. A pressed, dried husk of wheat, an incredibly smooth rock, an old, yellowed piece of paper. He unfurls it, mindful of its age.
Written in shoddy chicken scratch was a letter. Not a grand epic like he’d commonly seen in the Literature courses in the Grove, but simple, the scrawl of a farmboy’s hand. Heartfelt in its emotion, affection and yearning for a lover they couldn’t have because of their differences in status. Signed-
“- Karalos,” His mother breathes, eyes wide. “Oroynx preserve. Part of the generation of the first founders of Aedes Elysiae.”
Phainon bites back a gasp, his shocked expression mirroring his parents. A piece of his family’s history literally right under their noses. He thumbs back to the letter, taking in the name. It’s not the founder of his little town, but the little brother, if he remembers correctly. Never married, but strong bodied enough to be a stalwart defender of the village. Lost in history.
Of course, nothing escapes Cipher’s keen sense of smell for something precious. “Oooh, what do we have here?” Snapping out of his analysis, he looks over to find her holding a simple gold ring.
The words on the page tickle his brain. Unmarried, but not out of lack of willingness it seems. And not only that, but in love with…
The emissary of Zagreus leans over his shoulder, squinting at the words on the paper. “Hmm hmm~ Loverboy wanted to bag Kremnoan royalty! Sound familiar, Deliverer Boy?”
He pointedly ignores her, but that doesn’t stop the gold from rising on his cheeks.
It’s been a month since Amphoreus became real. Not wanting to waste time, he and Mydei immediately found each other out of the Exotale and became lovers. After all, they’d already confirmed their feelings in the Pages Unwritten; what use was there for hesitation? He refused to let their relationship become another casualty to the cycles.
My library has no locks. The key was placed in your hands the moment our promise was made.
Cipher smirks like she knows what she’s thinking about and flicks the ring at him; he catches it deftly, allowing himself a close look at the details. Patterns resembling wheat are molded into the sides, similar to the box. On the inside, there is an inscription of a name, clearly Kremnoan.
Oh, the irony. Karalos was just a man at the end of the day, who loved so deeply, longing for someone he was unable to have, only able to express it through a letter that wouldn’t be sent.
The uncomfortable parallel lances him through the heart. Solemn, the frown is palpable on his boyish face; he tilts his head to catch the glint of the jewelry as it basks in the sunlight, seeing golden hair and amber eyes at the edge of his vision.
A lump catches in his throat. Was he allowed to be so greedy?
As they conclude their business in Aedes Elysiae, he carefully pockets the letter. On the trek back to Ohkema, when he has a spare moment, he pulls it out and reads it carefully, word for word, deep in thought. If Cipher notices, she says nothing, but makes a smug expression like the cat who got the cream.
*************
He doesn’t stop thinking about it, long after he’s back in Ohkema, long after he’s politely turned down any further “legal locksmithing bonding” activities from Cipher.
When his next attempted endeavor is a fashion model for Aglaea, the swish of white robes on one of her garment makers distracts him so thoroughly that the tailor has to snap her immaculate fingers to get his attention.
“Phainon.”
He starts. “Hm?”
She sighs, fond. “Tilt your head back.” She begins dabbing the glitter onto his neck, “What’s going through your mind, child?”
“Nothing,” he answers automatically. Winces, because he’s been trying harder to be more honest. More open. “Okay, maybe something. Sorry.”
Aglaea says nothing, just continues with her work, a signal for him to continue.
“Right,” he says, “I was just thinking.”
She’s moved on to applying the eyeliner now, carefully tracing the crease of his eye.
“Do you think Mydei would want our wedding in Kremnos, or in Ohkema?”
Like he’s slapped her in the face, the final eyeliner stroke goes wild across his temple; Phainon yelps, and Aglaea hurriedly checks if he’s alright, wiping the smudge off his face delicately.
“Phainon,” His mother figure after the annihilation of his village in thirty three million cycles, says, sounding a little hurt, “You proposed and you didn’t tell us?”
