generalsdiary

[generalsdiary]

🌟 Writer Introduction ⊹₊ Rinee 🌟

Next up on our writer roster is Rinee (@rineecakes X.com | AO3), constantly suffering from sleep deprivation 😔 It's a truly vicious cycle, something our dear friend Phainon is quite familiar with…

[generalsdiary]

The Stars Curse Us

Varka x Flins

word count: 1.6k

description: "Bathed in the light of the full moon, a gentle glow illuminates his naked lover, resembling the fallen angels Varka read about in various fictional books back in Mondstadt. He can imagine vibrant black feathers, dipped in the blood of their enemies, sprouting from the man’s scapulas."

or

Varka and Flins talk about a heavier topic after spending an intimate time together.

a/n: Character study based on crumbs and forcing myself out of my comfort zone (read: the need to know everything about a character before writing them). Tall men save me. Big thank you to my dear friend Ricey who beta read this for me in record time!

Heavy, lukewarm weight disappeared from Varka’s back. Most similar to a weighted blanket — providing ample comfort.

Beating like a drum, his heart is leaping out of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covers his neck as he tries to catch his breath. Floating down from cloud nine, his brain was slowly returning to the present moment. As if sunrays were emitting from his body, the soft skin and exhausted muscles are hot to touch; burning him as he drags his hand across his torso. Yearning, needy, recalling the touch of his lover — gentler fingers gliding across many scars on his body. Incandescent in the afterglow, tangled in midnight black sheets, Varka moves his hips to lay on his side.

The scent of unapologetic human desire has filled the room completely. Even as his lover stands away; he can still smell him, feel his hands against his body. The nearest pillow gets crumpled up into a semi-circular shape and pushed under Varka’s head. Quietly, he observes Flins spread the thick white curtains and crack open a window.

The crisp winter air quickly reaches Varka. The cold air collides against the heat surrounding his body, making the man hiss in turn.

Flins doesn’t do so much as flinch, shoulders back – proudly standing in front of the window. The long hair, fading in and out from black to white, covers the pale skin of his back. Varka has spent many nights drawing shapes and naming constellations of the moles on his lovers’ back, lulling himself to sleep by dragging his lips over his favorite canvas.

Bathed in the light of the full moon, a gentle glow illuminates his naked lover, resembling the fallen angels Varka read about in various fictional books back in Mondstadt. He can imagine vibrant black feathers, dipped in the blood of their enemies, sprouting from the man’s scapulas. They would compliment Flins more than he’d let anyone else know. Slim figure, muscles defined just enough to be delicious to look at, remnants and marks of their shared pleasure… Varka restrains himself from standing up and dragging the man back into bed with him for another round.

Varka pursed his lips to blow air back towards the window, chasing away the cool drift which raised goosebumps on his skin. The same ones which didn’t rise on Flins’ skin… just how coldblooded can one man be? Caught up in admiring the tall man by the window, a familiar warmth fills Varka once more. Losing himself in his fantasies, desiring more.

The blond man outstretches his arm on the bed toward his lover and gently calls out, “Flins.”

A singular blink is all the movement and answer Varka gets in response. The man stays focused on the view outside the window. Chuckling warmly, Varka pushes his hand through the untamed golden curls, “Sometimes I think you’re fonder of the moon than me.”

Despite Varka’s attempts, Flins offers no response, remaining static for a few more moments. His silence envelops Varka – he elects to ignore it, turning his ears to the faint creaking of the window and dried leaves rustling around the trees outside.

At last, the man moves elsewhere, facing away from the bed as he cleans himself up. Varka groans, “I wanted more.”

“Your hunger is insatiable, Varka.” Flins finally acknowledges the blond man’s presence.

Propping himself up to a sitting position, Varka’s lips spread into a smirk, “And you have always been able to match my stamina. What’s troubling you tonight, Flins?”

The words don’t visibly reach Flins, who ignores them for the sake of crafting up a proper answer. Or, in Varka’s opinion, he’s just being needy.

Without wasting too much time, Flins gets dressed. Calm, calculated movements, ones trained from years of practice, show tremendous grace in his motions. Slender fingers elegantly pull up zippers, button his shirt with zero effort and still make it seem easy, seamless, not rushed. Gloves cover the very hands that left crimson marks across Varka’s body, a map showing everywhere Flins went, any place he stopped to press and squeeze. 

Varka can’t peel his eyes away from the painful sight, akin to a child’s favorite candy being wrapped up and taken away from their hands. Well, this toddler is preparing to throw a temper tantrum – he simply needs more sugar, it’s nothing unusual.

Once more, Flins gazes through the frosted glass of the old wooden window as he pulls the long grey cape around his shoulders. In spite of every layer of clothing he puts on, Varka can still see the vermillion marks blooming under Flins’ jawline, and disappearing below his neck line. Hickeys he created before they were able to get to the bedroom bring a smile to his face.

He cinches his waist in with a belt over his coat. Using the action to avoid gracing Varka with eye contact, he confesses, “I’m tired.”

With a hurried shuffle of sheets, Varka covers his bare body. Using Anemo powers again, he redirects the cold air with a flick of his wrist, “Stay? You can rest here, as always.”

There’s a subtle headshake which Varka nearly misses, Flins keeps his voice firm and low. However, it maddens Varka how the borderline scolding voice sounds intimate, like a secret being shared, “I’m tired of playing dumb.”

The window whines from the strong wind pushing it to close completely, another flick of Varka’s wrist. He wraps up his body in the dark sheets and stands up, questioning the statement, “What do you mean? I know damn well you aren’t stupid, and so do you.”

Flins lifts his chin, clenching his jaw for a moment before releasing the pressure completely. He turned his head towards Varka, “I’m tired of pretending that I don’t know I’m just his replacement.”

Varka flinched at the statement. Aimlessly, his light blue eyes scanned around the room for feasible excuses and Flins could see it from a mile away. Dull, muddied yellow eyes bore into the side of Varka’s head, accusatory without any heat behind them.

If Flins were to yell at him, scream, shout, and throw furniture around, Varka would’ve found it easier to deal with this situation. Instead, a painfully calm and collected man stood in front of him. Scouring any possible thing that could be convincing is proving futile. Varka is damn well aware that when Flins claims something which proposes a change: it is already too late.

Flins had already made his decision.

Varka retorts, “You’re not his replacement. It has been years since him, alright? Based on that, what are you even… What are you on about, Flins?”

Flins turns completely towards Varka. He blinks once, letting the silence stretch out for longer than needed; letting Varka uncomfortably fester. After what feels like eternity, Flins blatantly orders, “Kyryll.”

Blond eyebrows furrow. Slightly shaking his head, Varka places his hands on his hips, “Kyryll? Flins, I’m struggling to follow—“

“Perhaps if you call me Kyryll, we can pretend that when you nearly moan his name that the letter K was the beginning of my name and not his.” Flins’ face remains empty, refusing to portray the hurt, the red-hot anger which Varka can only imagine are raging inside him. Another simple blink from those lightless eyes is all he gets.

To claim he never did that, especially when arguing with his cut-throat lover, would be seen as shameless disrespect. Everything had always gone back to Capitano. Even when he is happy and satisfied and delighted with his lover, it all goes back to the man he loved. The man he lost on more levels than just one.

Varka steps closer to Flins. Immediately, a cold air envelops his body completely along with electricity which makes his hair slightly stand up. Everything is chasing him away. If words weren’t strong enough, the man is radiating barely controlled immense power. One being his Electro vision, and the other one being something far more ineffable. 

Desperately, Varka tries to plead his case, faltering, “Please, it has been years since him,” he  calmly began only to lose it early on, giving way to his temper - he starts shouting, “Not everything is about him, I’m here right now and we are fucking fine! I’m happy with you, I barely think of the man!”

Flins maintained his tone, accusing quietly, “Is that why you gift me clothing which he would wear?”

Dramatically, Varka throws his arms open and heavily exhales, “It’s just clothes!”

“It is just clothes,” Flins echoes with a layer of sarcasm, “and you never looked my way before my hair got long.” The pools of snake-like yellow, unamused and judgmental, stare at Varka. Wordlessly accusing the blond man of many more things. Unapologetic in any of his claims.

Varka rubs his forehead, biting the inside of his cheek and ultimately deciding to confess, “Flins, I ca—“

“Kyryll,” Flins cuts in without letting him finish the sentence, effortlessly rolling the ‘r’ and extending the ‘ee’ sounds, demanding distance. The intimacy of the nickname ‘Flins’ turning to a gatekept thing; stolen from his lover’s vocabulary.

Varka clenched his fists with a defeated scoff, “…nevermind.” He looks away from the man and towards the mess they made on the bed, a heavenly getaway mere minutes ago. Pure bliss he was living in, unaware of what was festering under the surface. Or perhaps, he was purposefully ignorant of what was happening.

Wooden boards creak under Flins’ leather boots and the window hinges squeak under his ghost-like touch. Seemingly done with this conversation, this situationship, Flins adds, “Hang onto dead people for long enough, and the living ones will move past you. Sleep well.”

The brooding man disappears with a loud crack of lightning, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Varka slammed the window with a strong gust of wind, lacking control in his technique.

The cold air fills the small room, a looming presence, an unspoken reminder of his lover and his tendency to be cold.

Flins. And Capitano.

divider credit: @thecutestgrotto

a/n: This was a rollercoaster, which I wrote in one hour and then spent too many hours editing. Hope you like it! Also, come join us at the MoonLight Varka x Flins 18+ server ! It's a new ship server (it's a new ship after all), and it's such a cute server, I'll be chilling there while I wait for more info on the boys. ^^

[generalsdiary]

Bow, Arrows, Flower Petals and Peacock Feathers

Aventurine x Archer

word count: 3.4k

description: In an attempt to avoid excess paperwork, Aventurine summons Archer again. Fortunately, he succeeds in the ritual and in his choice of Servant.

a/n: if you can't find it, write it. that is why this fic was created. disclaimer: I have not watched any Fate/Stay night (although ricey kept me in check regarding the lore I'm including), I do plan to watch it (UBW). Archer is based on what I've seen in the HSR event. ty to my beta reader rice cake <2

Chapter 1: Flower Petals

The unforeseeable force enveloped Archer’s spirit again, taking everything that he is and isn’t, the cells which form his body, magic which completes his soul and fragments of memories that safeguard his past in his stead.

As Archer’s body came into being, of whichever Holy Grail War was happening, he already gripped the cool metal of the dual swords—an all too familiar texture served as a grounding aspect in his non-human reality. One where his fate is not his own, the life he lived once before ended leaving only the role of a Servant — a hero, behind. He cannot disobey the master whom he will meet, but he will be damned if he ever backs down without a fight against someone of ill intentions.

Cold. Unnatural, even artificial cold, meets the only inch of exposed skin of his neck. Archer’s mind already races with important facts which would offer him an advantageous hand in the war. It could be happening in a closed off arena, on a different planet perhaps. If he is dealing with humanoids, their veins will be tighter; constricted due to the chill air. Their muscles will be stiffer, less flexible, making them slower to dodge attacks. They could also be wearing more protective gear, especially to keep their bodies warm. No clothing will stop Kanshou and Bakuya. However, if he is dealing with animatronic, robotic enemies, the temperature will have no effect — although an overly warm climate could affect their motherboards. Should the unusual cold truly be feigned, perhaps there could be a way to make it artificially warm as well.

Too many possible variables end his train of thought, there’s only so many things he can think of in the first split second.

In the following moment, his second onslaught is stopped abruptly. A gentle breeze is rustling his platinum blond locks. Archer tilts his head, which makes them ruffle further.

There’s a scent carried on it. Unlike his expectations: the metallic smell of blood, nose-pinching stench of sweat, and any other unpleasant ones he’s used to; he’s met with cedar wood, citrus notes and a flowery fragrance.

Archer’s Master must be outside of the warzone, although it makes little sense. It tends to not be such a frequent occurrence.

In the three full seconds it took for him to fully materialize, the last thought he has before he is forced to obey and verbally include himself in a discussion, is one of confusion. Why is he hungry?

“Archer, it is a pleasure to see you again. I am Aventurine, I hope you remember me… from the Penacony Holy Grail War?” The blond man in front of him is down on one knee in the vermillion summoning circle. The cold air and the refreshing breeze were coming from the air conditioner on the furthest wall, and the pleasant fragrance from the reed diffuser on the office desk further in the room. The sweet flowery scent must belong to his Master’s perfume.

“You have managed to summon me again. I’m surprised. Is there another Holy Grail War in your world, Master?” The well trained muscles in his fingers flex and relax, releasing the tension he purposefully accumulated there.

Aventurine slowly blinks. As he rises back to his feet, there’s a barely decipherable look on his face, an intentional one. Purposefully, he is refusing to voice it verbally—instead, he heavily relies on Archer to pick up on the nonverbal cue: effectively utilizing his knowledge of Archer’s tendency to not-so-subtly psychoanalyze him. The silence, which stretched on for a moment longer than a normal dialogue would, serves as confirmation. Archer clears his throat, “…Mister Aventurine.”

His Master smiles with the same amount of realism an actor performing in a theatre has. Archer is certain that there’s a hero inside that man, yet he chooses to utilize his villain-esque tendencies to be whoever ‘Aventurine’ is. If a hero is a sheep, one that shed its fluffy coat for one of the lion’s mane, perhaps Aventurine is a lion wearing the skin of a wolf to shield himself from those who would harm him. A sort of self-preservation.

Still… Why would the king of the jungle pretend to be equal to one of the lowly wolves? Does the lion not know that he is stronger than them? What good does it bring to infiltrate them?

“Well, there’s always a war going on somewhere,” the blond man muses, colorful eyes trained on the poker chip flipping across his fingers. The action draws Archer’s eyes to the movement—the perfectly laid out bait, a venus fly trap opening its mouth and patiently waiting for its prey to land. The moment Archer looked down, Aventurine’s gaze moved to the man as he slowly stood back up to his full height.

Aventurine never posed a threat—he is far from a Master who would bring him harm. Still, the unexpected sly action made a shiver go down his spine. The man looks like he’d prefer to have people around him at ease, lazy, lost in their daydreams and desires, especially when conversing with him. This approach, one meant to keep Archer on his toes, was an unusual choice… a surprise to what he assumed he had already analyzed from this man’s behavior. A change of pattern makes him unpredictable, moreover it is a change. Archer doesn’t like those.

Adding onto how quick his master is with analyzing situations, seeing through other’s plans and executing a counterattack makes him both a formidable foe and a powerful ally.

“That is not how this works. I cannot be summoned by a whim, especially by someone not proficient in magecraft,” Archer looks at the ceiling and back at his Master to conceal an eye roll.

“Well,” Aventurine smiles, his cheeks gently puffing up like those soft rice cake desserts Caelus made him try the last time he was summoned to Penacony, “I have a lot of paperwork to fill out because of the Holy Grail War, and I thought I would be easier if I just interviewed you instead of spitballing.” Aventurine gestures to the blinking light on his table, “Also, I’m recording our conversation instead of typing it down, I’d rather look at you than at a keyboard and a hologram,” A warm sensation filled his chest. It was pleasant to see that his Master had gained some weight since last time.

The words eventually register in his mind and Archer needs to hold back a groan, “Regardless, this is impossible: I cannot be summoned for something that isn’t a Holy Grail War,” the pools of brown narrow at the shorter man.

Aventurine’s soft pink lips purse, followed by a tilt of his head, eyes focused on something over Archer’s shoulder, “I prepared food for you. Caelus told me Saber was starving when she got summoned… You didn’t mention it last time, so I got ready in advance for your arrival.”

Trailing his line of sight, Archer turns towards a table covered with various fast food: burgers, noodles, pastries, fruity drinks… And nicely organized, effectively preaching to his choir. “...It wasn’t necessary.”

“Not necessary yet appreciated, right~?” Aventurine practically purrs behind him, taunting him to accept the food. He is one of those people, huh.

Archer’s red cape swishes with another turn, “I wasn’t guaranteed to show up, or for the ritual to work. You could’ve easily gotten a different Servant.”

The demand for an explanation is met with a dry response and a shrug, “I guess you could say I got lucky.”

Akin to a living statue, Archer offers no body language to the lazy statement, “I thought we were past these pretenses,” Despite the nearly perfect concealment of the flamboyant man, his intelligence and quick wit is something Archer recalls without an issue. The memories which usually escape him… seem to have stuck around. Penacony may be a singular loophole in the usual workings of the intricate rules set by the Throne of Heroes.

The memories which should’ve disappeared a long time ago, fortunately, linger. The very realization shakes Archer to the core: there is a direct line of events happening, and he gets to remember it? Outrageous, atrocious— brilliant.

The short man beside him instantly holds his full attention. Archer’s eyes scan every detail of the man’s appearance, suddenly intrigued by everything.

The blond man’s smile widens, even chuckling to Archer’s rejection, “Genuinely, I’m lucky,” Frown lines follow his smile, portraying joy of this ‘fact’. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Dual colored gems are dull, lacking shine, offering a well’s depth of pain to drown in. Along the relaxed blond eyebrows, Archer can see the hidden calm rage, perfected concealment over the years. He isn’t lying to Archer. Oh, he isn’t lying, when his eyes keep screaming how much of a curse that luck is.

Archer scoffs, his brows drop down and furrow, “Is this type of power your world contains? You’re just lucky?”

“Here.” Aventurine rolls a die across the large desk in the middle of the room, fitting for its size. Must be an office. Holograms displaying lines moving up and down across the timeline let Archer know this has to be a workplace. A tad too on the nose with the animal pattern carpet, heavy indigo curtains and a crystal table. Three. Three crystal tables: one coffee table, the larger desk with holograms atop it and one near the door covered in takeout Aventurine so thoughtfully prepared for Archer’s arrival. The die lands on the highest possible number: 6.

“I doubt that was that convincing, so why not play a game with me? I’ll demonstrate it for you,” Light on his feet, Aventurine hurries to his table to gather more dice.

Archer shakes his head, “I’m a warrior. A fighter. You’re suggesting that I play a game? Mister Aventurine—“

“It won’t take long, I promise.” Aventurine grabs two decorative rose quartz cups and flips them down. A pair of dice get pushed towards him. “We both roll our dice under a cup, check them and see who got the higher sum. Usually it is done with a larger group of people and you lie about what you get, or tell the truth, and there’s a bigger number of dice.” Aventurine fidgets with the pair of dice in his hand; showing various pairs of numbers without even glancing at them, “For example, a pair of fours, three fives, two ones, going up by the quantity with each person. There are many variations to dice games.” Aventurine speaks of the rules as one would of the weather, yet he is actively recalling it, sort of adorably looking around, “For our sake, we will leave the lying part and such gambles out. Instead, we can play for the sake of getting the highest added up score. The truthful way. After all, this is just to prove a point.”

Archer’s body meets the white leather sofa, a seat away from his master. The metallic blue dice, engraved with silver numbers intrigue him. Perhaps a short break from action won’t cause much harm…

With one swift movement, he scoops up the dice and moves his cup around, not needing instruction on that end. Could luck truly be something normal for the people of this reality… just how do the gifts of the people here work? Or is Aventurine special? 

“What bet would you place on a game like this?” A question worth asking. There’s no harm in directly trying to get to know him — to uncover the truth behind the mystery at hand. Hopefully, Archer won’t regret that decision later on. Although, someone as open as his Master is probably holding secrets so closely to his heart that not even Aventurine himself would share them to a single innocent piece of paper.