“No - no!” he says weakly. He’s not quite used to Aglaea’s face being able to hold the explicit emotion of disappointment. It makes him feel doubly worse. “I’ve just…been thinking about it. A lot.” Aglaea doesn’t need to know how unhealthy this obsession was becoming. Now that the seed has been planted in his mind, he sees it everywhere.
A brief stint as a Dromas Handler as per Professor Anaxa’s suggestion had him shadowing a Kremnoan-Ohkeman couple as they picked their steeds for their wedding. He found himself mentally taking notes on how mixed nation couples handled their marriage ceremony more than the actual care of the dromas.
He helps out with the antique shop during his spare time (trying his hand at being an Auctioneer), and everytime a ring passes through the wares he can’t help but stop, stare, and imagine how it would look on Mydei’s bare second finger. If he had to pick, he’d make the stone blue, the color clashing so harshly with the Prince’s usual red so everyone who sees it would know immediately who had completely claimed Mydeimos’ heart.
The blonde breathes a sigh of relief with his admission. “Well, if anyone could help you, it would be the former demigod of romance, hm?”
His brain boots up, heart pounding hard in his chest. “It’s only been a month and a half since we’ve become flesh and blood. Is this too soon?”
“You’ve always been an impatient child held back by duty,” She chuckles, producing a hair tie from nowhere and ruffling his silver locks affectionately, “If anything, most of the heirs consider you practically married already. Mnestia knows you two have been dancing around each other for ages. Every cycle, we had to go through both of your peacocking, love.”
He has enough shame to blush, unable to meet her amused eyes. Suddenly, he’s immensely grateful that only the heirs truly remembered everything. Everyone else only remembered the most recent cycles, starting with the Trailblazers’ arrival. He doesn’t think he can handle the knowledge of literally everyone remembering being subject to that much of his pining.
Lithe fingers tie his hair back into a ponytail with a soft hum. “Every cycle, I could count on one hand the amount of times you voiced what you wanted, irrelevant of your duties.” With a smile, she slicks half his bangs back with gel, gazing upon her work with a critical eye, “You have no idea how delighted I would be, to see your most ardent wish come true in Era Nova.”
Warmth pools in his chest at her words. He fights his gut instinct to shrink away from the light, and allows himself to bask in it, like floating in a soothing bath. Their love for him is what gave him the courage and strength to make their tomorrow possible. “Thank you.” His words come out thick with affection, and a little shy, “I have some ideas.”
There had been less than ten cycles where he had managed to stumble into a relationship with Mydeimos. Even fewer cycles where they had toed the line with discussing marriage behind locked doors, playing pretend matrimony on the nights they had to part for good, daring to dream of a life together beyond their duty. He wanted. He wants. Oh, does he want.
And he knows Mydeimos does too.
This needs to be perfect.
A polished hand brushes a dash of pink blush across his cheeks, the esteemed Goldweaver nodding in approval. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll inform Castorice. I’m sure she’ll have plenty of ….suggestions for your vision.”
Phainon beams. “Of course! I know Castorice has been growing some special flowers in her spare time, and I have a great spot where we can plant them for the proposal! I was thinking of purple and yellow hyacinths, because they have a special meaning for the two of us-”
Aglaea’s whole face twitches with barely concealed regret.
**************
It’s unsurprisingly, surprisingly easy to goad Mydeimos into taking part in his idea.
He had put off trying to learn to be a professional chef until Mydeimos returned to Ohkema from Kremnos. As much as he missed the man dearly, it only served his own purposes well. His absence gives him plenty of time to lay his plans out unimpeded. It’s been two months since his conversation with Aglaea and most of the heirs banded together under her guidance to see his vision through. Despite their creative differences, Aglaea has given him full control of how the plan would unfold. Now all that was left to do was to pick a date and somehow get Mydei to agree to come with him.
Today, his love has returned to his side, and he’s set aside the entire day to bask in his presence. For the day, their arena of choice is Mydei’s kitchen.
With a steady hand and an overly complicated flourish, Phainon slices his way through the heads of lettuce in front of him, his own speedy rhythm only matched by the expertise in which Mydei peels and dices the potatoes with his trusted ceremonial blade.