“What I always bet,” Aventurine exhales without a struggle, and the words glide over his tongue far too easily for Archer’s liking, “my life.”

Archer’s teeth squeak when he unintentionally clenches his jaw, “That’s a bit too much—even if you have some type of extreme luck.”

The blond’s locks gently shake with his head, gesturing a no, “Extreme luck would be an understatement. This… luck,” he spits the word like the curse he deems it to be—a poison which flows through his veins, rejecting it with a barely held back snarl, “is the only thing that’s kept me alive. Yes, I’ve fought through so many things by myself,” Archer can nearly see the scenes playing out behind those dual-colored eyes, “yet it all circles back to my… luck.”

Aventurine stops moving the pastel pink cup around and lifts it to reveal the dice rolled to the number 6. A small head tilt in his direction makes Archer lift his own cup, which contains a 2 and a 4.

Archer presses the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, creating a soft clicking sound, “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“I doubt you want us to do this fifty more times, only to see me roll double 6’s over and over and over again..?” Aventurine raises an eyebrow, flipping the cup in his hand.

An easier way of proving this phenomenon occurs to the tall man. A mana transfer usually gives energy, however in this alternate universe it could give something else. Within the same thought, he cannot expect Aventurine to be willing to do it, whichever way he may offer. This is supposed to be a report conversation for the sake of his Master’s job, yet the excitement in his chest and intrigue in his mind once more surprise him. An intruder in his own mind, a desire to learn more, a rare reality for a seasoned fighter, accustomed to only being used as a tool. What harm could it bring to indulge in his curiosities, to communicate as equals in a place he is seen as more than a Servant, with a man who wouldn’t use a command spell on him?

Archer gently places the fragile cup down, “There is another way. It could be entirely false and bear no fruit.”

“Hm… yes?” Aventurine, likewise, places the cup back in its original place, Archer finds himself pondering if the man can also read his mind, or his heart’s desires. For how dare he do what Archer wished for him to do.

“Masters and Servants can exchange energy, where I’m from at least. It is called a mana transfer and it is mainly used to give energy to the Servant to stay in the Master’s service for longer; without returning to the Throne of Heroes. You’re not even a Mage, the process itself could require more fluids,” Archer slurs the last word and nods, carefully nitpicking how he will phrase the next sentence, only to give up and make his explanation blunt, “Now, in this world, I’m not made of magic and energy, which explains why Saber was hungry, and so am I… It is done through an exchange of bodily fluids.”

The gambling man seems unphased, “And what are you expecting as an outcome?”

“If this is truly some form of power from your world, you could prove it by sharing some with me,” he shrugs. Leaning his back against the sofa, he looks towards the third crystal table, trying to appear nonchalant as he gazes over the food.

The excited twinkle in his Master’s eyes does not escape him, “Really? …A kiss should be more than enough to test your theory out, right~?”

Archer’s platinum blond eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, and his body stills for a few seconds. He’s painfully aware that Aventurine noticed and chose to not make a comment about it, for which he is grateful. Archer doesn’t know what he was expecting—bodily liquids means something of that nature.

A man who breathes illusions and trickery should trigger every alarm in Archer’s mind. Alas, the psychoanalysis that he promptly executes while around his Master convinces him that Aventurine isn’t lying about his tremendous luck. It's as if Aventurine naturally brings that out of him.

Following the thread of logic, as to how useful this luck would be to him, is where his resolve falls apart. It’s not like that power would follow him back to the Throne of Heroes…

Would it be so wrong if he actually wanted to kiss him? Yes, absolutely — the man’s fashion taste is too tacky. Then again, Archer can’t claim to be much better with his over-the-top red jacket that ends as basically a strange skirt or cape.

Archer swallows and hesitantly confirms, “I’m open to testing the theory. Although, I know that it isn’t necessary for your post-war interview…”

Aventurine shakes his head, “This is also research in my book, and besides, the interview can continue after the experiment.”

Archer narrows his eyes. Aventurine had believed this claim of mana transfer far too easily for someone who’s naturally sceptical. Which arises two other possibilities: he either wants to kiss him, or he is eager to share—perhaps even lose the power he has. Loss is not something that could plausibly happen here, but Aventurine may be hoping for it, even if Archerknows that hope is pointless.

To Archer’s surprise, Aventurine stands up and takes off his extravagant fur lined coat. Now left in a vest and turquoise dress shirt, tailored perfectly to his small frame, he sits back down, noticeably closer to Archer.

“Good luck,” Before he can stop it, Archer mumbles under his breath.

Aventurine obviously holds back an eye roll, “I won’t need it. The early bird catches the worm, Archer. Let’s not stall.”

Too caught up in his own mess of thoughts, he fails to discern if Aventurine is eager or just nervous. Electing to follow along, Archer leans in. Despite being seated, he still hovers above Aventurine. Finally closer, he can smell the delicate flowery scent. The perfume he assumed belonged to his Master earlier. Their lips part before they meet in something more than a simple kiss. Just how much saliva would be needed for it to work is a question that escapes Archer’s mind almost immediately. Sharply inhaling the scent of the expensive perfume, the body lotion lingering on the seemingly soft skin, makes his head dizzy.

A tongue in his mouth and vice versa is not what he expected to be doing when he was summoned. Yet, here he is, breathing in once more, cupping Aventurine’s cheek, finding himself eager for more.

Aventurine’s hand tugs his collar, inviting him to lean in; an invitation he happily takes and meets their foreheads. Fingers, used to tracing the smooth edge of thousands of blades, caress the curve of Aventurine’s jawline. The rough stubble, not visible to the eye, adds a sensation to his mana transfer experience, making him shift closer and pull the shorter man by his waist.

A barely audible whine escapes his lips when Aventurine pulls away.

“Roll the dice,” he whispers. Akin to light pink roses, Aventurine’s cheeks blush the same shade. His eyes linger on Archer a second longer than usual, accompanied with a gentle look in his eyes.

Archer’s vocal chords tremble and his tongue lays static against the roof of his mouth. Wordlessly, he grips the crystal cup, gathers the dice and gives them a shake. Without waiting for too long, Aventurine matches his motions.

As the cups lift from the table they reveal four dice all rolled to the number 6.

Aventurine blinks softly, much like someone attuned to unfortunate news does; a single blink to deal with the new fate and accept the disappointing reality, his smile returns.

“Lucky you, Archer,” Once more, Aventurine puts on a comedy mask he never takes off. A smile made from diamonds and rubies may be tremendously expensive, but it doesn’t make it genuine.

Archer missed on the neverending performance of the century, eyes wide open and stuck on the pair of 6’s on the table. It worked. It actually worked. Aventurine is… lucky?

He begins wishing that mana transfer also shared memories. A book of Aventurine’s life… what kind of story would it be: one of romance and unrequited love, one of betrayal and survival or something else entirely? Shouldn’t the life of a lucky person be easy and relaxing, helping him live and get through any situation?

The fancy clothes, pompous attitude shows an entirely different persona from the one Archer sees beyond it: crude intelligence and hard earned experience. The lion in wolf’s skin.

a/n: a very self-indulgent fic, I really wanted to read more about them - I was sad when I found out there weren't many fics with this pairing (at the time of posting, there are 2 aside from this one on ao3). I'm leaving it semi-open-ended. I do have some ideas and plans for the next chapter, we shall all wait and see about that (dare I say possible smut/more analyzing).

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven

Mydei x Phainon

word count: 4.1k

description: angst and Phainon crashing out (Chapter 6)

a/n: ty to my beta readers; citrus, rice cake and Sav <2

Chapter 7: The stages of grief or The phases of the Moon

The rough texture, that unfortunately comes with the expensive garments Aglaea had chosen for Phainon, settles against his skin. Everything around him is blurry, the unexplainable tears that kept on coming are here once more — the same ones he failed to notice on time in his visions.

A deep painful ache in his heart, which he cannot name, gains a companion of its own… because he can tell. He can tell by the way his stomach drops and how real the walls of his room are as they stare at him mockingly, judgmentally, as if they know everything there is to know and laugh at his demise. He can tell that the future he has grown to love fell apart to distant particles of dust.

This time, the tears that come forth break through his throat in the form of a weak cry. He bends over and his forehead meets the cool tiles of his room, “Please… Please, please, no. No, no. Don’t do this to me, don’t do this to us – have we not been through enough?” Punching the floor, the tile cracks in two, involuntarily joining his breakdown. “Please— I can’t— I—“ His voice keeps breaking and the voices in his head keep cackling. It is a saddening sight.

Once the well of tears dried up, he stands up and puts his armor back on. No matter how painful the situation may look, he finds comfort in knowing that Mydei is also here somewhere — back with him in this new future. Phainon can imagine it: Mydei is probably drinking his favorite pomegranate juice with milk and petting Chimeras, or polishing his armor in preparation for their next spar or fight. The mere thought of his comrade serves as an herbal balm to the open wound in his heart.

On top of the sadness his future self is experiencing, he ignores the persistent pain in his chest. He doesn’t have the memories which would explain it.

He simply needs to find Mydei. His home was never the renewed and reborn Castrum Kremnos — it was Mydei. Mydei’s laughter, ever so rare but wonderfully lovely, made Phainon feel like a little bee buzzing around the prettiest flower for honey; and there is no sweeter nectar than Mydei’s joy.

On his way out of the room, he catches a glimpse of his appearance in the mirror. The platinum blond hair looks like a bird’s nest — if they made nests out of pure white cotton. The capillaries under his eyes have burst, adding small circular blood splotches which ironically compliment the raw shade of red on his cheeks. His lips are chapped and dry, and on top of it all, his throat is sore.

He couldn’t possibly show up in front of the world like this. The cold water he splashes onto his face grounds him in the new future. Due to time travelling so often, he has grown immune to the severe pain that used to torment him. Phainon tames the rustled locks, electing to ignore how much his hand is shaking. The tremble remains there while he pats a soft beige powder under his eyes.

Presentable and perfect. Such is always expected from the Deliverer. And nothing less.

One day that perfect ceramic vase will crack, no matter how many times it was glued with gold.

As he passes through the familiar hallways of Okhema, he pays no mind to anyone or anything around him. Phainon is lost in the reality which has been taken from his arms. In his mind, he is imagining the large hallways and red armor on his subordinates, pointlessly yearning for what he had lost — for what they had lost.

Politely, Phainon knocks on Mydei’s door, and after he receives no answer, he enters anyway. What if something happened? Of course, he should come inside and check in on him. Mydei’s room is as pristine as ever: bed made, curtains opened, nothing seemingly out of place. He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe in. He scrunches his nose when it is met with no scent. Odd.

If he were to assume Mydei arrived at the same time as him, he would most certainly seek Phainon out. He always has… right? The first time this happened, Mydei got there first… The other times they made it there at the same time. Mydei could’ve woken up somewhere further away. The thought doesn’t make Phainon stumble in his  stride forward. He is assured that he will find him, one way or another. A burst of energy fills his body — right now even an entire army wouldn’t be able to keep him away from Mydeimos. An urge stronger than him pumps adrenaline through his veins, a wind which blows into his back makes him walk even faster through the bathhouse.

Abruptly he stops, nearly slipping on the wet floor. To avoid running around like a fly without its head, he reaches into his pocket for his teleslate.

Where are you?

This user has gone offline. Please try again later.

Mydei, turn your teleslate on. We gotta talk. (sad chimera sticker)

This user is currently unavailable. Please try again later.

What is going on… Where could you possibly be to be offline?Answer when you get this, I have to see you.

Your message has failed to send this user. They are outside the World Wide Web reach. Please try again later.

Each unreceived message made his heart drop more. Being the eternal optimist he is, Phainon tries to ignore his gut screaming that this is a bad sign.

As before, meeting up with any of the Chrysos Heirs is a horrible idea, Aglaea being top of the list: she’d see right through any of his weak attempts at lying. The golden strings would tremor from his lies as much as his hands seem to be ever since he came here.

In his attempt to slip through the Chrysos Heir’s baths without being seen by his fellow heirs, he manages to slip on the wet tiles and land painfully on his behind. If there was a Titan of luck, Phainon would be singing their praises, for the bathhouse had no heirs except for him. A ruckus beyond the baths distracts him from the ache of his mighty fall. Carefully, he approaches the source of the commotion.

The Garden of Life is seemingly unchanged, lush with greenery and a suspicious number of Chimeras. Hyacine being there is unsurprising, yet it still makes the hair on his neck stand. He can avoid her since she doesn’t have a tendency to pry, it is something Mydei has told him — the girl sticks to her own matters and doesn’t indulge drama. He nods to himself; yes, she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

Luckily, his new favorite outlander, Caelus, is standing next to her. Caelus is a to-the-point type of person; the hyper man will answer anything Phainon has to ask, and therefore, is his safest bet on getting the answers he so desperately seeks.

Slipping past the crowd of the cutest, hard working and lazy bones of Chimeras, he tugs Caelus’ sleeve, “Hey, partner! You got a moment for your buddy? I need your help with something.”

The trailblazer, reeling on sheer adrenaline, a possibly high dosage of caffeine and the superiority complex of being in power above everyone around him, is practically shaking when Phainon tugs him aside, “I’m busy – we have deadlines to meet, stonks to keep rising, people to impress and enemy teams to surpass!”

Gulping, Phainon glances across the assembled team Caelus is allegedly leading and takes a deep breath. He must behave as this future version would: probably not rushed, and most likely calm. He flashes his best smile and makes his eyes big and watery, “Please, partner, this is really important.”

Caelus’ mouth hangs slightly agape from shock – the sheer audacity of Phainon to behave like that.  Rolling his eyes, Caelus pinches the bridge of his nose, “Hyacine, make sure Suffermaxxer is still on its feet when I’m back—“ he blurts out before following Phainon with quick steps, “Haven’t got all day, those stellar jades won’t farm themselves… what’s up?”

Phainon waits for the couple passing by to get out of earshot. Just barely, he manages to make out a couple of words of their conversation, “…oh praise be Guardian…” The true meaning of it flies over his head. Steading his focus on the matter at hand, he dismisses any further pondering about it.

Fidgeting with his sleeve, Phainon shifts his weight from one leg to the other as he tries to come up with something that won’t be suspicious. Caelus is certainly the best person to ask, and moreover, he will think nothing of it. On the other hand, Phainon suffers from the syndrome of overthinking it. “Where is… I mean. Have you seen… Uhm,” he clears his throat, “My messages aren’t coming through to Mydeimos, do you have any idea why?”

Caelus snorts and nods defeatedly, “Ah, I’ve been there. When I was treasure hunting in Castrum Kremnos I barely had any service… Well, actually, maybe a bit. But that’s because I’m built different. Oh, and the bugs I collected there! It’s like Aglaea sprinkles them at every possible location. I think it’s simply because Mydei doesn’t have any connection there. And he must be busy fighting against the Black Tide, you know.” Caelus glazes over that last detail as if it means nothing, when in actuality, it means everything.

“Black Tide? He is at Castrum Kremnos? When did he— uhm I mean how long…” Phainon’s words die off and settle on the curves of his ribs — the cage of his own creation.

Caelus tilts his head, “I’ve been working, I don’t know how many log-in days passed, but you two said goodbye maybe… ehh… a few days, weeks ago? I dunno. It was a whole sob story from what I heard from the passersby.”

Phainon exhales. Since meeting him, he has gotten used to Caelus’ wordplays and his strange way of speech and teasing. If not for that, he’d have severe difficulties understanding exactly what he meant from the words he uses, “Thank you, dear partner. So, he just… left to fight against the Black Tide? After his trial for the Coreflame?”

Caelus blinks. Then he blinks again. “Listen, I get it. You… miss him. So do I! I wept when he left, but the grind never stops, you know? We will see him again. I hope. We must, right? No way they’d write off a character that easily, right? And if you wanna crash out, be my guest. I’ll pat your shoulder, but I gotta go back to my team in 5.” He nods.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I miss him too.” Phainon looks down, “I have always missed him. Sometimes, I feel like I spent my whole life missing him.” A soft smile graces his feature as he looks into the distance,  “By the Titans, sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe without him by my side,” he softly laughs.

“I feel that. When Dan Heng stays on the train, I have to gather every brain cell I can because March 7th is… well she’s great!” he puts a hand to his cheek and whispers, “Couple of sandwiches short of a picnic,” Phainon holds back a chuckle and an answer, the pot calling the kettle black. Swiftly Caelus returns his voice to normal, “But… you know. I prefer having Dan Heng beside us. He has been talking so much since we’ve come here, and I’ve been loving it; I love listening to him. And! You have yet to see him in his true form, dear Aeons the way he LOOKS—” Caelus starts rambling about the sheer beauty and intelligence of his companion and Phainon simply smiles and nods in silence. At least this conversation serves as a good distraction from the storm that is picking up inside him.

He left? He left to defend Okhema, to defend Amphoreus. He left to protect the world from the impending doom that is the Black Tide. Mydei left… him.

He sold his freedom for his people. Everything he could have had… gone. He burnt the shackles of tradition to ashes and got bound by the hands of the fate he fought tooth and nail to escape.

The burn in Phainon’s calves barely reaches his pain receptors. Blinded by white rage and the desperation of an abandoned child, everything all bundled up inside him makes him numb as he speed walks to Castrum Kremnos. He cannot even admit to himself why he’s rushing in the direction of that ruined city. What could he possibly hope to achieve by going over there and demanding explanations? He should play his role as he always has: the Deliverer, the perfect Chrysos Heir, Aglaea’s ‘golden boy’.

All the caution he had has crumbled, much like the enemies he slays on his way to Mydeimos.

What more is there to lose when he has lost it all? Phainon has lost his home again. And, even if home isn’t a place but a person, this person has been violently taken away from his arms. By Kephale, they had it all, they had everything. For fuck’s sake, they held hands. Phainon can still recall how heavenly it felt to be soft with him, to be intimate, to gingerly appreciate the man he loves more than he cares to admit to anyone, even himself.

Nikador’s greatsword floating high up in the sky serves as its own surveillance — as a warning sign to enemies, a beacon of hope to Okhemans, and a monument of pride for Kremnoans. The Deliverer’s arrival is made known to Mydei immediately, that much Phainon assumes.

He can barely recognize the collapsed pathways. The only thing that makes his marching step stutter is the moment he walks past what would have been their bedroom in the future they lost. His eyes fall to the dust and debris where Ignis usually stands… time might as well be moving backwards. Cherished memories of them in that room flash in his mind; precious things gone forever, and his chin trembles. Phainon has to pull himself away from the battered door frame to halt the tears that threaten to fall.

Phainon has one goal, one mission – to talk to Mydei.

He understands him, his wishes, his desires, his reasons for what he did, except none of that matters when his heart feels as wilted as a flower that has not felt rain on its petals in months. The logic and reason this Chrysos Heir holds onto so carefully is thrown out the window. The perfect Deliverer has had enough. Bury suppressed emotions deep enough and they will resurface in ugly ways. What was once love and understanding contorted itself into a disturbing portrayal of loneliness and betrayal. Is it still not love when he pleads for more, when he laments what they had and how much more it could have become?

“Mydeimos!” The moment he steps into the open area, Phainon calls out to him. In the lost future, this space is a luscious garden full of life. Another piece of shrapnel is driven deeper into his heart. For a moment, Phainon is relieved to see that in the middle of the deserted arena is the man in question, seated upon a throne formed of vermillion crystals. The blood-like formation is polished and undisturbed. In a different life, Phainon wishes they would both bleed that same color instead of gold. Perhaps then they could be free.

Mydei snaps his head in Phainon’s direction and stands up. His hands, covered by a golden liquid, attempt to clean up the gaping wounds with a filthy rag that used to be white. Even when he is injured, bleeding and exhausted, Phainon hasn’t seen a man more attractive than him. “Deli—“

“How dare you?!” Phainon’s sadness puts on the armor of anger before he continues yelling questions. It’s pointless. He already knows the answers to each and every one of them, “How dare you use yourself as the ultimate sacrifice? To choose to spend the rest of time, infinity, here to never return and only fight off the Black Tide? How dare you throw your life away?” His voice echoes in the empty arena, heavy steps thudding loudly as he approaches Mydei, shoving him, “You could’ve avoided it — your fate — somehow! I don’t care that you did it for your people and that someone had to — they’re not—“ His voice breaks, killing his momentum.

Mydei takes the shoves, unmoving, taking the blows. His eyes are solely focused on the man in front of him, eyebrows low and not disclosing any thoughts — the same look Phainon has seen multiple times on the battlefield, “Deliverer.” He deadpans. It makes Phainon lose his resolve, and the worry that this might not be his Mydei runs through his mind… although what does it matter at this point? The volcano has erupted and the lava won’t stop flowing simply because there’s a flower field around it.

“You. What about your life, huh? You, the most powerful Demigod, the God of Strife, are going to live here and have no life outside it? Why did your life have to be the ultimate sacrifice?” Phainon opens his arms and looks around, “Everything you were fighting to avoid — What about Tribbie, Krateros, what about — what about me?” Phainon swallows hard and finally notices the hot tears running down his cheeks. They leave streaks in the powder that barely managed to cover up anything. He didn’t plan on crying in front of Mydei. As much as these tears are his own, he can feel that there’s more inside him that forces them out.

Taking a step forward, Mydei’s eyes soften while Phainon keeps talking, “None of them are worth you. How dare you throw your life away for them, how dare you leave everyone?” He whispers, “...me?”

“You know why. It had to be done. There was no other way. This is my duty, my responsibility,” Mydei shakes his head. All of this was covered in their conversation by the sea, on their balcony… they have talked about this. The detail that Mydei failed to share, or perhaps he didn’t even know it at that point, was that becoming a demigod would entail playing the role of a lifeless guardian and nothing more.

“Fuck duty, fuck responsibility. I know you tried to get out of it. Still! I don’t care that— they’re— that there’s more of them and—“ Phainon hoarsely clears his throat. He cares for every life and for equality, yet, finally, he is letting his thoughts run wild and free, whispering them like a secret, “You matter more to me.” Phainon’s blue eyes fill with tears and his sight of Mydei goes blurry. He is painfully aware of how unreasonable and childish he is being, that it is far too late and every option has been dried up. Even if this isn’t his Mydeimos, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. This isn’t the Phainon who came here to debate with Mydei like his professor taught him in the Grove. This is a man whose heart got broken and he came to mourn what he had lost.

“Phainon…Please.” Mydei utters, his warm hands cup Phainon’s face, he gently wipes away the oncoming tears, “I cannot matter more than the lives of other people.” He tilts his head, hoping he will help Phainon see reason in it again.

“Your life matters more… to me.” Phainon pulls away, the tears get caught on his long lashes and keep falling down, “It hurts. It hurts that you will never have a life again. You will never smile with your people and tease and taunt me. We will not spar, there are no more big meals with music and stories— no. You’re just the God of Strife protecting the world from the Black Tide, all alone in your fallen home. Until a bigger fight calls upon you or the war ends; which might be never,” he sighs, “I had to hear from others where you were, did you know that? I had to carefully find out if you even said goodbye to this version of me before you left.” The lack of shock on Mydei’s face confirms to Phainon that this is indeed his Mydei.

The amber eyes are filled with hurt, “I’m sorry to hear that. You know why, Phainon. I tried. Titans, you know I’ve tried,” Mydei’s voice lacks any ambition, and the defeat in it deals final blows to Phainon.

Phainon takes another step back. He looks at the eternal night sky, looks at the stars which shine brightly down upon them. His gaze drops down to the dust which surrounds them, the ashes of defeated Titankin and the droplets of golden blood covering the ruined stone.

It is time for him to be selfish. Phainon knows it is the wrong time and the wrong place and it will only make both of them feel worse, but to hell with it all. May he be selfish for once in his life.

Phainon meets Mydei’s eyes once more and he softly begins, “How dare you… seep into my heart: allow me to learn everything about you, all the monstrosities you have been through, all the bullshit you had to live through, the trials, the hardships, your culture, your thoughts, your jokes and taunts and then you leave?” Determined, mimicking the usual lion-like Mydei’s gaze, he continues, “How dare you make me love you and then leave?”

Mydei blinks a few times. He looks somewhere into the distance above Phainon’s shoulder, seemingly holding back tears. His bottom lip trembles as he inhales to answer, only for Phainon to beat him to the punch, “Why did you have to be this? Me being perfect is a goddamn joke. You’re perfect, why else would you be willing to succumb to all of this? The glory of this duty. Why did you make me care for you so easily?”

“To survive, our people have migrated, and our traditions have faded with time. But glory? Even though it has vanished into the mist and its walls have crumbled, Castrum Kremnos has never forsaken the glory of its warriors. Although I have long since stopped caring about such things as glory…” Mydei exhales.

Even if it doesn’t matter anymore, even if it won’t make a change anymore, there is still joy and freedom in merely saying it, so Phainon whispers, “I love you.”

Mydei takes Phainon’s hand in his, “I am not perfect. I never was. And I wish that I could be selfish, at least with you, only with you. You crept into my heart like a silent soldier under the guise of a friend. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. When I realized I love you, it was already too late to back out.” He lays a feathery kiss against Phainon’s knuckles. 

“Mydeimos.” Phainon closes the space between them. Leaning his forehead against Mydei’s, a tear rolls down his cheek.

“There is nothing we can do. You can’t stay here. We have our duties to perform,” Mydei’s voice trembles ever so slightly.

“If this is our goodbye…” Phainon’s voice cracks, he slowly breathes in to calm down, “Then… just kiss me like there is something we could do… Like we have hope for the oncoming future.” He leans back to look at Mydei.

“Wouldn’t it hurt more?” Desperately concealing how weak he sounds and the tears that are falling down his face, he lets his voice hover at a whisper.

“Wouldn’t it hurt more to not do it?” Phainon counters, “Breathe in, Mydei. Smell that?”

Mydei obeys, breathing in deeply. His nostrils are greeted with the stale air of ruined buildings, rust in the wind and fresh ashes, “There’s nothing, what are you talking about?”

“Exactly,” Phainon weakly smiles, it quickly drops and he gives up, “no lavender.”

Stranded in the abandoned city, drowning in sadness and fated to depart, Mydei closes the space between them and crashes his lips against Phainon’s. Mixed with the bitterness of the first and last kiss and the salty tears, the kiss itself is gentle. They melt together, all the pain and overwhelming emotions bleed into one action. The last echo of a dying animal’s roaring scream laments the future and life stolen from Mydeimos, alongside the future lost to the both of them.

Blaming it onto anyone’s actions is pointless when it was all predetermined. Fate took it away even before either of them was born.

Before this cycle even began.

[generalsdiary]

if i start writing aot smut all of a sudden, you can blame levi's insane chemistry with zeke and his marriage with erwin. thank you.

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven

Mydei x Phainon

word count: 1.9k

description: back to the future (Chapter 5)

a/n: ty to my beta readers; citrus, rice cake and Sav <2

Chapter 6: Inhale him, exhale stardust

It came in flashes.

The perfect, safe paradise falling apart. It bled through the cracks. One moment Phainon is writing at his messy table, and another, he is kneeling in his cold room in Okhema. His cheeks are wet and his vision is blurry, and before he can get a chance to adjust to the new reality, he is back in Kremnos with the most handsome man on the planet looking at him. Pools of gold he could swim in for days. The best privilege in the world is having his attention focused solely on him. The memory of the times Mydei avoided conversations with Phainon is a sting in his heart—the days Mydei would offer only one-word answers and barely look at him. Instead of lamenting the past, Phainon grounds himself in the present moment, and a lazy smile spreads across his lips.

“Will you say something, or do you plan on looking stupidly in love with me the whole time?” Mydei doesn’t hesitate to ask, gently gripping Phainon’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Phainon stops breathing, stuck between heartbeats, trapped between breaths. “I’m…” His words are rendered useless as Mydei leans in with a smile Phainon had never seen before, and brushes his nose against his, “M... Mydei.”

“Yes?” the single word answer brushes against Phainon’s lips in the form of a warm breath. His eyelashes flutter, but he offers no restraint to the imminent kiss. If anything, Phainon feels eager to feel it, experience it, taste him.

A moment before Phainon can meet his lips, so close he can nearly feel him—the dream, inconveniently, ends. The first crack of their reality goes unnoticed by Phainon, wrapped up in the blanket of a loving dream. To him, the flash of the new future appears as a pretend nightmare. Any pain that pierced through his temples gets tucked away in the warm duvet covering his body and the rhythmic breathing of Mydei beside him. If sleep hadn’t concealed the truth, would he have done everything the same way?

Castrum Kremnos ruled and led by King Mydeimos and Prince Phainon had already become a home to them. Apart from some odds and ends sticking out, they had no trouble adapting to it again. Coming back was akin to visiting the house of one’s grandparents, nothing could go wrong—like children without responsibility. The stakes of this reality are a laughable joke in comparison to their actual present. For the two, who usually stand, walk and fight in abnormal proximity, a situation where they’re forced to be even closer is embraced with open arms.

The habit of keeping chats of their present hushed while also having to appear in love, although there’s not much pretending to be had there, resurfaces easily. Every fool, except for Mydei, could tell how lovingly Prince Phainon looks at his husband and everyone, except for Phainon, could tell just how much King Mydeimos blushes in the presence of his other half.

With the constant goal being to have private conversations, Mydei expressed his desire to take Phainon somewhere further away, so that they might not have to whisper. 

“This is beautiful, we should do this more often,” Phainon muses, looking around to take in the scenery. A quiet river, the cleanest air filtered by the large trees surrounding them and, of course, the King of Castrum Kremnos. He could not ask for anything more.

Mydei shuffles a bit on the soft grass, “We could… probably not whenever we make it back… But I’m glad I could show you this.”

Phainon has a glint in his eyes, swiftly cooking up an idea to take Mydei’s mind off whatever may be troubling him, “I bet I could eat more peaches from this tree than you.”

His plan proves fruitful the moment Mydei meets Phainon’s eyes with a newfound fervor in them, “I eat more than you.” 

Already in a half squat, Phainon was grabbing as many peaches as he could and shoving them into his shirt, “We will see about that,” He taunted, voice thick with excitement at the premise of another competition.

Mydei groaned, succumbing to the hard-wired desire to indulge Phainon in this little game—to beat his opponent and pluck the baby pink fruit off the fragile branches faster than him. In a mere matter of moments, there were dozens of peaches on the floor around their feet. In the heat of the ongoing competition, a thought of clarity floats over to Mydeimos, “Perhaps… we shouldn’t behave in this way with food. Furthermore, this is the only peach tree here.”

“Chickening out already?” Phainon snickers, bubbling with the desire to tease Mydei.

“How about we both just enjoy a singular peach, and bring the rest back to Kremnos? As much as I love competing with you, surely we can draw a line somewhere?” In favour of ignoring Phainon’s jab, Mydeimos tilts his head.

The tension in Phainon’s back eases. As long as his so-called-husband has his mind out of the gutter, he doesn’t mind dropping the competition and settling with enjoying the presence of his counterpart. With the peaches nicely piled into an organized tower, Phainon grabs one of them, “Yeah, I can indulge in just one. Here’s to us, Mydeimos, may we always remain triumphant,” he extends it towards Mydei’s hand, to bump them as one might glasses. Mydei wordlessly nods and returns the gesture.

Past the soft fuzz of the fruit’s skin, the blend of soft red, warm yellow and hint of green breaks to reveal a bright orange flesh, spilling its juices—a cacophony of sour and sweet dancing on the men’s tongues. Mouths full, they make eye contact past the first bite, gripping the fruit and leaving no room for witty remarks or playful jokes. One may wonder… was there a matrimony ceremony in the past—or perhaps, on a completely different planet—consisting of the very action the two men find themselves in right now.

The situation is unsettling for all lovers, with Mydei being the first one to bend the knee under the severe pressure of the implied kiss across the fruit—by closing his eyes and taking another bite. Phainon holds back the urge to grab Mydei’s hand, entangle their fingers, relish in the warmth of his palm, feel the strong grip they most probably have—he is holding his hand. Phainon is… he is holding his hand. The shock in his blue eyes matches that of Mydei’s amber ones. Since their mouths are full and they’re not being observed, they let the shock go and instead, turn to ignoring the gravity of such an action.

Yet soft times like these are exactly what Mydei wanted out of his life. Simple, gentle moments that they could never get in the present. It is a small part of them, deep inside, the one that wishes to ignore all responsibilities and let go of the hero status, that wishes Caelus would catch them later rather than sooner. After finally swallowing the sweet fruit, Mydei calls out, “Phainon.”

Their eyes meet, and time nearly stops for them. Apart from the trees rustling, the creek flowing over the smooth grey rocks polished by time, and various birds chirping, time reaches its standstill. It is said that birds only sing in the areas that are safe. This picnic is a memory that one should save in a snow globe to keep it safe and sound; secure and eternal under the glass orb. Glass is crafted from the rough particles of sand; it forms the clear, firm material. However, it is fragile. One wrong swing of an arm and the snow globe falls down, plummeting to its doom and dirtying the floor with a strange liquid. All that remain are fake snowflakes and parts of what once used to be a picnic scene.

There it is again—Phainon’s knees ache and the cold from the stone seeps into his legs. This time, he gathers his surroundings a bit better; this truly is his room. The curtains are pulled away, allowing the eternal dawn to shine light onto the messy space. Phainon wipes away the oncoming, cold tears from his warm cheeks. Salt. They taste like salt. He tries to get up, but with no energy to fight left in them, his legs give out. More tears keep coming, and an ache in his chest makes him think he was stabbed. He looks down… alas, there is no wound there. The whole premise gives him a bad feeling; the wrench in his gut confirming something went terribly wrong. Part of his armor is thrown haphazardly around the room, adding to the unsettling feeling in his stomach.

Phainon reaches for his teleslate, the cold metal assuring him with the potential of clarifying information, until the sensation switches to the warmth of Mydei’s hand. 

“Mydeimos,” he gasps, squeezing the large hand in his, “Something happened, I think the reality is falling apart.”

Mydei looks equally disoriented and mimics Phainon’s gesture, “It appears our choices are changing this future… I don’t think this one is stable. I don’t know if it is safe for us to be here.”

“I doubt this has something to do with safety. Just now I was somewhere else—but it wasn’t our present. We should be safe either way, but…” Phainon shifted closer to Mydei. There’s no harm in sitting near his… husband of this future, is what he tells himself. The fear that he will lose Mydei in an unknown timeline is a thought that he buries deep inside him. He can only hope it will never see the light of the eternal dawn.

“Alright, I’ll trust your judgement this time,” Mydei nods, turning towards Phainon, “I don’t doubt your capabilities to protect yourself should it ever come to it,” his eyes fall to the long-forgotten pile of peaches, “I do wonder… What did you see in the new future?”

“Nothing new, nor out of the ordinary... Okhema, my room. I was crying, I didn’t manage to figure out why. And you?” He murmurs his words out hurriedly, and quickly poses a counter question. The last thing he wants is for Mydei to worry. It is not that he minds talking about his tears, rather that he wishes to avoid giving Mydei an excuse to not share his experience.

The worry in Mydei’s eyes confirms Phainon’s initial goal, “You were crying? It was nothing special on my end, I was—“

Surrounded by enemies. Encircled by Titankin; corrupted by the Black Tide, running along the stone tiles overgrown by grass, outside of any light sent by the Worldbearing Titan Kephale. The air’s thick with the scent of rust, a familiar smell, however only one person can bleed here and it is not any of the enemies. An ache overwhelmed his muscles with each hit he swung forward, and his armor grew heavier with every second. It made him wonder how many times he had already died and come back. The abandoned buildings of Castrum Kremnos… a sour sight to meet after holding the hand of the man he is terribly fond of in the rebuilt city.

Well… that is what he wanted to say. The final crack in the glass shattered it completely, and the future of the two loving, ruling husbands fell apart in their hands like water slipping through their fingers. That future is torn away from their grasp, never to be seen again.

Slow mornings, nights filled with the scent of lavender coming in from the balcony, shared meals, discussions over laws and the common folk inquiries. No Flame Chase journey, no impending Black Tide, no war, no internal conflict. Losing all of this… will it ever be worth the price they’ll have to pay?

[generalsdiary]

The Desecration of thy Holy Temple

Dr. Ratio x Aventurine

word count: 3.3k

description: Dr. Ratio gets sick due to overworking (or catching something from the catcakes), and Aventurine takes care of him

a/n: this was written for the Ratiorine server spring exchange 2025

Stacks of papers cover the large mahogany table, organized in neat piles and displaying different subjects and classes. The blue hologram blinks the system time, keeping Veritas painfully aware of how slowly it is passing. A sting burns his eyes; he tries to rub it away only to sigh in pain. Staring into the same exam for hours is not good for anyone. He is aware of this, yet despite that, he wanted to get all of it done in one sitting.

It has proven to be unrealistic. Veritas’ focus is dropping, the letters are turning blurry and he is lamenting the obvious need for glasses. His significant other did insist that he wears them, although he assumes it is more because of aesthetic reasons rather than the betterment of his vision. His assumption may be proved wrong.

The ergonomic chair has little effect when the seated man is hunched forward. Unlike his usual perfect posture, his spine is crying out in pain, foreshadowing the upcoming arthritis he will most likely develop as a direct consequence. After all, he is not a teenager anymore. A middle aged man like him will inevitably get a heavy ache in his lower back soon enough.

Hesitantly, he lifts up the crimson box containing the tool that might aid him. Inside are a pair of circular glasses with dark brown frames. They have barely any weight in his hands, and even less weight on his nose.

The letters on the paper and the hologram stop moving around, the duplicates unify, and he rolls his eyes. Of course, the vision aid aids him.

Veritas straightens his posture, scolding himself for succumbing to the delicious desire of being hunched over. With his now perfect posture, he furiously begins typing notes for his own improvement in the upcoming lectures. The soft clicks and clacks of his old-fashioned keyboard fill the study room. Following the learning curve of his students and their current, disappointing performance, the end goal is how much they can take in, not how much he can get across.

The occasional mistake in his grammar, the odd letter off, makes him realize he is ignoring some unrecognized need of his. But Veritas is a stubborn, stubborn man. Rather than stopping and taking a break, he diligently pushes on, past the obvious migraine and something itching in his throat.