To his utter delight, their status of lovers has changed nothing about the competitive nature of their relationship.
“Has peace rendered you slower with the blade, Mydeimos?” He taunts, sweat dripping down his brow as he continues his breakneck pace, slicing his way through the last of the vegetables needed for his dish.
Mydei grunts, deboning a whole fish in one masterful slice, “With those wide, showy knife cuts of yours, and the way you wag your tongue so much, you seem to enjoy wasting your energy.”
Okay, so it’s less of him learning, and more of him goading his lover. A little bit of heat in the kitchen never hurt anyone. He can’t help himself, Mydei is unfairly good looking in an apron. Plus, now he has a brilliant idea.
“It’s called finesse, your Highness. You would understand if you had a romantic bone in your body.”
“There’s no word for romance in the Kremnoan langua-”
“Yes, yes, no words for kissing, hand holding, or serenading in the Kremnoan language. Cuddling is out of the question for the Kremnoan lexicon. The mighty warriors of Kremnos fear long, moonlit walks on the beach.”
There’s a prolonged, awkward silence after that, only filled by the salad tongs tossing the vegetables in the salad bowl and the sizzling of the pan as Mydei flash fries the fish, a frown on his face that is more contemplative than actually upset. Phainon waits, biting back the smile on his lips as he whisks the dressing together in a small, separate bowl. Any minute now.
“...Kremnoans aren’t afraid of romance.”
Somehow he resists the urge to double over laughing. Too easy. Professor Anaxa would be proud. “Oh?” He puts on his best innocent-looking face, and turns to give his lover a bright, polished smile. “So you say. Shall we put that to the test?”
A fleeting, careful look is given to him by the Prince from his place by the fire. The fish is flipped, crispy side up. “State your terms.” He fights to keep the excitement off his face, to keep Mydei at an arm's length from his true thoughts.
“A week from now,” Phainon states, attempting to keep his voice cool and unaffected even as his nerves wreak havoc on his pulse, “I’ll take you on an outing so romantic, Mnestia would turn green from envy. If you enjoy yourself, you’ll think about adding romance to that dictionary.”
Mydei looks at him like he knows exactly what he’s trying to do. “Hmm,” he says.
Phainon swallows, the fake smile frozen to his face and mouth dry as he tries to look completely nonchalant. Did he blow the surprise already?
“...Very well. I accept your challenge.”
The sudden, sharp relief he feels melts the tension in his body. “It’s a date, Mydeimos.” He declares, grin bright and boyish. He can’t stop smiling as they plate the food and set the table.
“Hmph,” Mydei says, mouth twitching, like he’s been terribly inconvenienced by this bet.
And yet, that night Phainon’s cup never runs dry, he’s given all the juiciest veggies in the salad, and the biggest, most delectable bites of fish stew. Unprompted, Mydei even quickly whips up one his favorite desserts after the meal, humming happily all the while.
Yeah, Phainon thinks, as he scarfs down a perfectly baked slice of Milopita, drunk on honeybrew and love. This is it. This is what he wants to look forward to for the rest of his life.
**************
The day of reckoning feels like the morning before going to war.
There’s an underlying tension in the air as he fiddles with his collar; his shirt feels far too tight on him. He takes a deep, steadying breath to remind himself that no, his shirt hadn’t changed sizes in the past hour. His hair is fine and he needs to stop messing with it or he’d ruin his hard work styling it. Opens and closes the velvet box to make sure, for the tenth time, that the ring is actually inside.
He’s been in life or death battles before. Been in plenty of do-or-die debates as well. He’s been practicing his speech daily in preparation, like sharpening his Dawnmaker before an exceptionally onerous mission. There’s a plan, it’s in place, and he clings to it like a lifeline.
He paces circles on the doorstep one more time to get rid of the nerves. Deep breaths. Clears his throat, puts on the perfect Deliverer smile that puts the sun to shame. Then he knocks on the door.
Which opens immediately, and the shock immediately blanks his mind, has him grasping for words, “Mydeimos. How- how long were you-”
“You agonise loudly,” Is what he gets in return. Mydei leans against his door frame like a predator assessing prey, taking in Phainon’s stiff posture with a frown, “What’s wrong?”