One nod, two nods, three—he gives up. Just a moment to rest his eyes won’t hurt. Veritas lays his cheek flat on the table, only for a moment. It aches his body; the odd pose hurts his neck and numbs his jaw. Just a second of shuteye. Maybe a minute. Then he will be good to go and get his work done. He unbuttons his white dress shirt—was it him or was the room getting really warm? Veritas always leaves the same temperature… would his husband change it for a random reason? Or did one of the catcakes jump up and… He groans softly, stopping his thoughts. It doesn’t matter, he needs only a moment… One… moment…

The time glides by like a lazy river at water parks—no rush, no thoughts and no sense of obligations. A fun, upbeat song bleeds into the room when the door opens. The fun, joyful words do little to rouse Veritas from his momentary respite.

The wonderful moment is ruined by the tug on his biceps, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m, mh, taking a moment...” Veritas completely disregards his husband’s efforts, not bothering to even open his eyes. Kakavasha takes the opportunity to glance over Veritas’ watch, stepping closer and tapping on the small smooth black screen.

“Your digital watch is claiming you have been sleeping for nearly half a system hour.” Kakavasha presses a palm against his forehead, “And you’re running a fever!” Aventurine tuts in disbelief, “That’s it, time to go to bed.” The years of kindness, mutual love and care taught the blond how to set firm boundaries and how to take care of his husband. Various times when Kakavasha had befallen to a sickness taught him firsthand how it all works. The medicine, the affection, the patience… One of the greatest gifts he could possibly receive.

“Vasha, I only closed my eyes for a moment—I am fine.” Veritas lazily raises his head, huffing as he does so, narrowing his eyes until they focus on his surroundings.

“And as handsome as you look with those glasses,” Kakavasha gently takes the glasses off Veritas’ face and places them in their box, “You won’t need your reading glasses in bed.”

The doctor is quick to object, “I am not running a fever, it is simply warm… or,” Veritas hums, rubbing his chest, “A tad cold… Fuck. I can’t afford to be sick. l—“

The blond softly chuckles, “Funny how you have such high standards for yourself, but treat others with such patience.” Kakavasha smoothly quips, gently guiding the man up on his feet. It is only when he stands up to his full height that Kakavasha is reminded of how tall the man is, and how little he can actually help with carrying him over to their bedroom.

“Beloved, you cannot possibly carry me, so I will walk by myself,” he weakly gestures, waving his hand around with his eyes barely open.

“Can I not at least hold your hand?” The blond flashes him a million credits smile and slithers his arm next to Veritas’.

Veritas doesn’t have it in him to keep up the back-and-forth conversation, such as; how obvious his intentions are, how that smile doesn’t work on him (yes it does), so on and so forth. After years of marriage, he knows better than to quip. With a small approving nod, he allows Kakavasha to lead him to bed.

The very moment his head hits the feather-filled pillow, the man is out like a light. He practically glues down onto the sheets. The heaviness of his body keeps him well under and away from the conscious land. Another hour drives by in a fever-ran dream. Shivering under the heavy covers, he pulled over his body in sleep, sweating at the same time. If the man were conscious, he would have already taken the proper medicine.

Once more, Kakavasha awakens him, this time with a bowl of warm soup.

Warm savory vegetable soup energizes him plentifully, a familiar flavor of his childhood. “You followed my father’s recipe?” Veritas recalls the red leather notebook filled with handwritten recipes, one of which is his favorite soup.

“Yes, I did. It felt safer to cook that rather than… ramen or giving you something fried…” Kakavasha smiles and hands him a wet towel, which he rejects.

Being a doctor, he starts his lecture, “Drawing out high fever or any temperature of that kind via the forehead is a slow and, simply put, bad way to do it. Warming up or cooling down is much better to be achieved differently. Primarily, to draw it through the extremities,” he leans his head back on the pillow, taking a moment to close his eyes, “such as hands, palms, wrists, and feet. It is ideal to run one’s wrists under a stream of cold water. Also, showers are helpful—“ His infodump is cut short by his own gasp, dusk colored eyes snapping open, “What are you—“

Kakavasha had taken it upon himself to put cold-soaked socks onto Veritas, using the predictable lecture as a distraction, “Moonshine-soaked socks. The most optimal solution.” Coming from a different background, Kakavasha is well versed in homemade efficient solutions to various illnesses. Such as using strong alcohol to ease a high fever.

“You— ugh… it does… make sense.” Veritas continues softly hissing. The bright orange socks send a strong whiff of alcohol his way, feet resting neatly on top of a towel to not soak the bed sheets.

Kakavasha tuts, quietly reassuring him, “You will be alright, would you like your regular vitamins?”

“I took them after lunch. Can you… I would take them myself but I am obviously going to dirty the floor if I walk now,” he narrows his eyes at his husband, obviously judging his methods but there is no bite in his gaze, “Please bring me the box of medicine we keep in the fridge.”

Kakavasha smiles, but instead of standing back up, he leans towards him and kisses his cheek, “You’ve got it, handsome.”

“Blatant flirt...” Veritas tries to frown. Such an attempt is futile, thus only end up leading to complete failure. The intense blush on his cheeks, caused by the high fever, half-closed eyes, and the tiniest scrunch of his nose makes the man look utterly adorable. Kakavasha holds back the urge to cover him with kisses.

A fresh change of socks, a semi-cold shower, and a selection of appropriate medicine later, Veritas is eating freshly cut up fruit. Moreso shoving it down his throat due to his lack of appetite, while holding a staring contest with Kakavasha.

“Food.”

“Hmph. Food,” Veritas continues chewing, obviously unhappy.

“You know it is good for you.” Kakavasha moves closer, leaning onto Veritas’ shoulder.

“You’re cool to touch… don’t move away, please.” Veritas embraces the man, switching the position to spoon him, arms tightly wrapping around his waist. “However, I’d hate to infect you…” His arms lose the grip, letting go of the smaller man. One may take care of the other; alas, if both are sick, then the situation would turn into two men struggling to get well. Drowning in tissues, half-assed meals and high fevers is not something this household, or any for that matter, needs.

“With my luck, I doubt I’d get sick from you, doctor~” Kakavasha smiles as he moves away, he follows Veritas’ wishes – not finding any amusement in pushing the man’s boundaries. His words earned only a snort from his husband.

“You’d do better to not rely on your luck for trivial things, I do not find it amusing when you gamble your health, darling,” Veritas does not allow any self-deprecating humor to fly by.

Kakavasha cutely scrunches his nose and nods, “Yes, love. I won’t, I promise. Well…maybe—“

“Kakavasha.” Veritas sternly scolds him, glaring at him.

“Fine, fine, fine—no gambling,” Kakavasha is all smiles and giggles. Both men are well aware he might joke about this same topic again in the future—lightheartedly of course.

As luck would have it, Veritas got better quickly. The only price was the pure exhaustion, equivalent to a physical worker at the end of the day. An ache pierced down to his bones, an arrow through flesh. The weakness in his bones made Veritas feel weak, utterly helpless—a man laid on his deathbed.  No fever, cough or sniffle tortured his days; in the eyes of his dear husband, Veritas was still in perfect shape for constant cuddles.

That is until he was met with the lowest act of it all—waking up in the middle of the night with a burn in his nose and an odd taste in his mouth. Stumbling towards the bathroom, his new companion: a migraine—piercing his temples. The, practically neon, bright light of the bathroom only worsens the numbness of his senses. Veritas washes his face once, twice, aimlessly staring at his reflection in the mirror in hopes he can glare the pain away. Partygoers, clubbers, or anyone who indulges in consuming alcoholic beverages must be acclimatized to such smells in dirty bathrooms. He assumes that a loss of sensation must be a common experience to them.Conversely, Veritas, the man who eats properly, sleeps appropriately and treats his body as the most sacred temple, is most definitely not used to the current predicament. 

“Veri… darling, are you okay?” Kakavasha had quietly slipped into the bathroom. The deaf hours of the night, becoming much less deaf, and the side of his bed—which had already turned cold—were certainly alarming for Veritas’ husband.

“Vasha…” Veritas coughed once. His throat tingled with a burning sensation from the lack of moisture in it, “You shouldn’t be here, the smell alone is horrendous.” He shuddered when the stench hit his nose once more.

“I grew up and lived in much worse conditions, I can handle being around my loved one. And… the bathroom smells fine?” The blond tilts his head in question.

Veritas lets his head hang above the sink—limp as a ragdoll—and heavily sighs, “Must be this ridiculous cold.”

“Let me get you some water,” Kakavasha leaves with soft steps, and with strained vocal chords, Veritas weakly shouts after him, “I told you to wear slippers!”

“I prefer to feel the ground, Veritas!” The blond yells back from the kitchen.

A few moments later, he is once again by his side. “Here, drink up,” he hands him a glass of cold water that Veritas uses to clean out his mouth before he dares swallow a sip. In the meanwhile, Kakavasha soaks a small grey towel in cold water and places it on Veritas’ nape, earning a sharp inhale and a long exhale.

“That is… Aeons , that is lovely,” the doctor muses, “Thank you.”

Kakavasha smiles, pleased with the effectiveness of his solution, “Mhm, I’ve been where you are plenty of times. Hangovers humble a man…” he gazes off into the distance, the smile slowly disappearing as he recalls the awful throbbing headaches.

“I am glad you no longer consume alcohol as much as you used to. I’m… ugh…” Veritas’ throat is painfully dry, tongue sticking uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth, “I’m surprised this cold had also included the deprivation of my senses. Preposterous that such germs would dare attack me of all people,” Veritas shakes his head and leans against the washing machine.

“Veritas… you don’t have to force yourself, in this state of all things, to make me laugh by pretending to be pretentious,” Kakavasha brushes his fingers against Veritas’ cheek. The skin is somewhat rough; the man hadn’t shaved in a few days. Short indigo hairs peek through the otherwise smooth curves of cheeks. The man leans into his touch, desperately seeking comfort. “C’mon, let’s give your—“ he snickers, throwing on the accent his husband has, “— oral cavity ” earning a soft glare from the doctor, “a new taste, and perhaps a shower. How do you feel?” Kakavasha sits down on the edge of the bathtub.

“I… cannot tell. Though, I feel… awfully weak—“ Veritas quietly answers, his eyelids droopy. There’s an underlying exhaustion in his bones, inexplicable, and Veritas cannot summon enough strength to deduce the cause. 

Kakavasha is already on his feet, opening the white marble cabinet and fetching the dark blue toothbrush from its cup, “Don’t overexert yourself,” he turns on the faucet, wets the brush, puts some spearmint toothpaste on it, wets it again and hands it to him, “We have floor heating for a reason, so don’t stress about me not wearing slippers.” He also takes the chance to smear some toothpaste on Veritas’ and his own philtrum, an easy solution to block out many unpleasant smells, including imaginary ones. That one, Kakavasha had figured out several years ago.

Veritas slowly brushes his teeth with hands heavy as lead. His head is a mess of half thoughts, hence he focuses on moving the toothbrush back and forth, making sure to give attention especially to his tongue. The thought of food goes through his mind—one should always work to replenish their lost strength—however, it could also upset his stomach. He decides that he will wait until morning to have a proper breakfast. Secretly, he hopes Kakavasha will make it. He is most proficient in cooking breakfast, and Veritas can’t deny that he loves his scrambled eggs, fried bread, the occasional pancakes, chocolate muffins, chocolate chip cookies, vegan bacon— and now he is salivating. Better focus on only brushing his teeth.

Meanwhile, Kakavasha unscrewed a plastic bottle with neon blue liquid inside and poured some in a tiny plastic cup. Their size reminds him of jell-o shots, or… regular shots for that matter. An echo of the old, infamous days which he certainly does not miss.

Veritas slowly gets up to his feet to wash out the toothpaste and clean the toothbrush, followed by gargling the—far too strong for anyone’s liking—mouthwash. “This is fucking disgusting,” he groans.

“Why do you think it’s full? Neither of us even uses it,” the blond man shrugs, “Do you think your energy levels are bed level or a nap in the bathtub level?”

A sparkle shines in Veritas’ dusk eyes. The idea of a bath soothes his soul—which is not a scientifically proven concept. “I doubt I’d have the energy to stay awake in it…” he turns to look at his beloved, “Would you… care to join me? I could rest on you in turn?”

Kakavasha’s face brightens up. Oh, how he loves seeing the life and light in those eyes, “I would love to.”

Using a bath bomb or something with too strong of a scent to it this late at night would simply upset the somewhat ill man even further. On the other hand, an empty bath is a sorry sight. Clear water and no bubbles? One might as well have had a shower. Thankfully, Veritas is prepared for even these types of situations. He pours a clear liquid into the warm water and moves his hand around to activate the formula. A white foam consisting of tiny, iridescent, scentless bubbles grows tremendously high in the perfectly warm tub. A shameless moan parts from his lips as he sinks in it.

“I can barely see where the water is, are you sure I won’t slip and fall?” Kakavasha carefully steps into the large bathtub.

“I will catch you if you do... But be careful,” his eyes snap open, unable to hide the obvious concern for the sudden worry his partner expressed. Strong hands grip Kakavasha’s waist and guide him down between Veritas’ legs.

Kakavasha’s brows furrow in confusion, “I thought you said you’d be leaning on me?”

“I can lean on you from the back too, my love,” his arms wrap around Kakavasha and he nuzzles his face into his neck. Veritas’ body turns heavy as he goes limp, nearly falling asleep in the warm water. Kakavasha follows suit and both end up napping for an hour. It is the semi cool water that wakes them up when the sun rises.

A, hopefully healthier, morning consists of a shared morning shower – Veritas was feeling far too clingy to do it alone.

A knock on the door interrupts their breakfast.

“Vasha, do you mind? I do not feel like dealing with humans this early,” Veritas mumbles between bites of wrapped crepes filled with pomegranate jam. The quieter catcake is purring nonstop on Veritas’ lap, while the other is flipping between the TV channels on the couch, its paws expertly navigating the remote as it searches for its preferred program.

“No problem~ Eat up,” the chair squeaks as Kakavasha pushes it aside and walks to the front door.

He stands on the tips of his toes to peek into the peep hole… It is only the mailman. “Good morning, yes?”

The man is holding an envelope in his hands and a small tablet, “Letter for Doctor and Mr. Ratio?”

“Mhm, I can take it,” Kakavasha quickly examines the letter, flipping it around in his hand. It has multiple different kinds of handwriting on it, and a small Pom-Pom sticker sticks the envelope in place. One of the catcakes nuzzles up curiously to his legs, meowing softly in an attempt to get his attention.

“Sign here, please,” the mailman extends the tablet and a silicon pen.

“Yep, there you go, thank you so much.” Kakavasha smiles.

The man nods, not in the mood for smiling, his eyes fall to the screen, checking if the signature matches, “No problem… Mr. Ratio, have a nice day.”

divider credit: @saradika-graphics

[generalsdiary]

blade crumbs found in a seal event

yaoi so tragic it echoes in a distant inaccessible world

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven

Mydei x Phainon

word count: 4.8k

description: catching up with the 3.1 canon events (Chapter 4)

a/n: ty to my beta readers; citrus & rice cake

Chapter 5: Guided by the Morning Star

“I can't just put Kremnoan clothes on.” Caelus gasps and crosses his arms over his chest, denying the option to cosplay. Kremnoans walk around basically shirtless—the sheer image of walking around without his jacket and shirt, wearing shorts and sandals makes him shake his head. He’s unwilling to show even a sliver of his skin. The mountains in the distance do nothing to ease his thoughts, the sight of such beauty bathed in natural sunlight doesn't earn even a glance from him. If it were a different time, a different companion with him or if he were a different version of himself, he might have stopped… and gazed at the landscape.

“Mem mem.. mem mem?” His pink companion coos in question.

“I have some scarring that would make me stand out, we have to do something else.” He rubs his chest, and Mem angles her head, curiously staring at the spot, “Mem?”

“Consequences of housing a Stellaron,” he chuckles, “sorta like being struck by lightning except it is yellow marks across my body. That glow. Sometimes. Dan Heng says they glow.” Caelus shrugs. Underneath his clothes, resembling something between cracked ice and lightning strikes, streaks of gold stretch out across his torso, arms and legs. The Vidyadhara man has made it a habit to trace them with his lips. The memory makes Caelus smile. “I’ll climb over the wall—simple!”

Alongside the bright day, fire quietly crackles as it also lights up the majestic courtyard. A clean, polished look, unlike the one Caelus has seen in the present. A breathtaking sight makes Caelus believe he is seeing a moment stolen from the past. He had walked through these halls with Castorice and Gnaeus. To think it all gets revived in the future, brought up to its old glory, is truly astounding.

A tall, gruff-looking guard threw him onto the stone tiles. “My King, we have found this intruder trying to jump over the wall. What do you want us to do with him?”

“…Caelus?” The King tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the trailblazer’s back. 

Caelus lifted his head, excitedly speaking up, “Mydei! It is an emergency—I don’t know how much longer Mem can keep us here.”

Time travelling and the etiquette for time travelers isn’t something they teach in Kremnoan school. Inopportunely, Mydeimos never went to any school - the Grove is more of an Akademiya. Dealing with someone he knows well enough, but whose relationship with him is unpredictable, makes the cogs in his head work overtime.

“Yes… uhm, of course. Do let go of him, we can… reconcile, but I am busy, I can’t spare you much time.” The rust of the wind that blows across a battlefield is vivid in his mind. He wishes he could be there, rather than taking care of a completely uncertain dynamic which is the ball of chaos in front of him. Mydei gestures with his head and the unnecessary personnel scatters, leaving the guards posted at the entrance the only ones nearby. 

“You said it was urgent. How may I help you, as the King of Kremnos?” He takes a confident stance, legs apart the width of his shoulders and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Are you the version… Mem, is he—“ Behind him, the friendly pink creature pops up, and Caelus turns around “Mem! Mem Mydei mem mem.” She nods. Caelus rubs his chin and decides to spill the beans, “If you’re wrong; they will throw me to the crazy house, here we go! I am here to get you back to the present. Please be Mydei from my time—“ “Mem!” The two start squabbling in front of a shocked Mydei. “I know you’re sure, and if he isn’t?” “Mem mem! Mem!”

“Did you just say… present?” This is their chance; they can go back. Of course he wants to go back. There’s nothing he wants more. Right? Right. “I… I must get Phainon, he should be in our room, I’ll fetch him.” A tremble travels up his body, followed by adrenaline coursing through his veins. The words Caelus speaks flow past his ears as he speed walks away. Yes, this is an oasis, and such a happy time. Alas it doesn’t cancel out that the Kremnoan people deserve better. In the end, it might be at the price of his joy.

In the end, the price will end up being much higher.

“Deliverer!” Mydei calls out when the large doors open, seeking out the young man. There’s a millisecond there where he wishes they could stay… to run away, to wait until Caelus gets pulled back into the present. That irrational thought dies down the moment it was born. “We are going back, they have sent the outlander for us, it is time.”

Phainon is stunned in place, he looks around as if he has things to pack and the sharp sword of nostalgia hits him immediately. Did he even leave a mark on this time? “Should we leave a note…or…”

“What note? We are the imposters here, let’s go while we can.” Mydei is already out of the door, while Phainon takes one last look at their chambers. Their room. The bed they shared for many nights, the bed their married counterparts sleep in and will continue to do so when they leave. The desk he got accustomed to, filling out many reports in the late evening. The balcony where they spent the deaf hours of the night whispering of the present. The closet with clothing much more akin to his tastes than the one he has. The brown carpet which kept his feet warm in the morning, unlike his Chrysos Heir room back in Okhema. The pillow that held his head and the sight that met him each morning. The tousled hair of his… of Mydeimos. An armored hand grabs his, “What are you waiting for, Deliverer? Let’s go.” Mydei pulls him away. It only took one glance at him for Phainon to notice the unspoken words in his eyes too.