A swell of affection rises from within his chest. Mydei’s attention, his concern is all focused on him and he relishes in it. Still, Phainon can’t help himself. “Nothing. I’m just a little worried that the Prince of the Kremnoans might not have a romantic bone in his inconspicuous body. And that he wouldn’t know what to do on a proper date.”
“Oh?” The dangerous venom in Mydei’s voice is laid bare for him, and him alone. He suppresses a delighted shudder. “Shall we? I’m looking forward to seeing what passes as ‘a date blessed by Mnestia herself’ by our esteemed Deliverer.”
Phainon responds in kind with a devious smile, “Then I’ll take the lead, your Highness.” Extending his hand and threading their fingers together, he presses the prince’s knuckles to his lips in reverence, eyes crinkling as he watches Mydei stiffen in shock. Golden eyes stare unabashedly at his mouth, and Phainon feels warm.
Look at me, notice me. I’m your only equal.
Their hands remain entangled on the way out to the market; he can feel the stares and hushed whispers from passersby. Ignoring them, he focuses on dragging Mydei around to all the different stalls, making sure they never lose hand contact for a moment. The other man doesn’t pull away, much to his delight. Mydei was a man of honor, would rather die than break his word, and he’ll gladly take advantage of this one day where he was allowed to touch, be intimate in public. To show all of Ohkema their closeness, even if under the guise of a bet.
“My lords! Wait if you please!” One of the vendors practically shoves free skewer samples into Phainon’s open arms.
“My personal thanks to the Chrysos heirs for seeing us to Era Nova, my lords,” they say earnestly, “And if I may speak, my heartfelt congratulations to you both. It was long overdue.” He gestures to their entwined hands, beaming. Beside him, Mydei makes a sputtering noise.
Phainon smiles radiantly as he draws circles into the back of the hand entwined in his own, “My thanks Euripides!” He looks pointedly at the crown Prince, who looks ready to ask Nikador to lance him where he stands.
“...It was our duty as Chrysos Heirs. No need for the gifts,” Mydei manages, the flush high on face even as he tries to keep a stern demeanor. A pause, and then in a smaller, heartfelt voice, “But…you have my thanks.”
Phainon looks upon him in awe. Adorable.
Clearly, everyone else thinks so too because that one conversation seems to break the wall between them and the folks watching. A crowd forms around them now, equal parts people expressing their gratitude and giving their own congratulations. Ever the people pleaser, he speaks to them all personally, calling them by name, and takes all the gifts that are offered to the point where he nearly drops them all. In his haste, he doesn’t notice Mydei’s mood becomes darker and darker with every new person that interjects.
It’s only after the bell tolls for the transition into action hour that a firm, tattooed hand grasps at his bicep, displeasure rolling at him in waves, “Deliverer. We really should be going.”
Finally, Phainon sees the time, his face turning deathly white.
“Fuck!” He curses, much to the surprise of the crowd and to Mydei. Never in public was he so openly crass. With a deeply apologetic stammer, he pulls the two of them out of the throng of people, away from half of the crowd still clamoring to them.
The first stop on his itinerary was supposed to be to attend a play in the local Amphitheatre. Previously an iliad featuring Cerces’ and Mnestia and their tragic love come to fruition. Terribly romantic, overwhelmingly popular, to Professor Anaxa’s dismay. He was supposed to take Mydei here and make him laugh with a terrible joke and well-timed quip about the comparison between Aglaea and Anaxa. Would have an excuse to lean in close to not disturb the actors and the audience, to admire his lover freely while he was occupied with the show, to whisper close and hot in his ear -
But instead, as they draw up to the theatre, there’s a crowd applauding uproariously to a bowing stage crew.
They’re too late.
Dismay fills his chest as he grows dizzy from the exertion.
Foolish, he thinks, lower lip wobbling from self-condemnation. Stupid. I had one job. Aglaea and Castorice worked so hard to bring this to life and here I am just-
“-verer. Phainon.”
Dazed, he comes back to Mydei staring at him in concern. Their hands are still clasped together tightly. He’s now abundantly aware that he dragged the Kremnoan Crown Prince halfway across the city at a deadman’s sprint, and Mydei not only kept up, but was hardly out of breath for it. That was so…it made him feel so…..
“Hhnggh,” he says aloud, because he can’t quite vocalise how hot he found that.
Titans, he loves this man, the pinnacle of strength in so many ways.
And it’s this sobering fact that’s like a proverbial slap to the face of his misery. At this point, it didn’t matter what his screw up was, whether Phainon believed he was worthy or not. Like the Grove alumni he is, he needed to make the hypothesis and prove his point; Phainon of Aedes Elysiae was the only one worthy of being with Mydeimos, and he’d make sure the other man knew it.
“Well, it looks like we missed the play,” He forcibly laughs it off, ignoring Mydei’s silent, bewildered glance at his sudden change of mood, “How about we sit down somewhere nice and eat some of these free snacks instead?”
Mydei’s brows furrow, deep in thought, before smoothing into placidity, like the surface of a calm ocean. “Alright. Will that be your claim to an excellent date then? My lover resembles a stray dog, which is why they give him the scraps?”
Phainon bursts out in laughter, “I prefer ‘My lover is oh so charming that the citizens can’t help but spoil him’, thank you very much.”
He’s met with a huff and a small, remarkably fond smile. “If the food is good, I’ll concede on that for today.”
Phainon looks away, cheeks warm. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to being looked at like that so openly by someone like Mydeimos, who shares his joys sparingly. Most days he can hardly believe it himself, that he was this lucky. Thrill leaps up his spine as he tries to keep his wits about him while they go and find a bench to sit on, splitting the goods between the two of them.
The second thing on his itinerary for today is a nice dinner at one of the best restaurants in Ohkema. He’s made the reservations ahead of time. Sure it's expensive but he’s saved up weeks of his salary, and setting the mood for his proposal tonight is worth the price. It’s a suave, intimate affair and he hopes to be able to wine and dine the Kremnoan with his charming wit, and newfound knowledge on wine pairings courtesy of Hysiliens and the Imperator herself.
Surely, this will make up for his blunder with the play.
Reaching for his pockets to confirm the time with his teleslate, he frowns at the lack of familiar bump from his coin pouch. He pulls out the teleslate -ten minutes till their reservation - feels the box with the ring (his heart stutters in relief), but no coin pouch.
“No, no, no-” He groans in agony, panic setting in as he leaps to his feet.
“What’s wrong?”
“My coin pouch - it’s gone. I had it this morning, but…when…?” He runs a hand through his hair in realisation, “The crowd. I was so worried about making it to the play that I wasn’t paying attention. Someone could have taken it.”
Mydei finishes off his cold skewer, calmly licking his lips as he pushes off the bench. “Let’s backtrack. Maybe you dropped it while we were running.”
They comb every inch of the route, and to Phainon’s further dismay, they find absolutely nothing. The streets are as bare as his left pocket. His legs buckle where they stand, collapsing against the side of a building in frustration.
It’s no use. Even if they find the coins, the window for his reservation is closed now anyway.
One mishap in one night was unfortunate, but twice? Was this an omen?
Mydei affixes him with a look of pity, “...I don’t mind paying for whatever your plans were.”
“No!” He blurts out from his spot on the ground, kicking his feet petulantly. He couldn’t lose this bet they had going on. His pride was on the line to make this the perfect night. Beyond just the dare, his reputation as Mydei’s future husband was on the line. Phainon wasn’t a quitter. He had proven that for thirty three million cycles. He could do this. “No. Let’s just…proceed directly to step three of the plan tonight.”
Mydeimos’ golden eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “...Steps?”
Phainon sits up abruptly, sweeping his hair back with a blinding smile. “Don’t worry about it!”
Looping his arm with his lover’s, he leads the stunned Mydeimos in the direction of the outskirts of the city. It’s quieter now, as he had hoped, a beautiful layer of purple shadow settling in across the streets. As much as he loves the dawn, he’s even more glad for the dusk, the reminder that his determination made a difference. Like it would tonight, he tells himself.