This time around, there was no physical pain. Nostalgia is a pain that creeps in—it doesn’t quite make one cry. It is a deadly killer, looming in the silent shadow of the night and clenching one’s heart when there’s no one around; wishing and hoping upon the unforeseen star of the future, lamenting what could be. Seeing what will be, living in what will happen, jumping to the happy ending… sits differently in the heart. One could get hope for what is to come after living in the perfect version of the future. Unfortunately, the heavy warning dream showing a different, possible future, stalks the back of Phainon’s mind. Mydei’s resolve to attempt to change the future for the betterment of his people strengthens the demon of his nightmare even more.

The two awakened, disoriented, in hospital beds beside each other, with many onlooking Chrysos Heirs. The typical scent pinches their noses, affirming the sterile environment, before they open their eyes. There’s a stiffness in their necks from the paper thin pillows, and an ache in their bodies as if they have slept for hours on end.

Head spinning, Mydei takes the opportunity to quickly utter the location of the Death Titan, in fear that they will be ripped away before sharing it, or that they will forget what had happened.

“Snowy! De! You made us so worried!” Tribbie jumped onto Phainon’s bed and hugged him. Not wasting another second, she also hugged Mydei.

“It was, rather, disturbing. Worrying is an understatement. Losing two of our best warriors in the middle of war, not to mention two of our highly appreciated Chrysos Heirs needed for the prophecy, has taken a toll on Okhema. I do not want to rush you, however there have been severe attacks in your absence. I must urge you, Phainon, to partake in the trial for the Coreflame of Strife.” Aglaea’s sightless eyes showed no emotion—a statue would’ve provided more color to their voice. She stands at the foot of their beds, looming at them with an undeniable pressure in the air.

“Yes, of course, I will get to it—“ Phainon’s head sends a pulsating headache, accompanied with severe dizziness, through him the moment he sits up. The many onlookers in the room have their eyes set on the man, thus failing to see the painfully obvious worry in Mydei’s eyes the moment Phainon winced.

Hyacine firmly denies any forced urgency Aglaea attempted to shove down his throat, “Both of them need rest. We aren’t familiar with the artifact they had used and how it may have affected them. They need to be under observation… Or Phainon might fail the trial simply because of this, Lady Aglaea.” Her colorful eyes show resolve, overcoming her respect and devotion to Aglaea by putting the wellbeing of her patients above the woman.

Aglaea shows the tiniest bit of displeasure, one that only Tribios could catch, however she hears reason within Hyacine’s words and silently lets the matter go. Perhaps it was leftovers of the love the Romance Titan had for the Reason Titan that made her see it clearly. “Hyacine can inform you of less trivial matters. We are happy you are back with us. Priestess, a word please?” Tribbie smiles brightly at the men and leaves with Aglaea.

“Is the outlander back too? What exactly happened? How did you manage to find us?” Mydei’s eyes are closed, the bronze armor is off his hands and he is rubbing his temple. He takes notice that his armor was stripped of him some time before he woke up.

“He is fine, doing better than you two! Lady Aglaea doesn’t show it but she was as worried as the rest of us. You…” Hyacine blinks quickly a few times. Her eyes scan the two men, subtly checking their reflexes and behavior.

Phainon speaks up, “Granted, we did disappear for a period of time, I assume.”

The girl’s eyes show horror, the soft curls of her pigtails shake with head moving left and right. “You didn’t just disappear. You both… collapsed on the floor. And… Professor Anaxagoras claimed your bodies had no souls inside once he came to look at you. I was called upon immediately. You two were laying limp on the floor like corpses. Unmoving, empty human shells with no consciousness. Tribbie and Trianne cried, blaming themselves for your states.” Hyacine’s voice shook. She tried to make pauses between the words, yet sadly, it did little to calm her as she actively recalled the day. “When we tried to carry you two here… you both stopped breathing. We discovered that whatever took you away also made it lethal to both of you if you got separated. Lord Mydei died… and came back. I thank the Sky Titan every day for your immortality, Lord Mydei. We should have been more careful when we were attempting to help you.” The girl avoids eye contact, ashamed of her actions.

“Hyacine, don’t worry. We are both fine. And back.” Mydei nods, he finds himself glancing over at Phainon, an urge he used to be able to hold back.

“Yes, Hyacine, we are doing great! Except for the seasickness on dry land, but I’ll sleep it off. Do send our gratitude to the outlander. Caelus really came through for us.” Phainon smiles, rubbing the nape of his neck to soothe the relentless ache there.

“Of course, Lord Phainon. Their idea was a little away from genius and we are eternally grateful that they managed to get you back. Please, I shouldn’t be overloading you with information, allow me to escort you to your rooms and let you rest.” Despite the attempt to hide their lightheadedness, it overwhelms them and the two simply mutter in agreement.

Phainon pulls the heavy curtains over the balcony of his room. Mimicking nighttime, shielding his eyes from it. The familiar empty room greets him like it is any other day. The weeks that have passed, according to Hyacine, are not visible on the furniture in his room. No dust has fallen on it, the room does not greet him. It had only ever served him as a resting place, never a home. Phainon ignores the sofa, the armchair, the little cyan footrest next to his bed… It is just furniture – nothing more. He slumps onto the bed and passes out without a second thought.

Mydei is awakened from his deep sleep by a voice calling out for him. Even before he opens his eyes, his hands are feeling out the bed to the left of him, gripping the empty sheets. Upon finding the side of the bed vacant, he sits up looking around the room for the source of the voice. “Mydei—“

The voice gets louder, and with dust from sleep blurring his vision, he gets up, walking to the… smaller door than he had gotten used to. Forcefully he opens the door, wearing only his pajama bottoms, exclaiming in a rough voice, “Ignis, where the hell is Phainon?” The warrior is on autopilot, following the yelps that woke him up, opening the door nearby his room. The lack of a guard, nonetheless Ignis, the woman who stands the night shift in front of their room in the future, or the fact he woke up in his usual room, surpass the barely awake man. Stumbling into Phainon’s room, he trips over the footrest and quickly climbs onto the bed, “Deliverer, what is it, what happened? What are you doing here—“ Mydei’s mind finally settles down when he grips Phainon’s arms. He is in the present, in Phainon’s room.

With flushed cheeks and messy hair, Phainon naturally clings onto Mydeimos, a reassuring figure he has grown used to. “Mydei!”

The reality of their situation escapes him, the instinct to comfort Phainon overtaking his narrow sleepy focus, “Y-yes, I’m here.” Mydei finds himself embracing Phainon’s trembling body.

“A nightmare… a nightmare and… I thought I’d wake up sooner from it,” Phainon shakes his head, pushing his face further into Mydei’s neck.

Mydei swallows hard. In the previous weeks he was there to wake Phainon before the nightmares  went on as long as they did tonight. They don’t share a bed anymore. He doesn’t sleep beside him. He wasn’t there to comfort him immediately. He shushes Phainon, rubbing his back as he usually did.

Mydei sits, somewhat awkwardly, on Phainon’s bed. It is different. He can’t stay. By the time Phainon finally calmed down, his eyes are half open, tired, leaning back into sleep, and Mydeimos moves to the edge to leave.

“Don’t go.” Phainon whispers, his arm outstretched toward him. The unspoken rules are to go to sleep in his own bed. They aren’t even romantically inclined. Never kissed, they aren’t dating. Why should he stay? Because they had slept in the same bed for weeks? Months? It is wrong to act upon that assumption. There isn’t a single reason he should stay that makes sense.

“For old time’s sake. I… I sleep better beside you.” Phainon meets Mydei’s eyes and closes them, choosing to not see him leave if he decides so. Mydei averts his eyes to look at the mess of pillows and covers Phainon is resting in. Perhaps it is something about the quiet of the artificial night, their guards being lower from their sleepy states, the intimacy of the moment in the present, or the option to stay… that makes Mydei join Phainon’s side.

“So needy.” Mydei complains with a soft smile that is concealed by the darkness in the room. He crawls over Phainon’s legs to slump onto the left side of the bed. His usual side. No reasons hold any weight when all he wants is to sleep beside him. They don’t have to touch, they never have; instead, always keeping a healthy distance between their bodies on the canopy bed. Even though the two slept in the same bed, they had each other; their breathing, Phainon’s snoring, crickets buzzing…

Mydeimos settles down on his left side, facing the other man. Phainon sleepily gazes at him and shifts closer, “Good night, Mydei.” He moves completely to the other side, resting his head on Mydei’s arm and nuzzling his head into Mydei’s neck. Mydei exhales heavily, “… Good night, Phainon.” His arms wrap around Phainon, one hand straying up to the platinum locks, gently rubbing his scalp. The motion feels far too natural, and the position far too comfortable. A minute or so later, they entangle legs, like they both waited until it could be assumed they had done so naturally in their sleep.

With a groan, Mydeimos stretched his arms, “Why is it still dark, I’m sure we are oversleeping…”

Phainon stirs in his arms, moving away to also flex his legs, pushing the light blue duvet away, “Ignis can wake us up whenever…”

A familiar phone alarm makes both of them jump. A chirpy tune going off on Phainon’s teleslate makes them realize that they are not where, nor when, they thought they were.

“Ah, fuck.”

“Shit.” Mydei rubs his eyes, glancing over to the heavy curtains holding back the light of eternal morning inside.

“The trial is today. I’m sure Aglaea won’t allow another rest day.” Phainon groans, a reaction he wouldn’t show to anyone—the Hero of Amphoreus wouldn’t dare to complain or deny his orders—except in the safety of his comrade.

Mydei rubs his eyes, groaning softly into the pillow before mumbling an answer, “If anyone can do it, you can. Go on, Deliverer. Your battlefield lies elsewhere.” 

“I know your stance, but I do hope you don’t mind me asking one more time. Are you certain you’re okay with me taking the Coreflame?” Heedless of the serious nature of their conversation, their voices are soft, lazy, and not much different from an old married couple.

“I have no interest in becoming a replacement god. Furthermore, wasn’t this your sole wish?” Phainon silently nods to Mydei’s words,  “… Good luck, I don’t doubt that you will return victorious.”

The eternal morning outside burns their eyes, hence neither rush to pull the heavy curtain from the windows. 

Victory ended up being far from Phainon’s reach, having fallen in the battle. Mydeimos, due to Aglaea and Tribios’ manipulation, ran to save the man. Face to face with Nikador, who mocked him for ruining Phainon’s glory—stealing his death in battle and attempting to bring him back—Mydei went against it all to save Phainon. Ignoring the age-old Kremnoan saying, an integral part of their culture; Better to die in battle, than return even in glory.

Ruin befalling Okhema and the other remaining outskirts forced Mydeimos’ hand. If one were to ask Dan Heng about this, the Vidyadhara would call him overly hesitant. Meanwhile, Mydei tried to tie up loose ends as his fate, the one he fought tooth and nail to avoid, forced him down its path. The one who wanted not the crown has killed the king and is forced by his people to wear it. The one who never wanted the Coreflame of Strife has easily succeeded in its trial and is cursed to serve as the replacement god.

Fate has not been kind to you, Mydeimos.

Is it not said that one can alter their own fate, make their own choices? Then why has this warrior befallen into his fate despite relentless fighting against it? Fate has its tight grip on him to the point it made a deal with Death so it can never take him. Blessed to be the image of the perfect Kremnoan, cursed to see the full picture. Gifted the presents of the best warrior and leader, plagued to carry the heaviest burden. If he were any less of a man than he is, he might have screamed about it, thrown furniture, kicked and yelled. If he wasn’t who he was, he would have shouted at the skies about how unfair all of this is. 

Not to worry… one will shout at the skies in his stead.

So, Mydei ascends to godhood, gaining even more power than he had. Luckily, he always had a profound control over his battle rage, thus Nikador’s strife does not consume him. He walks through the front door to join the fight in his home city. 

Amongst the commotion and Phainon’s relieved exhale, he sees the man that killed him. Or will kill him. Or perhaps might kill him. A shiver doesn’t dare go down his spine—his step is secure and confident. Phainon watches over his back as he wins the fight against the swordmaster. Smashing that shadowed figure into blood red crystals, crushing them and holding the crystal ashes above his head, showering in the enemy’s blood. Welcome one, welcome all, the demigod Mydeimos.

Rejecting the crown was his first step, ending millenias old traditions the second. As it was prophesied, Mydei ends the dynasty of Kremnoans, having already completed the earlier two; killing the Titan of Strife and his own father. Father is too big of a title for that poor excuse for a king. He, who tried to assassinate his own son. Mydei has only ever called Eurypon that once. He wouldn’t even address him as his father simply because the man isn’t worth it. However, only a father could do the damage that man has done. Eurypon may bear that title in the highest form of shame.

The present, their reality, doesn’t treat them like the future did. It doesn’t bathe them in honeyed words, where their biggest concern was the gossip of the various workers in Kremnos. The safe cocoon it provided feels further away by the moment. That it was one day a possible future for them kept Phainon going, but alas, things change. They were forced out of their daydream, forced to spread their wings, and shoved into reality as fluttering butterflies out of their previous home. Did Mydeimos judge the new Kingdom too harshly too early on? What if he had managed to change something? No… Mydei is the man who truly thinks things through, loves reading and triple checks his facts; doubting him would be idiotic.

Natural light of their future was easy on their eyes, the plants around the city were always flourishing, the people were untroubled, happy… A slice of heaven taken away too abruptly. A future they will not live to see. Yet, there is a version of them that, at one point, lived to see it. Even them, who will not live it, have gotten a glimpse into the stolen paradise. Will they, in the last of their days or difficult times, stop and recall the honeymoon that pretending to be married was, fondly pulling at the old memories…?

Whilst the present continues beating them down, making them bend their knees to its reality, the future treated them like old lovers, showering them with praises, waking them up with the softest cheek kisses and quietest whispers, gifting them flowers and keeping them out of harm’s way. Remembering such a sweet time these days will only make the memories turn sour.

Some time, the odd hour which outsiders might call noon, Mydei bumps into Phainon outside Marmoreal market, before he had started his goodbye tour. 

“Ah, his royal majesty and grace!” Phainon beams, bending down in a mock half bow.

“Deliverer, seriously?” Mydei rolls his eyes and looks at the man through his eyebrows.

“Come on, we could afford a moment of laughter. Congratulations either way,” he nods and turns solemn, “I do understand your regrets—“

Mydei interrupts him, “This is the only path. You know I had no other choice.”

A silence surrounds them, akin to awkwardness with how it keeps flipping between sadness and the need for comedy. “At least at one point you were the King of Castrum Kremnos.” Phainon attempts a joke. It lands badly.

“Technically, I was never a King. The only King I ever was, was an Uncrowned one. Nothing more, Deliverer.” Mydei shakes his head, adamant on correcting him.

Incapable of dealing with the heaviness of the situation, Phainon continues milking the dead cow by pushing the joke further. He brings a hand to his forehead, leaning dramatically back, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear my Prince one more time.” With Mydei’s unwavering glare he stops, “Yeah, I get it. I think I’m one of the rare ones who get it, since you took the time to explain it fully. Where we were is far from ideal for your people, but it is a good ending for you.” Married to me… he leaves the rest of the sentence in the air for Aglaea’s golden web to catch onto.

“I suppose that was one of the good things. Even if I had to bear the crown I despise.” Mydei agrees with Phainon, but the messy moment is cut short with his clothes getting caught on a nearby statue. He loses his balance, catching Phainon’s hand to not fall. The man’s laughter barely graces his ears before it is taken away by a deafening abyss. His ears are ringing, his head is spinning and his body is in a free fall. The moment it is about to become too much, his vision returns, along with the sound of his panicked heavy breathing.

Mydei is disoriented, and the semi-darkness, equal parts unfamiliar and familiar, makes him lose his balance. Phainon’s similarly agitated breathing grounds him, and Mydei turns his head to follow the noise. Color bleeds into his world, hitting him with too much information at once. The soft pillow, the canopy ceiling, the moonlit room, all of which would never be possible in the current Amphoreus… Instinctively, based on a rush of all the facts, he tugs the bed sheet covering his body with him and gets on the floor beside the bed.

“The hell, Mydeimos?” Phainon is on the edge of fuming; the man had the same idea and leapt to the other edge of the bed, kneeling on the floor, “Did you have to pull all the bedsheets with you?”

“Yes!” With wide eyes he is keeping steady eye contact with Phainon, “We… are back…?”

“And you took the bedsheets!” Phainon holds onto the fact, like a puppy with its first big bone.

A soft shade of red creeps up his neck, “Because I am naked, Deliverer!”

“So am I!” Phainon’s cheeks warm up, he diverts his eyes, “Unlike you, I have nothing to cover up with!”

They both turn around, leaning their backs against the bed frame, providing more privacy. “What were they doing for us to wake up like this? Seriously, I would put some clothes on at least…”

“Does it really need to be spelled out for you?” Mydei scoffs, silencing Phainon.

“Do you… feel sore?” Phainon questions, attempting to reveal the exact situation their bodies might have been in, seemingly a couple of hours before they got here.

Mydei softens his voice, “No. Do you feel sore?”

“I mean… a bit…?” There is a slight ache he can sense but nothing too severe. Phainon stands up, walks over to their clothes and picks up something clean. “Do you want your usual?”

“If you would be so kind, Deliverer.” Mydei ties the sheets low around his hips, and walks over to the half dressed man. Said man nearly passes out, kneels and gets a nosebleed at the sight. The dazed state of his comrade flies above Mydei’s head, as he is too focused on getting the clothes in Phainon’s hand. “Some privacy?” The words do not reach Phainon’s ears, and Mydei takes it upon himself to grip his shoulders and turn him away. Soft grunts, and the sound of clothes rustling right behind Phainon’s back does not ease his struggles one bit. “There. Now why the fuck are we back here?”

Phainon gulps, “Y-you’re done?” slowly he turns back to face Mydei, who looks right about ready to punch him or call him one of those hard-to-pronounce Kremnoan words.

Ignoring the flustered state Phainon is obviously in, Mydei continues, “I did not have the artifact on me, moreover Lady Tribios told me that it disappeared after we had used it. There is no explanation for how it happened.”

Phainon rubs his face up and down a few times, glancing around the room. A sense of relief washes over him. A part of him is happy he is back. “Since the artifact is our only lead, we might as well just continue living here the same way we did before. Although, it seems some time has passed between the last time we got here.” The two break eye contact at the reminder in which states they found their bodies.

Mydei’s fingers caress the edge of his wooden desk, “I suppose so,” he sighs, “it seems to be the middle of the night. We should go back to bed.”

Phainon hums in agreement, he easily slips into the easygoing, lazy walk back to their bed. “I wonder how much time has passed. Perhaps also a day or two… I have missed the actual night we get in this future. The eternal morning in Okhema drives me insane.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven

Mydei x Phainon

word count: 5.2k

description: gossip and myphai doing their best to look like the royal couple they're supposed to be (Chapter 3)

a/n: ty to my beta readers; citrus, rice cake and Sav <2

Chapter 4: Gossip of the fireflies

A hot, caffeinated drink filled the air with its bitter fumes around the three people: a cook, a swordmaster, and a guard, each with a cup in their hands and a tall circular table between them. Over the misty scent, the three fireflies share hushed words. One is standing on lookout, the other one is focused on her cup, with which she is attempting to wake herself up, and the third one is adding milk to their drink while slipping something stronger into the first one’s cup.