“Unwilling to concede till the end,” Mydei shakes his head in amusement, “Show me your best, Deliverer; then I’ll show you why Kremnoan courting inspires history books and songs alike with their boldness.”
“It’s not over until it’s over, Mydeimos,” Phainon grins, impish, “Okhema has the better bards anyway.”
Oh he can hear the man bristling beside him.
“In Kremnos, once they hear of our courtship,” The Crown Prince says slowly, in that dangerously deep voice of his, “The taverns would be drunkenly singing war hymns of Nikador and Kephale to commemorate our love.” He is so earnest, so dead serious, that it prompts Phainon into a full-bodied laughing fit.
“Oh my Kephale! Romance and war chants he says! If only Lady Aglaea could hear this.”
“Better than the Okheman way. All these flowery words to skirt around the subject when you could just get to the point.”
The continued banter, full of laughter and barbs, lifts Phainon’s mood considerably.
Step three is, in Phainon’s opinion, supposed to be the most romantic part of the night by design. Castorice, Cipher and Hyacine had gone all out to bring the most beautiful foliage from Styxia, purple and yellow as requested, much to Aglaea’s begrudging acceptance. Professor Anaxa had supplied a potion to help them practically glow in the night specifically to spite her. It had taken his breath away when he checked on the final result the other day.
If step three goes well, this will more than make up for the first two blunders.
He can hardly wait. As they get close, he pulls Mydei along faster, rounding the corner with a giant smile. “Ta-da-”
His heart stops.
The majority of the flowers are trampled underfoot by a herd of dromas. Some of the normally gentle beasts are even eating them, devouring all their hard work. The stone gazebo they surround is also in shambles, unable to withstand a stampede of Georos’ creations.
I was going to go down on one knee in there, he thinks miserably.
This really was the last straw. Phainon lets go of Mydei’s hand and seats himself on the ground, heaving a deep, soul crushing sigh as he buries his head in his hands. Failure tastes like ash, thick and bitter on his tongue. Even if he doesn’t fully remember the cycles, details lost in the blur of time, it seems his body can’t forget the bone deep ache of self-hatred.
Wordlessly, Mydei joins him on the floor, pressing in close till they’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, head against his. They’re so close that there’s absolutely nothing but silence between the two of them as they watch the dromas wander back into town, their bellies sated.
“...Well…that’s step three ruined now.” Phainon jokes weakly.
“Was there a step four?”
At Phainon’s prolonged silence, Mydei nudges him gently. “...It’s just a date, Deliverer. I didn’t expect you of all people to be laid low by this.”
He forces a chuckle past his lips. If only Mydei knew how much he had riding on today. All that effort and nothing to show for it. He melts into the firm shoulder beside him, boneless from the day. Another time, he tells himself. He’ll lick his wounds for today and come back to the proposal another day. It has to be perfect. He needs to be perfect.
Mydei sighs from his nose. “Truly, the Titans themselves conspired against you today. I’d only need one step to beat all three of yours.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, your Highness, please don’t. You’re terrible at it.”
“Mmm. So you do remember that you’re courting the future King of Kremnos.”
The words alone sound like a rebuke, but the tone Mydei uses is so, so gentle that it gives him pause. His Mydei is brash, and is abrasive in pursuit of sincerity, but he is not an unkind man at heart. Phainon turns his head, glassy eyes taking in how even amidst the carnage of smashed petals, Mydeimos’ golden hair and eyes glow beautifully in the soft light. Soft, like the look in the blonde man’s eyes as they gaze at Phainon, so fondly. His own breath catches at sight.
“...Believe me, I don’t think I could ever forget, Mydeimos.”
“So you remember that I am born to a nation where passion is penned in the same stroke as blood and battle.” Mydei says pointedly against his shoulder.
“Yes,” The realisation comes slowly, like the sun peeking across the horizon, “In the same nation where there’s no word for romance in the Kremnoan dictionary.”
“Where the fire of romance is branded as something not so different.” Amber eyes glow bright.
Excitement bubbles in Phainon’s chest as he looks his lover up and down with the biggest smile on his face. “Fight me,” he breathes, cheeks aching with affection, “Step four. Fight me.”
Finally - for the first time that night, he realises - that feral smirk, the one that shows he wouldn’t let anyone best him, the one that Phainon takes full pride in being the sole recipient of, cuts across the proud prince’s lips and brandishes his teeth. “HKS. I thought you’d never ask.”
In a familiar rhythm, they spring to action and pace around each other’s orbit, tension in every step. They have nothing for weapons, save their hands, so they come to a silent agreement on bare handed wrestling. The silence is thick in the air as they lock eyes, unable to see anything else around them.
“Best of five?” Phainon calls out, gaze temporarily dropping to the way the tattoos along the Kremnoan’s pectorals flex as he rolls his shoulder languidly.
“Like always,” He sees Mydei’s eyes trail over to where his collarbones peek out, a pink tongue peeking out to wet his chapped lips. Suddenly, regardless of the cool night, everything is just a bit too warm.
It’s difficult to tell who acts first, but the buzzing underneath Phainon’s skin is feverish as he leaps forward at the same time that Mydei charges towards him. They meet in the middle, clasping each other's hands and pushing in a bid for strength.
“Holding hands?” Phainon winks, “How forward of you.” His light, teasing tone is meant to hide the strain in his chest as he and Mydei grapple one another to a complete standstill. In a contest of strength, he’s confident in his prowess. But Mydei isn’t his equal for nothing.
“I’m about to do much worse than hand-holding, Phainon,” And oh, the way Mydei’s voice drops sultry and low just to say his name like that does something wicked to his lower half; he sucks in a breath like he’s been hit, and then suddenly the world tilts to the side as he’s thrown off balance with an expert toss, Mydei immediately following him to the ground to attempt a hold. They fight for ground, a flurry of limbs and grunts. With herculean effort, Mydei ends up on top, straddling his chest to mount him, thick arm pressed to his neck in a choke.
“Yield, Deliverer.”
“Ch-cheating… you cheater,” He grunts, trying to free his arms to fight back, but to no avail. His head swims from the weight of the immaculate body pressed against him, or perhaps it’s the lack of oxygen, “You can’t just…say things like that…urk.” He taps frantically.
He’s immediately released, head collapsing onto the ground as his eyes flit around, dazed.
A chuckle above him has him reeling; Mydei is already on his feet, patting his trousers to brush off the flower petals that cling to him. A lesson in futility, Phainon thinks, because the crown prince is covered in them, his beautiful hair now plastered with dirt and foliage.
And yet…he’s gorgeous like this. Not polished, or perfect. Covered in sweat, bruises, and the earth, Phainon thinks he understands the Kremnoans' association between fighting and flirting. And if he can look at Mydei like this, with his own Ohkeman sensibilities, what must he look like right now to the Kremnoan prince?
“I’m not at fault for your mind going elsewhere, Deliverer.” Golden eyes peer down at him in amusement. He’s offered a strong hand to get up. Phainon begrudgingly takes it, trying to ignore the heated anticipation in his gut at the feeling of being on one knee as he stands.
They take up a combat stance once again for round two. This time, Phainon is diligent about keeping his guard up - he blocks every attempted grab Mydei throws at him, until he’s able to find an opening, tackling him low and bringing him to the ground; planting himself firmly on top. Panting, he locks Mydei’s arm with his leg, winding an arm around Mydei’s shoulders so they’re chest to chest in a strange, but effective shoulder lock.
“Your Highness.” They’re close enough to feel each other’s breath. He wonders if Mydei can feel his heartbeat running fast at their proximity. Another day, he tells himself. Thump, thump, thump, goes his heart.
There’s a grunt as the blond struggles to break free, to no avail. He squirms a bit more, for good measure before giving up. “...Deliverer,” he says warily.
Phainon grins, wide and mischievous. Yield, he means to say.
“Marry me.” Is what comes out of his mouth instead.
It feels like time has stopped at this very moment. There’s no sound beyond his heart pounding in his ears. He’s not sure if he’s even breathing as he stares at Mydei beneath him, looking just as dumbfounded as he feels.