“I’m telling you – they have been acting differently.” Hyles, the guard, speaks up.

Erinys shook their head, “You know what I heard mountain dwellers say, Chartonus pointed it out himself.” They look over their shoulder and return the gaze to the woman, “That the prince’s sword feels as soulless as it did decades ago! Why would it switch again?”

Aelius snorted, placing her hands behind her back in a firm grasp, “Since when did you believe such stories from the dwellers? However, I have noticed some… other things.” She quirks an eyebrow, quickly catching the full attention of the cook and swordmaster.

“Speak, Aelius, what is it?” Hyles hisses quietly. A tremble in his hands reveals his eagerness, equivalent to that of an addict, making the hot drink nearly splash and burn his fingers.

“Ignis told me they have been much calmer. Their—“ Aelius leans into the table, to which the others promptly follow suit like a pair of chickens, and she whispers, “bedroom, has been deadly silent lately. Nothing. That is bloody unusual.” The woman leans back, fixing her armor in an attempt to look busy.

Erinys’ jaw is hung open and their eyes are widened, “You know what? On top of that— they are usually, always touching in some small way, but these days they just stand insanely close. And act like teenagers with crushes on each other.” They shake their head, taking a slow sip of the drink, which burns their tongue. The poor swordmaster starts blowing air, coloring their face a healthy shade of red, like a baby dragon learning how to spit fire.

Hyles purses his lips and adds, “The Prince has been leaving food on his plate that he always eats, it’s almost like his taste has changed. All of this is so strange.”

Unfortunately, fate chooses to spite them at that moment as the heavy doors open abruptly. The guard joining the outdoor conversation manages to spook the trio; they all jump, one spilling the drink on the table, the other onto the stone flooring, and the third one, the guard, squeaks and hides her face in embarrassment, “My Lords, we weren’t speaking ill of you, we wouldn’t dare, please don’t have our heads— we weren’t plotting I promise— my Lords PLEASE!!” Aelius is about to fall to her knees to plead, until the person who arrived snaps her back into reality. A feminine voice saves Aelius from further embarrassment, “Seriously? What the hell have you three mongrels been talking about to cause such a reaction?” Ignis frowns, placing the bowl of fresh cookies on the table before she bursts into laughter.

“Ignis, Kephale save us, you have scared us!” Hyles shudders as he cleans up the spilled drink on the table.

“Aelius was sharing some findings about the royal married couple, nothing else.” Erinys provides some insight to the newcomer with a heavy sigh, to which Ignis seems disinterested, yet she adds something that makes them all pause and light up, “I don’t know the last time I have seen them even kiss. It has been days.” The fireflies buzz up with gossip and speculations, and loyal Kremnoans burst into a passionate conversation and accusations. All in good faith, of course; all out of worry for their King and Prince. Their words travel on the wind, and luckily for them, they are far away from the royal couple’s balcony.

Luck also blows in another direction, towards the sneaky duo that was competing in wall squats just behind the corner of the building, who have caught every single word of it.

“It seems we will need to up our game, Mydeimos~” Phainon smirks, keeping his voice low, but the smug feeling is quickly subdued by the burn in his thighs expanding. Mydei recognizes the tremble of Phainon’s lower lip, a familiar sight from their previous spars and the battlefield. The noise which usually follows it makes Mydei automatically place his hand over the blond’s mouth in an attempt to not get discovered.

“It seems you’re losing, Deliverer.” Mydei chews on the inside of his cheek to hold back the victorious laugh that seems to be bubbling inside his throat.

“We will see about that when we need to kiss.” Phainon raises his eyebrows, words muffled behind the hand on his face, cockily denying his comrade the pleasure of victory. Phainon’s knees buckle and he is about to hit the ground, making too much noise as he does so. Mydei stops his victory lap in the wall squat to lean forward and catch the taller man. Phainon gasps and Mydei, with an arm around his waist already, flips him and slams his back into the wall, pinning him to it with the other hand still covering his mouth. The amber eyes burn bright when he scolds him, “Quiet.”

Phainon is seeing stars. An ironcad arm is firmly holding his waist, while the other is covering his mouth and he just hushed him. Mydei is standing so close that he can feel every outline of the Kremnoan’s armor against his body. The urge to be closer than they are now is tempting, making him wish that the rest of the barriers between their chests were gone, so instead, Phainon could feel Mydei’s skin on his. He wants to only breathe his air, stand and lay so close to him that he only feels their breaths mingle. The only oxygen he needs is the one that caresses Mydei’s lips too, the same oxygen that goes to his lungs. Would their noses bump if Mydeimos wasn’t covering his mouth? Would they be unable to stay away, to not meet lips?

The butterfly storm in his abdomen settles down and he is left with flower petals dancing in the wind. The fiery gold that burns in Mydei’s eyes softens to match the blue ocean swirling in Phainon’s. He grips the armored hand, slowly moving it off his face, “Mydei.”

And, by the Titans, the warrior leans in. Phainon holds his breath, stuck between a rock and a hard place, caught between two breaths. Yet… he has no desire to ever come up for air again. He’d rather stay a moment away from oxygen, decades away from his time, than let this second pass. Let him drown in this ocean, he will die happily.

Mydeimos closes his eyes and swallows hard. He lets go of Phainon and looks away. His eyes are sad and distant. Phainon resists the urge to grab his hand once more and hold it.

Possibly the best moment of his life and it has passed by. Far too short for his liking.

The two men quietly sneak away from the gossipers.

“Is this truly necessary?” Mydeimos groans, soothing the wrinkles on his forehead.

“My King, I’m—“ The elder in front of him is shocked by the half rejection he received. But alas, he presses on, despite the sweat drop rolling down the side of his face, “It is a tradition for royal couples, and you have always done it in the past with the Prince. It will also be helpful to… calm down the court.”

Mydei raises his eyebrows, straightens his back, and faces the man with narrowed eyes, “Calm down? What are you attempting to say?” His voice cuts straight through the man, and he takes a small, nervous step back.

“Nothing, my King! It is a highly praised ritual, and you have always looked forward to it in the past. To relive one good memory in your dreams was what the Prince also looked forward to as well. You, on the other hand, preferred the warning of a future event more. The land of our dreams is a blessed one, and one of the most highly secured secrets of our people. To be able to glance into the past and peer into the future, only reserved for the highest of our ranks, has won us many a great war, my King.” The elder attempts to quickly recap the ritual without sounding condescending.

Mydei furrows his eyebrows and pinches the skin of his nose. “Fine. Summon the Prince, we should do this sooner rather than later.”

“Care to explain what this is?” Phainon mumbles under his breath, holding back a sneeze. His hand and forearm are tied to Mydei’s with a yellow rope, they’re both kneeling and one of the elders is pouring ashes over their heads.

“Not the right place to explain. We have presumably done this multiple times in the past.” Mydei twitches a bit, also suppressing a sneeze tickling his nose. “I have never heard of it until today, either.”

Their conversation subsides with the interruption of one of the priests, “My Lords, we do apologize for the usual lack of fresh enemy’s blood, however, the ashes of Titankin should substitute without a hitch.”

Washed in the warm candlelight, a handful of people are inside the small windowless room, and they circle the royal couple, draping them in gold robes over the ashes covering their bodies. To both men’s surprise, a lukewarm wax drips over their joined arms and hands, solidifying their union. Strange murmurs and chants add to the mystery of the ritual, strong incense burns their nostrils, and smoke fills their vision. Phainon tightens his hold of Mydei’s hands, in an attempt to reassure himself.  Mydei’s presence is grounding, stable, constant, but he finds himself unable to look at him and share the worry he is experiencing. They must keep up appearances and act natural. Over the hardened wax, hot water is poured and both men exhale in relief. That is what the wax was for: protection of their skin. Followed by a deluge of cold water pouring over them, the priests leave, uttering, “It is done, it is done.”

The silence is deafening in the small space. Mydei slowly turns to Phainon, “I think… we are supposed to take the gold robes off each other?”

Phainon nods, and clumsily, they discard the long capes, “We look very… unappetizing.”

“Seriously, your mind is on what you will eat?” Mydei scoffs, his nose scrunching in match with his small frown.

“That is not what I was addressing.” Phainon smirks, except to no effect, because he looks like an overgrown baby that was tossed into the mud.

Mydei groans and shakes his head, jumping on the spot to get some of the ash off. He breaks the wax and untangles the wine connecting their arm, “I need to bathe.” Dragging out the last word, Mydei imagines the lukewarm water washing off the filth from his skin.

“Tell me about it,” With a cackle, Phainon quickly agrees, “I’m thinking of throwing myself into the nearby river.” He laughs again. Alas it is only an attempt to distract his mind from how empty his hand feels. 

“Basically, this ritual will give us two dreams, two nights in a row. A good memory to relive, and a future warning, or a bad dream.” Mydeimos discloses the details, brushing some of the ash off his arms.

“Ah, that’s not so bad… And you seemed worried because you have never heard of it before?” The blond questions, his eyes fixated on the broken wax, the mold of their joined hands, on the floor.

“Yes. It appears to be something meant only for the elite, and the ritual itself is of great significance. Let’s hope it will be useful to us.” Mydei exhales, shuddering like a wet dog, his previous attempt at ridding the ash having proved futile. “Deliverer, can we please go bathe now?”

Phainon’s eyebrows twitch up. Pleading? How refreshing. Perhaps they both don’t want to be without each other. “Yes, of course.”

The servants propose for them to bathe together and they barely manage to reject the thought, offering the excuse of being utterly too dirty to share it today.

“Do you think the first dream is the nice one? I’d… really like something nice.” Phainon turned to lay on his side, facing Mydei with his head resting on his propped-up hand.

Mydeimos is burning holes into the canopy bed’s ceiling with his eyes. “It is supposed to be… I suggest we do some workouts before sleeping tomorrow.”

“Hm? Why?” There’s always the sparring room and they both work out enough, even in their older bodies. Phainon fails to recognize the reason behind this request.

“The people have noticed our lack of affection.” Mydei tries to beat around the bush. 

“Well, I’m the better kisser.” Phainon cheekily comments.

“We will see about that, Deliverer.”

Phainon feels a swarm of butterflies dance around in his stomach. Of course, he wants to kiss him, however the sugary excitement quickly turns bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t want to kiss him simply because they need to keep appearances. He wishes it could be because they both want it, both yearn for it. Is it truly too much to ask for?

The subtle frown on Phainon’s thoughtful face is obvious to Mydei. He turns towards him, mirroring his body language. Mydei’s eyes soften, and he muses, “Sleep well, Phainon.” The golden eyes slowly blink once, akin to a kitten, and then he turns around to sleep on his other side. Dazed by the gentleness, Phainon’s lips part in an attempt to say something, regretfully the words are lost on his tongue. Oh, how he wishes this could be every night. “…yeah.” Phainon nods to himself, almost in affirmation, “Good night, Mydei…” Sleep pulls both of them in much faster than either of them is used to.

Mydeimos was certain he was awake and that no dream occurred. The same bed, same late hour… it must have been reality. That theory is quickly drowned when he feels a weight on his chest and looks down to see his hand in Phainon’s hair. He finds himself unable to truly control his movements, nor speak exactly what he would want. It is a confirmation that he is reliving a good memory from the past; not his past, not yet – maybe not ever if he manages to change the future.

He feels his lips press onto Phainon’s forehead, easing into a smile. “Nothing fulfills me more than every single moment in your presence, my Prince.”

Phainon smiles in turn, his lips caressing the side of his neck, pressing soft kisses up his jaw and ending with one on his chin. “Is that so?” 

They both shine with bright smiles… could they really be this happy? Mydei’s fingers continue brushing through the white locks with utmost tenderness. They are looking into each other’s eyes and existing in pure silence; they don’t need anything else. Mydei can feel his heart crack, much like a marble statue falling apart when it hits the ground. To be loved like that, to be looked at like that seems like a far too distant dream that will never happen. This Mydeimos, the King of Kremnos, has lived through this memory. Mydei allows himself a moment where he… tries this, tries to enjoy it, knowing that this may not end up being the future they will live through.

So when Phainon leans in to kiss him, he inhales softly, the scent of his future self’s partner filling his nose. He is one with this dream, moving in turn to meet those lips. Angling Phainon’s head for the best feeling, they brush noses. Phainon’s hand cups his cheek, dragging his thumb over the rough skin of his cheek and rubbing small circles on his chest. It is an old action, this body is far too attuned to it—to kissing his husband. There’s no electricity in the air, only the love of his life making his breathing light when his eyes close. Mydei can nearly feel the warmth of his lips, the taste of them as they approach each other, leaning in, succumbing to it… 

And the dream ends.

Upon waking up, he immediately sits up, a dagger in his heart, and the helpless need that burns inside him ignites and shines brighter to kiss the man he loves. His gaze turns to the still asleep Phainon. The small dumbfounded smile on the sleeping man eases the timber in Mydei’s chest. His back relaxes once more on the soft bed. His eyes return to the ceiling, closing them in an attempt to continue the dream. The Titans have no mercy for him; sleep finds him, but the dream never continues.

“Let go!” Phainon yells at the man holding his sword, “How is that fair?”

“It isn’t my problem you failed to account for my armored gloves. If I can do it, I shall. It isn’t a dirty tactic like those you use.” Mydei smirks, firmly gripping the sharp edge of the longsword with his left hand.

Phainon lets go of the sword and tackles Mydei down. They toss and turn, flipping the other one from the top until they hit a stone wall, “HAH! I have won this one, Deliverer!” Mydei smugly looks down at the defeated man and stands up. He offers a hand to Phainon, which he gladly takes, “I want a rematch, Mydeimos!” Phainon takes a moment to adjust his armor and cape.

“Sure, we can have a rematch tomorrow.” Phainon beams at Mydei’s agreement, and he finally catches onto the reality of this situation. The strong sense of déjà vu makes him aware of the dreamscape he is in. Conversely, it slips away from him, and he forgets that he is dreaming as soon as it hits him.

“Awh, surely that immortal body of yours isn’t tired yet? Fight me now, I can take it.” Phainon puts his arms in front of his chest, ready to spar once more.

“You’re that eager for a beating? It isn’t bad to meet a relentless man who can match my vigor. Fine.” Mydei smiles, opens his arms, and taunts Phainon, “Come at me, Deliverer.”

Phainon rushes at him and the dream ends. His vision is blurry when his eyes open, the early morning and the Kremnoan in the bed beside him draws him back to the present-future moment. Despite not being aware of the dream’s true nature, he is happy he got to relive it. That was the day Mydei started to treat him as something more, rather than just a stranger or a Chrysos Heir. He recalls he could barely go to sleep that night from excitement. What a delightful memory.

A voice, rougher than usual, speaks up, “What did you dream?” Mydei became quickly aware that Phainon had woken up, as expected of a warrior like him.

“One of our spars. The one you won, however.” Phainon snuggles further into his pillow, catching a few more moments of shuteye. “And you?”

“Oh. I…” Mydei takes a moment to slowly breathe through his nose, “I dreamt something this future body has lived through… Not something in my past.” Mydei sighs and turns to face Phainon who perks up at the information.

“Hm… could it have been a warning?” Hearing the man shift his position, Phainon opens his eyes a bit to look at him. Mydei shakes his head, smiling for a fraction of a second.

“No. It was a good dream. Ended far too soon.” Mydei meets Phainon’s eyes and his gaze wavers slightly lower before returning to his eyes. Yearning, holding back.

“My… mine also ended too soon. It was nice to relive it.” Silence wraps around their bodies, mimicking a warm blanket in cold areas, such as Castorice’s hometown. Birds chirp their tune, the leaves rustle in the wind, the scent of lavender blows through the open balcony, and the two gaze into each other’s eyes without a word or sense of rush. Minutes pass, and nearly an hour goes by. This land, this time, has no war and the royalty can ‘sleep’ in.

How could anyone complain that their King and Prince are staring into each other’s eyes in bed? That would be improper. They are, if anything, encouraged to appreciate each other deeply. Hence, the guards do not disturb the couple taking a bit longer to get up and start their day.

The warning dreams were not as pleasant as they might have hoped.

Mydei first sees something simple, exactly what he had expected. A statue that he accidentally knocked down is about to shatter; Phainon is already bursting with laughter at his clumsiness, and the servants gasp quietly, but before it can hit the floor, the scene before him changes. From the sunlit courtyard of a rebuilt Castrum Kremnos, filled with life and a lighthearted air, he is standing in the same spot, yet when he blinks, his eyes open to see the ruined city, overgrown with weeds and cracked walls. The same, automatic workers move the indigo crystal without a sense of time.

A dark hooded figure dashes at him, sending slashes through the air. The red crystal throne stands in the middle of the open area, and the swordmaster sends shadows of themselves at him. Adjusted to his future body and trusting his instincts as always, he is in full control of this dream, this body, this… nightmare. He can feel the power of the Lance of Fury in his body, much like he could in his future self’s body.

However, this isn’t the future he lives in at this moment.

An itch bugs him in his mind. Alas, Mydei is too focused on the fight, too focused on parrying the attacks that come his way, that he ignores it. Sending the Lance of Fury at the shadows and the main individual, Mydei forms fiery red shards around them and sends the Lance of Fury at the newly formed crystal formation. He is filled with a sense of unknown security that he will kill them.

…It was a trick of light, a mirror illusion, he tells himself. He should have seen it coming. He should have heard them coming. A pained groan falls from his lips, and he falls to his knees. No strike should be lethal to him, to his body, yet the sword pierced his back and he cannot breathe anymore. Mydei’s wounds aren’t closing and golden blood drips onto the floor, pooling around his knees. He is flipped to his back, however it is not the cold stone that meets the hollow in his spine but a warm lap and a disembodied voice he doesn’t recognize.

“I know you wanted it to be me, and there is no other way, but…” The voice breaks, they sound like they’re crying—holding back gut-wrenching sobs, “It still breaks me every time. I can’t… This is the one thing I can’t— I can’t do this, Mydeimos.” The dark claw reaches to the shadowed figure’s face and pulls off their mask. Before Mydei could see the person that ends his immortal life, his vision goes black. His ears pick up screams and curses directed at the sky, “How dare you make me do this? What have I done to deserve this?” Sobbing is the last thing echoing in his mind when he wakes up. 

Phainon’s dream starts similarly to Mydei’s. He stumbles into the bedroom he knows all too well and hiccups. His cheeks are flushed and he is smiling like a fool. Mydei rushes to him, feeling his forehead, “Are you falling ill? You feel warm to touch. And you're flushed— I can get some medicine—”

Phainon chuckles, “Darling, I am drunk.” He leans his head onto Mydei’s shoulder and hangs off it. Throwing Mydei a wink, Phainon grips his waist for balance, “I was having fun— playing that card game Aulus mentioned the other day—“

“Aulus is bad news, Phainon. You should know that you’re a lightweight—“ Mydei’s voice dissipates and Phainon is quickly sobered up by the bright light of Kephale, standing firmly on his feet just outside of Okhema. Mydei is still standing in front of him a step away, with an unhappy expression on his face—a deep-seated sadness he is fighting tooth and nail to hide.  