It’s not romantic in the slightest, a far cry from his plans this morning of wining and dining, of a heartfelt, dreamy confession amidst flowers, but this, this is them, sweat, bruises, battle, heat and all.
This feels right.
His grip on the prince’s shoulders twitch and loosen, releasing his hold on the other man completely to properly kneel beside him. His other arm reaches into his pocket and pulls out the velvet box, opening it slowly to reveal the slim golden ring with an embedded sapphire.
“I had a speech written this morning and everything,” he chuckles, gently taking one of Mydei’s rough hands into his, “But just like everything else today, I don’t think I want to stick with my plan.”
“Ever since we properly entered the Era Nova, I’m sure you’ve heard plenty about how I’ve been trying to find my new purpose other than being the Deliverer. It’s disorienting, in a way, to be free from such a heavy burden. I’ve had plenty of time to think about myself and what I wanted to be.”
He smiles ruefully, deliberating on heartfelt words.
“I tried a lot of things! Dromas Handler, Fortune Teller, a locksmith….I could go on and on. And I realised, through it all, the one thing I knew for certain I wanted to be…was your husband.”
He smiles with his whole heart then, toothy and bright, blue eyes crinkling at the edges as he tilts his head in a practiced, pleading motion. “Mydei…please, won’t you marry me?”
Mydei’s mouth opens, then closes, like a fish out of water. Then slowly, gold blooms across his face, the stoic, stunned expression melting into incredulity. He clings to Phainon’s hand, hesitantly at first, then with enough force to leave a bruise. “...You HKS.”
A curse as a response? He’s starting to get worried. “...Mydei? I know I should have discussed this with you first before asking. I’m sorry, but I’ve wanted this for so long and I didn’t want to wait any longer to find out if you felt the same-”
And then for the second time that evening he’s pushed to the ground, Mydei looming over him, flushed, amber eyes glistening with tears yet shed. “You...HKS,” he repeats, each syllable dripping with emotion, “Stubborn fool. There’s not been a cycle where I have not thought of what we could have had, if not for our duties. In what world would I ever not want you?”
His breath stutters into a near sob at those words. Hands grasp at his collar and pull him up for a searing kiss, hot lips sending his heart into a spiral. Phainon swallows a moan, surging upwards to meet him midway, wrapping his arms around his new fiance - fiance, Titans, he can’t believe it - and deepens the kiss, parting their lips with tongue, pulling them impossibly close, feverish and drunk with elation.
After what feels like too little time, they break apart panting, Phainon hurriedly slipping the ring onto Mydei’s finger, admiring the reflection of the light from the moon on the gem, practically vibrating with wonder and awe.
The world clicks into place for him.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, husband of Mydeimos, the son of Gorgo.
Excitement thrums under his skin as he stares avidly at the piece of jewelry, running his fingers over and over again across his lover’s fingers. “We should have the wedding tomorrow.” He blurts out, and that, of all things, is what has Mydeimos give him an unimpressed look.
“No.”
Phainon visibly wilts, puppy dog eyes out in full force. “What? Why? I’ve had enough of waiting,” He threads their fingers together, whining, “You’re not allowed to take the ring back, I won’t let you.”
“Silly pup,” Mydei pinches Phainon’s cheek with a fond huff, “If we have the wedding without letting everyone help plan, I don’t think even the Boy Saviour of Ohkema would be safe from the other Heirs’ wrath.”
Phainon pouts but says nothing, because his future husband is right.
The Prince smiles knowingly, “Besides. Because of you, we have all the time in the world to figure it out.” He tilts his head to plant a kiss on Phainon’s temple, “I won’t allow anyone to take the privilege of being your husband from me now.”
Phainon laughs and laughs and laughs, because he feels the same. Equals, even in this.
And they’ll continue to be equals throughout Amphoreus’ continued history, free from the time loops. When future generations read the texts about him, his proudest title won’t be ‘Deliverer’, ‘Saviour’, or even ‘Worldbearer’, but instead ‘Mydeimos’ husband’.
Forever side by side even in the footnotes of history. He can’t think of a sweeter beginning to their tomorrow.