The sudden switch makes Phainon aware of the dream, the warning, yet the explanation is too far away and he hears Mydei interrupt his thoughts, “But… if there’s a chance in the next life, you should come visit my library.” The soft smile on the Kremnoan’s features is too sour; Phainon’s stomach twists and turns, sending a familiar sense of nausea and anxiety to the lump in his throat.

He furiously blinks a few times, unsure as to what is going on. Why does it feel like a goodbye, and why the hell can he feel his body holding back tears? He opens his mouth to ask, What? Unluckily, the dream violently rips him, before the word can spill over his lips, away from the moment. Phainon gasps for air; the familiar sight of their chambers and Mydei beside him grounds him in the now. There’s a wet sensation on his face, and he reaches up to wipe away the heavy tears that have, also,  drenched his pillowcase.

That dream, that moment… he wasn’t looking at his future husband Mydei, nor the King of Kremnos. It was a different line of future and it shook him down to his core. There is no hesitance in his decision to wake up Mydei. Immediately. With a hand on a warm shoulder, he shakes the man. “Mydei. Wake up… please.” Phainon’s voice breaks, shakingly swallowing down the mixture of emotions threatening to overflow him.

Shallow breathing turns into gasps, and Mydei awakens, his eyes wide open and unfocused. The feeling of a hand on him and the sound of Phainon’s voice falling apart makes him enter fight or flight or freeze. He focuses his lionlike gaze on the upset man, “Phainon—“ he scans the room, and upon deeming it safe, his eyes return to the man sitting up beside him; they soften, and he whispers, “Phainon.” Mydei sits up as well and embraces him, rubbing his back in a soothing manner. “You’re fine. I’m here, we are safe. Everything is okay.” Soft sobs escape Phainon’s lips and warm tears fall onto Mydei’s shoulder.

“Something— went wrong and I—“ Phainon’s voice keeps faltering, gasping for air and getting knocked back down. Mydei shushes him, “Breathe. It is gone now, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. We are safe, you’re with me, it is just a stupid ritual. No one can harm you, no one can touch us.” Mydei continues reassuring him, firmly holding Phainon and refusing to let go for even a second.

The nightmare, that serves as a dreadful warning, is tossed from Mydei’s mind as soon as he realizes to which extent Phainon’s nightmare affected him. Something that awful has to be the product of superstition placing fear into his mind and Mydei cannot allow it to influence him right now. Nor does he want to acknowledge such a foe. It mustn’t be real, it can’t be real. If it made the most precious human to him cry in his arms, then he will get his vengeance upon it by disrespecting it and spitting in its face.

Half a system hour later, Phainon calms down and Mydeimos releases him from the comforting embrace. However, he is quick to cup his face with both hands and gaze into his eyes, “Do you feel better? Have the demons of your mind finally let go of you?”

Phainon wonders for a moment if this is truly his Mydei, and not the future one. The fire that burns in his eyes screams his Mydei, and he chooses to believe his gut, “It was awful. I can’t even remember the exact details, it was just too much.” His hands fall from Phainon’s face.

Mydei nods, “Let us not dwell on it. I dreamt of something unrealistic and there’s no need to… relive the moments in our heads.” He mutters under his breath, “Stupid ritual.”

Their hands are tangled in the cream sheets, propping them up, fingers twitching to reach out and hold the other’s hand. The pleading mutual gazing is the best they dare to do. “Unrealistic?” Phainon echoes, to which Mydei shakes his head, “We are letting it go.”

Phainon agrees with this statement, until some details flash in his mind, reminding him of the shifting scenery, “I think the future may be changing. You said you want this to be different for your people, I… believe your resolve may have already affected the events that will happen. But in that future—“

“Phainon.” Mydei’s gaze is stern, unlike the soft tone of his voice, “I do not believe the things I have seen. We should let it go.”

Phainon exhales and leans forward, resting his head on Mydei’s collarbone. His breath gets stuck in his throat, and he quickly adjusts, casually embracing the man clinging to him. Mydei holds back the urge to kiss his temple, wishing for moments like this.

Beyond the intimacy of their room, a figure is stopped outside Castrum Kremnos. With a childish charm, they attempt to get inside, “I have to see the King. I know he is in there, c’mon!”

“You don’t have a permit or any form of identification on your person. We cannot allow you to go see the King of all people, kid. Scatter.” The guard firmly denies it, feeling comfortable enough to even mockingly laugh at the person.

“Yeah, yeah, but what if it is an old friend coming to visit? Huh, huh?” The person smiles and nudges the guard’s shoulder.

The guard chuckles, “The King’s friends have passed away, which one…” They lean in towards the stranger with a crooked smile, “…are you claiming to be?”

“Okay, I’m in a rush, this is time sensitive, just… tell him it is me and I’m sure he will agree to see me.” The person scratches the back of their head a bit.

“Word of your arrival won’t go beyond this point, kid.” The second guard joins the mocking of the person.

“It seems you two don’t have the authority to introduce me, bring me Krateros! He will know who I am!” They place their hands on their hips and stand proudly.

“Krateros has better business than entertaining the likes of you.”

“Ah, work with me here, hm? Please, I’m in a hurry~” The person pouts, trying every card they have in their let-me-talk-to-the-king-as-an-outsider pamphlet. Any laughter the guards have had for them has expired and they shook their heads, ready to leave and take them outside forcefully. As the two advance, the person raises their hands and steps back, “Hey, hey, let’s remain friendly, I’m friendly, I just need to see the King— it is a matter of life and death, can you please tell him—“ A guard shoves them further away from the main entrance, “Go back to the city, kid. You’re obviously not from here.”

“I will wait here, tell someone— anyone—“ The heavy doors slowly shut in their face, “—tell him it’s Caelus!”

[generalsdiary]

I have a thought before about Dr Ratio and posted on my account, it’s about Dr Ratio having a hot spring bath-

Since he takes baths regularly, what about in a hot spring bath, it would be interesting-🫢🤭

Also helping him to wash his back like-🛐🛐🛐

this ask seems to have been lost in my inbox for a while now- YES I agree wholeheartedly that it would be so fun going to a spring bath with him.

to the northern hemisphere it is still winter, and I could honestly go for a spring bath rn sighh

[generalsdiary]

so u know how some ppl keep toenail clippings in a jar?? does sunday keep his feathers? isnt it kind of the same thing

I can't say that I knew people kept nail clippings in a jar. What a disturbing image, honestly :c.

That aside, I assume you are referring to my rooming with Sunday one-shot (even if you're not; the same answer should apply). I doubt he keeps his feathers, being that they were a part of his body (as a Halovian, whose very existence is tied to the path of Harmony and the Aeon of Harmony). I believe he needs to discard of them carefully. And, no (lol), I don't think it is the same thing.

[generalsdiary]

completed work here

Aeon!reader x Sunday where Sunday is unexplainably, hopelessly in love with the reader and likewise for the reader who actually appears in person to listen to Sunday’s troubles and prayers- but it is impossible for a mortal to fall in love with an Aeon. in an attempt to find out how this is possible, the reader kisses Sunday and finds out, it is because in his future he almost fully succeeded at becoming an Aeon which made his life nonlinear and gave him the ability to fall in love with a god-like entity. but the reader leaves him upon this revelation (which they don’t share with Sunday) and doesn’t answer his prayers for the following years until Sunday fails to ascend to Aeonhood. and then when he just needs comfort while hiding in a hotel room, away from the authorities trying to punish him for his wrongdoings in Penacony, despite the years of no answer, he utters the name of the Aeon he used to pray to, the Aeon he loves in inexplicable ways, hoping to see them and… the Aeon appears in front of him once more.

thoughts?

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven

Mydei x Phainon

word count: 6k

description: our favorite couple is finally in the future at the same time and it is time to talk about what Mydei did during his time (Chapter 2)

a/n: welcome to another chapter- took a bit more time than the previous chapters, but this one is over 6k words so I guess yall stay winning lol we are sticking heavily to the canon with this one (no plot spoilers for 3.1), all the canon stuff was revealed in 3.0 via in-world books and stuff - so don't worry if you haven't played the newest main story. the only thing from 3.1 would be Mydei's pov on things ig which was spoken about in 3.0 but not in heavy detail. have a fun read!

ty to my beta readers; citrus, rice cake and Sav <2

Chapter 3: Is it written in our stars?

Silence filled the air. “Husband? Married … as in we exchanged vows, signed a parchment, and kissed?” Phainon tilts his head, bewildered by the fact.

“Yes, Deliverer, married . Do keep your voice down, we have appearances to keep.” Mydei adds in a hushed tone. This is the first time Phainon has ever heard the loud man speak so quietly, he takes a few moments to quietly process. They’re both fine, Phainon quietly thanks Kephale , both alive in the future. Moreover, that they both made it in one piece. Phainon’s eyes widen, his breathing grows shallow as panic floods him, “Is the artifact with you? If you already collected the information on Thanatos’ location, then we should head back.” Phainon gestures with his hand.

Mydei shakes his head, “The artifact isn’t with me. I only woke up in this body, nothing I had in my arms traveled with me… Much like how you only arrived days later.” Mydei’s words make sense. After all, they were separated, despite holding hands. He was holding Phainon’s hand in the last moment of the present.

Blood rushes to Phainon’s cheeks as his mind fills with various thoughts. The adrenaline of their last moment together combined with the sudden warm hand that held his reminds him that Mydei has been here for several days longer with his married counterpart. What did Mydeimos do with his future husband? Did he kiss him, hold his hand, share his bed, how far did he go—

“…and as for the Death Titan, I have gathered the only intelligence that was written here. The artifact takes priority. Deliverer, we should get this done and get back.” Mydei groaned, pinching the skin on the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t slide past this, you lived with the version of me that is… married to you. We are screwed, we should try asking Tribbie or the others—“ Phainon’s eyebrows furrowed and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, balancing two lines of conversation at once.

Mydei sighed, “Absolutely not. That would simply uncover us. Furthermore, it seems the timeline doesn’t work that way. We need to figure out how we won the war and find a way back to our time. Regarding Lady Tribios, it would only raise even more suspicion—“ 

The doors open abruptly and a clearly nervous guard barges in, interrupting their conversation, “My King, the council has started,” he looks cautiously between them,  “D-do you wish to join?” Mydei sighs and glances at Phainon with irritation in his eyes. The conversation cannot be continued; the usual obligations must be upheld. 

“We will talk later, Deli—“ he clears his throat, luckily he managed to catch himself, “my Prince.”

Phainon is somewhat shaken by the turmoil of his new reality. On top of it all, being called my prince by the man he feels so strongly for doesn’t make any of it easier to process. Without an idea of what to do next, or even the simple of how to behave, he calls out the name of one of the servants, “Aulus!”

The woman with short brown hair rushes in, “Yes, my Prince?”

“Escort me to my chambers, I’m feeling… dizzy and I’d hate to bump into a column and make the King worry.” Phainon flashes a weak smile. All he can hope is that his lie was believable enough. Aulus gave him a quick nod and slowly guided him to the large room. Stealth check successful. Or was it charisma? Phainon can’t remember, he will have to ask Caelus once he returns to the present. … If he returns to the present.

Two guards posted nearby their quarters open the large, heavy door for him and Phainon finally gets a moment to let his guard down.

His eyes scan the large room, admiring the sight. The white marble tiles are covered up by a dark brown carpet, akin to a bear’s fur. Transparent white curtains hang above the windows and the archway to a balcony. Two large tables are placed in the leftmost part of the room, opposite of each other, both messy and filled with various documents. The right side of the room is set apart with a single step and an enormous canopy bed with cream white sheets. It's fixed, pristine and crisp as if no one slept in it this morning. The bed curtains are tied up out of sight, matching in the same cream shade, with Kremnos’ signature red lining drawn through them. Phainon has been to Mydei’s room before – that man isn’t neat per se, hence he is certain the servants made the bed after his future self and his Mydei left in the morning. They’re both messy and he is certain that didn’t change, even with the years between this present and theirs.

The room feels comfortable. Safe, even. Despite that, worry fills Phainon’s mind. What if Mydei is in trouble? What if he can’t keep the act up? Nonsense, he spent days here… Still, what if something comes up? Something worse than what he had to deal with? …Like living with… his husband. Separation anxiety at its finest.

Drawn by the mess on the tables, he snoops over the parchments. Both tables offer nothing particularly interesting, various affairs, nothing personal, nothing this snooper wished to read. Not to mention some writing on both tables is in Kremnoan, making them inaccessible to him. Sitting down on the floor, he opens the drawers of what he concluded is his table, based on the handwriting, despite half of it being in Mydei’s mother tongue. Phainon’s eyes sparkled when he finally struck gold.

A small pile of letters, tied in a bunch with yellow string, catches his eye. Why would he keep government letters in colorful string in the last drawer? There's no reason for these to be personal letters when regular communication is done over teleslates. It piques his curiosity...

The fragile parchment unfolds to reveal a letter written in surprisingly neat handwriting. The loops and curves make the writer look as if they put a lot of effort into making it readable and inviting. Readable in the way Phainon finds the easiest, his mind running over the words before he can even fully comprehend them.

Beloved,

Days without you are utterly painful. No person here can even come close to presenting a challenge in a spar, nor do they dare to attempt. They would've never been a match for me even before I reached godhood.

Your side of the bed is cold. I find myself holding your pillow. As I've said, you should have taken me on your special expedition. The city can run without its King for a few days, right?

Return safely. Or else.

your husband

Phainon's jaw might as well be on the ground. He has to restrain the urge to go through Mydei's drawers in pursuit of the return letter, knowing he’s far too eager to see what his future self had written back. His mind has gone fully blank, completely and utterly unable to register the yearning and sheer neediness of his future husband.

Seeking the next letter like an eager reader flipping to the next page, screaming for the next chapter, it only bares its fangs back at him when his eyes skim over the second letter far too quickly. 

I dreamt of you last night. My fingers glided over your neck and the plush skin of your thighs. I woke up before I could lay a single kiss down. Do return sooner, the real thing is better than anything my imagination and subconscious may offer—

Phainon peeled his eyes away and closed both letters using muscle memory. “No~ nope.. nope... eh- heh. I mean yeah, yes, of course, but! not... no.. uh... whoa... maybe one more peek...”

Clumsily he opens the second letter, scanning it quickly like he will get caught reading a lewd book in the Grove by Professor Anaxagoras. 

“No— I shouldn't. It is not meant for my eyes. I should put it away~” Phainon narrates his actions, convincing himself of what he deems to be right. Devoid of any pure thoughts and completely distracted, he tries to redirect his train of thought. He’s madly clutching at straws in an attempt to find something, anything, that may distract his brain, until it lands on the way Mydeimos called him his prince . If he wasn't sitting down, his knees would have buckled at the sheer memory. Would he whisper it at night... blowing air against his ear—

“No, Phainon. Stay focused!” The Chrysos Heir shakes his head, platinum locks ruffling in turn. Coming to a decision to leave the letter behind, he heads to the wardrobe.

Phainon’s heart beats proudly at the sight of simple cotton clothing of various colors. He is quick to strip out of the armor on his body and put on comfortable clothing that reminds him of his home. He had barely put on the pants when someone barged in. He held back a squeak, arms flinging up in front of his chest, wielding an invisible sword— it could have been anyone, he doesn't know this city or its people, consumed by uncertainty and insecurity unfamiliar to him.

The familiar heavy step and clanking of armor, along with a peach gradient wavy hair puts him at ease. 

“Mydei…” Phainon smiles, shifting the warm-toned shirt in his hands before he puts it on.

Mydei waits until the doors close with a thud before he heavily exhales, “Deliverer.” He is quick to discard his forearm and hand armor, flexing his phalanges and rubbing his elbows. 

“Did something happen?” Phainon rushes to him, feeling quite light in the unexplainably cozy clothing.

“Nothing of our concern. Leading the city, laws... I see you made yourself at home. Already in pajamas.” Mydeimos quirks an eyebrow in his direction and slumps onto the bed, practically jumping onto his back with a guttural groan. His eyes closed for a few moments before he opened them to stare into the space of the canopy bed’s ceiling.

“Pajamas? I thought these were daily clothing...?” Phainon quickly examines his shirt, pulling at the seamless lining. 

“Your assumption isn't wrong, however, your future self wore them to bed. Well, except the shirt.” Mydeimos closed his eyes, rubbing his temple in circular motions. “I am still in disbelief of how my body, a few decades in the future, gets migraines post council meet-ups.”

Phainon sits down on the sofa at the foot of the canopy bed. Mydei indeed shared the bed with his future self... who only sleeps in pants. Noted... noted . Don't panic... don't get flustered~ No, no, no...

“What was your... body... doing when you... got here?” Phainon fidgets with his fingers, eyes focused on his own lap. Unlike their every conversation where they both stand tall and exchange quips and blows, having only one room, only one space where they can be themselves in this future, does make both of them let their guard down. One space where they can share their thoughts and not worry about the act they have to put on. Less space… and more wherever the other one is, is the place where they can let their guard down, the separation anxiety they both obviously have rising tremendously in turn.

“Does it matter, Deliverer?” Mydei asks softly while stretching his legs, the strong muscles flexing, shadows highlighting the curves of his quadriceps, the calves forming the letter V as he turns his hips to the side and rubs his lower back with a small groan. Phainon’s eyes did shift shamelessly to… admire the sight.

Phainon looks back to his lap, recalling the immense pain he had felt when he got here. Unlike Mydeimos, for Phainon only an hour or so had passed. “I got here through pain and deafening noises. I think I was taking a walk? I'm unsure.”

“He was out to pick pomegranates.” A simple answer to a rather complicated question. Something goes off in Phainon's head when Mydei refers to his future husband as he rather than you . Food for thought when he isn't in the middle of trying to find out information from the most unwilling man.

“And you?” Phainon’s hands still and he looks over to the heading of the bed.

“I think I was asleep. It was the middle of the night. I presume I stumbled out of bed, fell to my knees, and nearly attacked... the prince.” Mydei avoided eye contact and softly yawned. He gently rubbed his abdomen in a soothing manner and brought his free arm under his head.

Phainon’s mind took it upon itself to imagine the scene; Mydei stumbling out of bed, being comforted by his husband, confronted as to what was going on. Did Mydei just go back to bed and sleep with him ? Anxiously, he nibbled on his bottom lip and the moment he raised his head to question the older man, the paced breathing of the tired warrior made him keep his thoughts for later. A slow rise and fall of his chest revealed the sleeping state of the man who Phainon could spend hours admiring.

His fingers itched for him to reach out, feel his hair, and caress his cheek—an urge he could barely control when he was lying right there. Peaceful, undisturbed, safe… and trusting Phainon completely. He yearned for more. Yearned for Mydeimos and his attention. Phainon exhaled, which sounded more like a needy whine, and quietly left the room. Before the guards could even greet him, he whispered harshly, “The King is asleep, do not bother him at any cost. Should you need him, come to me.” The guards nodded with a slight tremble of their chins; he had played the role of his future self to the T. Phainon did assume that he would hold himself a bit taller and would respond a bit harsher from the protectiveness he already feels for Mydei. Or rather, the worry which he assumes grew into protectiveness.

The best thing to do next is revise his knowledge of Castrum Kremnos, Mydei’s history and perhaps try to sniff out any clue regarding the artifact’s possible location. 

With Castrum Kremnos revived, every hallway, room, and courtyard is safe, unlike the first time Phainon saw it; covered in vines and shrouded in shadows. Dust-filled rooms that stuck to one’s clothing and thick spider webs that would tangle in one’s hair. The heavy mist carried stories he wished he could learn, and life has presented him this chance. Although, he is approaching this studious expedition as a means to shield himself with the knowledge he would have in this position in the future.

The majestic city stood once more in its old glory. Phainon’s shoes echoed in their step along the hallway. Every entrance had a guard standing post and greeting the Prince of Castrum Kremnos. Phainon barely managed to beg his servants not to follow him on his walk. It’s just a walk is what he said, concealing his, rather exciting, tourist trip through his future self’s Kingdom. 

Along the sturdy columns, floors lined with gold, and various leafy greens decorating every possible surface, something else caught Phainon’s attention. Amethyst-like gemstones floated throughout the city. He faintly recalls Caelus mentioning seeing them everywhere, especially in Okhema, despite them not being visible to anyone else. They supposedly show scenes from the long-lost past. Being met with them himself, he believes the quirky fellow now. Fragments of Recollection, memoria residues of bygone days. Surprisingly, they were recent events, well, not recent to his lifetime, but recent enough to be relevant.

Phainon’s jaw hung open when he touched the first fragment he saw. It portrayed a mirror-like group of people and a strange setting. One of the previous Kings of Castrum Kremnos, however, that is not what caught his attention; rather, it was the fierce and ferocious woman that gave him goosebumps.

Gorgo. She stood proudly, like a tree refusing to bend in the north wind, standing relentlessly against all judgments thrown at her. Mydei’s mother, Queen of Kremnos: Queen Gorgo.

Defending her name and her right to be there, claiming she killed a lion with her bare hands and therefore named herself after the founder of Castrum Kremnos. An awe-inspiring accomplishment. Phainon knows of the story she mentioned, however, founder Gorgo had a group of people with him and they hunted the lion down. From the future queen’s words, she didn’t ambush the lion nor did she have help.

The following scene portrays Eurypon holding a sword against Gorgo’s neck and Gorgo piercing her spear through his thigh. They fought for days and nights without a victor and ended up calling for a draw. Phainon narrowed his eyes, a memory coming to the surface as he heard the next line; “Gorgo, would you wear the crown as Queen of Kremnos…” Much like Mydei’s parents fought, so too did he and Mydei; they fought for ten days and nights on end only to end up calling a draw.

Phainon gulped, the parallels were too obvious. His hand trembled as he reached up to deactivate the fragment whilst looking around to see if anyone was watching him. Alas, no one could even see the Fragments of Recollection—Caelus wasn’t here after all.

Continuing his walk, he stumbled upon more fragments. Phainon was shocked to find out Eurypon thought the world of Mydeimos—even promising to end the long line of patricide, well… before he heard of the prophecy. The traitorous excuse for a king didn’t take long to decide that he will kill his son and, through hidden schemes, poison and kill his wife.

Phainon walked around the scene that the fragment showed with tightened fists and a clenched jaw. Utter betrayal, dishonesty, and cowardice. Mydei deserved better.

As the night embraced the bustling city and a blanket of stars covered the sky, Phainon was sitting down in the library of Kremnos. Most of his armor lay shed to the side, surprisingly nicely organized. At the same time, he was surrounded by various open parchments; old, burnt, and torn. He took the ones he could read, the ones not written in Kremnoan. Alongside the yellowed paper, dark grey tablets covered in dust were tucked neatly next to his thigh.

In his left hand, he held one of those stone tablets, and in his right, a transcript which translated it into common tongue.

It was a letter Queen Gorgo wrote to Mydei. She was warning him, reassuring him, trying to tell him the truth, and still telling him that he is great and would be even greater, despite what others claimed. Her words showed her pain, her worry, and her pride.

Surrounded by the history of Kremnoans… or truthfully, by Mydei’s past, his parents and what happened, has put Phainon in a zone of pure focus. The terrific warrior became unaware of the tremor in his hands, the soft candle flame that lit up the room, making his eyes strain as he tried to read, and the tears that fell down his cheeks, landing between his crossed legs on the floor.

Thrown in the sea, left to drown. Survived and reemerged from the Sea of Souls after nine years of drifting and growing up. Phainon’s eyes kept looking over the same sentence Queen Gorgo had written to Mydei, stuck in the whirlpool of emotion and unable to swim out. Stunned into place in the mess of various reports of the past around him.

He failed to notice the sharp golden gaze from the shadows. Mydeimos was observing him rather curiously. He quietly told the archivists to leave, with a gesture of his hand as soon as he came. His brows furrowed in confusion, wondering what could Phainon be reading that would make him cry that much and be unable to move on. Mydeimos stepped closer, the heaviness of his armor echoing in the large room as he approached his comrade. He felt uncertain about what he should say, how to comfort him, or even what to ask. “Deliverer, I see you’re burning the midnight oil. I didn’t know you had such an interest in the history of Castrum Kremnos.”

Phainon looks up, surprised by the sudden intrusion, he quickly smiled brightly and wiped his tears away. “I was refreshing some facts, plus being in the future and a prince~ Well, I should know things to avoid being caught as an imposter.” His smile stayed perfect and it icked Mydeimos. The words to call him out and confront him were dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“It is getting late, you should be going to sleep, Deliverer.” Mydeimos, the unlikely coward he was, decided not to speak up on it. He leaned towards Phainon and offered him his hand. “Leave it. The archivists will organize it in the morning.” Phainon accepted his hand, and Mydei pulled him up to his feet and out of the pile of documents. Their sudden proximity left little room for Mydeimos’s usual overthinking, and he blurted out the words on his mind before he could stop them…maybe he didn’t even want to stop them, “What facts about Kremnos have made you cry and look like someone killed your significant other?”

Phainon’s smile fell, they were standing too close, the privacy of the room and the silent curtain of the night which made men more honest kept him away from empty lies. “Your past. Your parents, and everything that had happened, I never knew the details and—“ Phainon’s voice breaks and he looks away.

Mydeimos cursed at his choice of words when it ended up being about him. Then as he heard the rest, he slowly inhaled. He looked up at the ceiling and nodded. “It is… rather grotesque. Why would you want to read about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It is about you .” Phainon looked at him with a determined gaze, which sent a shiver down Mydeimos’ spine.

“I could have told you— you should have asked me.” Mydeimos shook his head gently.

“You already have. Everything about you and who you are screams it. Remember what you say to me when you lose our spars? There’s no shame in losing to those who conspire and plot in secret. A blunt man like you doesn’t say such things easily or jokingly, you’re never thoughtless. I have read… how your mother lost that duel for you. It all makes sense.” Phainon looks down and shakes his head, “You wear it all on your sleeve. Your pride, your traditions, your culture, your past , and everything you have been through. It is all there with you, and to an observing eye it is obvious.” He turns his head towards Mydeimos, “The way you carry yourself, the way you talk and how you judge things, you carry everything with you. Yes, your past has made you who you are, just as it does everyone else. However, I can see it, every single detail, it is written along every line of your body and face, every flaw and every virtue. You’re an open book, and I… have learned how to read the language you’re written in.”

Mydeimos is left speechless. For once he is seen, observed with a non-judgmental eye, from the one he… cares about the most. The tears he hates—for they remind him of the waves he drifted in—prick at his eyes, but he blinks them away. He stands firmly in front of Phainon, not budging or showing any weakness, glaring at him as if he is his prey. A lion watching an antelope.

Phainon turns completely towards Mydeimos now and steps closer, unwavering in his gaze, unapologetically observing the Kremnoan, standing his ground and not turning back. Mydeimos realizes this man was never his prey but rather what he always saw him to be, his equal.

A lion was being glared at by another lion. Phainon dares to stand tall and puff his chest out, all-knowing and undefeated, roaring at Mydeimos, unafraid of the consequences. And Mydeimos… falters . He opens his mouth to speak and yet his voice is far from how he looks like, only a broken murmur spoken like the most treasured secret in the comfort of the night; “Phainon.”

Phainon’s eyes fill with tears for a moment and he swallows them away, the very first time Mydei called him by his name and it tugs at his heart. 

Like an orange cut open in half and left on the table, both of them stand vulnerable and raw. The flesh uncovered, left exposed to the elements of the world, filling the space with a crisp orange scent. The cards; though not all of them, are laid out on the table and both men struggle to say more. Minutes pass in silence, looking into each other’s eyes like lovers, unrushed and seeking comfort neither of them dares to give yet.

“It is late. Let us go to our chambers.” Mydei is the first one to whisper, to which Phainon nods and they leave the Archive.

The walk back is slow, with each step they both walk even slower, prolonging the heavy silence and personal time for as long as they can.

Entering their shared chambers, Mydeimos glances at the bed and walks past it. He slips off the bronze gloves of his hands and sets them aside. Stopping under the arch leading to the open balcony, his eyes lazily look over the red moon and the golden moon, basking in their glow, seeking their guidance. Sleep isn’t calling him and too many worries weigh on his mind.

Phainon follows suit, taking off some of his armor, and steps a few paces behind Mydei. The silence stretches out, seemingly something they both need.

“… this isn’t what I wanted for Kremnos,” Mydeimos utters breathlessly, Phainon barely hears the whispered words against the crown.

“It’s not?” Phainon answers in the same hushed tone and steps closer. Despite it being a private conversation, it is regarding the very city they’re residing in the current future. Blasphemous words like that should not be heard by any eavesdropper.

“No.” The Kremnoan shakes his head gently. “The glorious traditions that went on for two millennia, the blood, the needless sacrifice—“ Phainon listens attentively, as he always does. He knows how proudly and defensively Mydei speaks of his culture and people, yet he tilts his head curiously at the word needless . “—living just to die on the battlefield, valuing life less than bread and disrespecting death itself. I refuse to let such a bloody tradition continue.” Mydeimos sighs, his hands come to rest on his hips and his head dips down. Crickets fill the silence of the warm night.

“Don’t the Kremnoan people deserve better? A chance to live – they might be alive, but they aren’t living. How much more innocent blood must be spilled for the sake of glory, how many unnecessary sacrifices were made in the name of honor, how many people rushed to die in battle so they might not need to experience the shame of a happy or sorrowful return?” Mydeimos’ voice is filled with pain and defeat. He is far from defeated, but upon seeing this future he hopes he can still somewhat change it. Kremnoans deserve better.

“What would you change? How would you change the future? I am sorry, I do not know what advice I could offer…” Phainon looks into the distance, beyond the lookout onto the balcony. “It isn’t my place to butt in my opinion.”

Mydeimos keeps one thought hidden. Perhaps this is the only version of the future where they end up happily together. Maybe changing the future for something better for his people means no Phainon by his side. A reality too painful to bear, he buries those thoughts deep inside. Sadly… his people take priority.

“And about the Titan Nikador, I know who I am, I know how people perceive me and I am well aware of…what I present. Moreover, I bear no affections for the kingdom.” The words slip off his lips heavily, hushed, undaring to be spoken loudly. Only existing to flow through the air to the ears of the man standing behind him.

The undying immortal, undefeated warrior, everything every Kremnoan wishes they could be is Mydeimos, here in the flesh. Yet he goes above and beyond, wise and collected, intelligent and thought-out, seeing further than what he was presented with. Asking questions that no one dares to ask, even when he is met with the human equivalent of a wall for an answer. 

“I don’t want to be what I am perfect for. I don’t want to sit in the mold fate has prepared for me. I fit in it more than I fit anywhere else. I was shaped and molded for it.” Mydeimos speaks almost every thought that weighs on his heart and mind, and Phainon… listens.

“This is why you refused to take the Coreflame? I will take the trial for the Coreflame of Strife, do not worry, Mydei.” Phainon attempts to reassure him. Mydeimos does not feel reassured. Despite the trust he places in Phainon, he is painfully aware of the bigger picture.

“I hope you can succeed in the trial.” He raises his head and looks back at Phainon—the last hope he has to change his fate, the last straw. If Phainon fails, he doesn’t know how he may help his people and change where fate seems to obviously be pushing him into.

“The perfect warrior, the perfect soldier wants nothing with any of it. I don’t want to be nobody’s soldier.” Mydeimos exhales heavily.

Phainon smiles, “Well, you’re not that perfect if you see beyond the commands and seek to disobey them.” He nudges Mydei with his shoulder.

Mydei smiles, chuckling dryly at the tease, “Deliverer, you truly hold different perspectives.”

A cough beyond their room interrupts the intimate conversation. Both men stiffen, and Phainon fixes his posture. “Best to go to sleep, roomie.” Mydeimos glances at Phainon, wary of the noise from the guards. “I know a spot outside the city where we will have enough privacy to talk about this. We can leave in the morning.”

On the fifth night, he sleeps beside his Phainon, yet not in his arms. Maybe one day he will, or perhaps the only chance to do so was with the future Phainon. Will he one day regret dodging the kiss and avoiding affection? It keeps him awake for another hour, the worry and regret. Until he hears Phainon softly snore, he smiles. But he doesn't dare to turn around and look at his peaceful form next to him. The snoring provides a safe cocoon and white noise for him to be lulled into sleep.

Salt fills Phainon’s nostrils, and the rustle of dried leaves on the tree branches, along with the crushing of the waves against the sharp rocks, provide a pleasant cacophony to his ears. “We are far enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“Almost there. Don’t complain, Deliverer, we barely lost the guards. They are truly persistent.” Mydeimos huffs and continues on down the cliff and towards the rocky beach. It has been years since he emerged from these waters. Years of drifting among them made him detest the same waves that kept him afloat.

“Ah, I understand now, the sea will snuff out any noise if someone had managed to follow us, and not get caught by us.” Phainon triumphantly shares his discovery as Mydeimos comes to a stop.

“This is the place where I swam out, and the place where I first died. When my father threw me off that cliff.” Mydei simply adds, gesturing with his chin towards the cliff, as if he said the sky is blue.

“I see. We could’ve gone anywhere else, Mydeimos.” Phainon looks at him with a pleading look, swallowing hard to ignore the churning feeling in his gut. 

“No need, this will do fine.” The water sprinkles Mydei’s body with each wave and he sharply inhales, a bitter nostalgia fills him when faced with the hell he grew up in. Living in it for so long makes one unable to recognize the awful living conditions; even hell gets comfortable when one gets used to it. Yes, there was pain and death, but he got used to it. Used to the routine and suffering, so comfortable that change was terrifying.

“You will succeed in the trial, and regarding my people… they still want a king. I am the successor to the throne. The last crown prince.” Mydeimos speaks loudly against the waves, matching the turmoil inside him that he can finally tell someone. Someone, who feels much like him in comparison to his own people—an outsider.

“You are the King, Mydeimos—“ Phainon smiles, proud of the title Mydei has. However, it only rouses the man.

“I am… but the King who has never claimed his throne.” He counteracts with gritted teeth.

“Wouldn’t more change occur if you sat on the throne? Or do you claim changing their ways isn’t something you would be able to achieve? Perhaps, it is truly more complicated than it seems.” Phainon falls into deep thought and is quickly snapped out of it by the sharp words Mydeimos shouts against the sea.

“I never wanted the throne!” He brings his hands up to rub his face and shakes his head more, “I only sought revenge for my mother, my friends in arms— I never wanted the crown.” 

Phainon’s heart drops and his breath gets stuck in his throat. Fate has written out the road for him and forced him to walk down it. Death won’t take him, and there is no means of escape. “Mydeimos…” Phainon stills his hands, smoothing out the fabric on his thighs as he steps closer.

Mydei gestures with his hands, firm and stable. Shaking his head, “I’ve lost so many. I have buried too many people with my own hands. This war should be enough, even without this bloodied tradition.” He looks at Phainon. Pain is written out on his face from the years of suffering and fighting. “Something needs to change.” His gaze hardens, the glint of the tears passed by, and the air of a warrior's back.

The sweat on his brow coupled with the lion-like piercing gaze shake Phainon to the bone. He looks just like his mother. The calm but cut-to-the-throat tone of voice, the choice of words, the way he holds himself, and the things he has pride over—it all screams Queen Gorgo. And specifically, the words she said;

“If there is no Kremnos without the crown… then I shall seize the crown and smash it to pieces to bring the people to their senses.”

Phainon has seen many Fragments of Recollection, and read far too many parchments throughout Kremnos; the man before him is truly the son of Gorgo. Yet, he is probably unaware of how much he is like his mother. Phainon feels proud in his stead, to be like the one he never met, yet respects the most—truly an achievement only Mydeimos could accomplish.

Phainon’s hands shake, so he curls them into fists, “I will pass the trial for the Coreflame of Strife. I will bear the duty of the God of Strife, and you will have an easier time figuring out how to help your people in the present, past… our present.”

“If anyone is fit for that, it is you, Deliverer.” Mydei nods and steps away from the growing waves.

“Aww, is it going to rain? I have received praise from the last Crown Prince himself~” Phainon is quick to smirk and jab at the taller man, attempting to ease the air.

“Hmph. Do not get blinded by glory.” Mydei snorts.

Phainon smiles, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and swaying his shoulders, “I sense a need for a spar~ shall we see whose future body has gotten stronger? Perhaps we are no longer equals~”

“In your dreams, Deliverer. We can go to the sparring room—“ Mydeimos turns on his heel, ready to head back and eager to get some of this frustration out in a physical manner as well.

“Sparring room? When has the location ever stopped you from sparring?” Phainon stands in place, the cocky smirk on his face making Mydeimos narrow his eyes and his chest fills with excitement. Phainon truly knows his partner well.

“You asked for it.” The undying warrior doesn’t even try to hide his smile before he lunges at Phainon.

divider cr: @saradika-graphics

[generalsdiary]

I know people are still on the high from the patch and logically holding back on spoilers for everyone, but like, someone's going to have to be the one to write the essay about how Hoyo's queer-coding crossed a bridge with Phainon and Mydei and reached a level where there is no longer any plausible deniability.

You can argue that they won't become canon, but you literally cannot argue that the dev team didn't intentionally queer-code virtually every one of their scenes in 3.1.

After that patch, Phainon and Mydei might single-handedly be the most ship-baited male characters in Honkai Star Rail and Genshin combined, and even more than that, 3.1 all by itself basically made it impossible for deniers to still hold the stance that Hoyo isn't purposefully including gay elements in their stories. There isn't any way to interpret the framing of that bath scene other than "The devs intended this to be suggestive."

More than just for Phainon and Mydei, I'm excited to see how this level of "fujo bait" will go over with audiences, particularly in China. If this level of queer-coding makes it past with no calls for censorship and with general audience support for the characters, then the door is open to continue bringing their queer subtext closer and closer to just main text.

As we revel in the romantic melodrama that was 3.1, it's worth keeping in mind that this patch genuinely pushed the envelope on Hoyo's modern queer-coding for male characters. The devs are getting bolder.

Time for me to reward their choices with lots and lots of pulls on Mydei and Phainon. 😂

[generalsdiary]

fellas is it gay to be pierced by your comrade's sword and then clasp your hands over his while smiling and say "found you" ?

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven - series

Chapter 1 - In the shadow of the Sun

Chapter 2 - Hidden from the moonlight

Chapter 3 - Is it written in our stars?

Chapter 4 - Gossip of the fireflies

Chapter 5 - Guided by the Morning Star

Chapter 6 - Inhale him, exhale stardust

Chapter 7 - The stages of grief or The phases of the Moon