Chapter Text
Somewhere between the third and fourth swallows of pomegranate juice, Phainon becomes keenly aware of Mydeimos watching him.
The crowd, he can excuse. The sharing of the kantharos with an outsider must be significant enough that it doesn't happen often. It's expected for them to stare, though their enthusiastic cheers are rather surprising. Far more receptive than he had hoped for.
But Mydeimos's gaze is as intense as a physical touch. When Phainon opens his eyes to meet it, Mydeimos raises a brow, almost challenging.
It spurs Phainon to finish every last drop, licking his lips to chase the taste.
A sharp inhale is his reward, sweetened by the way Mydeimos deliberately cuts it off with a click of his tongue. The prince takes the kantharos, pressing his fingertips to Phainon's in what is, doubtlessly, a deliberate gesture.
Around them, music starts up once again, accompanied by the measured stamping of feet and whoops of merriment.
"You were surprised it was not wine," says Mydeimos, pitched low.
"I’m pleased it was not," replies Phainon honestly. "I don’t often partake in wine."
"Impartial to the taste," Mydeimos says, "or the effect afterward?"
Phainon smiles, suddenly emboldened by the Crown Prince's evident curiosity, by the fire-lit night and the way Mydeimos looks at him as he leans closer. "It depends," he murmurs, "on the company I keep."
Mydeimos makes a startled sound, eyebrows jumping.
Phainon pulls back, panic building. It was too bold, far too suggestive. He's forgotten his manners, his teachings. For a multitude of reasons he does not dare to name, Mydeimos makes it easy to let down his guard. He should apologize immediately, and—
To his disbelief, Mydeimos laughs. A short, punched-out thing, but it drains the tension in Phainon's shoulders. The light behind Mydeimos's eyes dances as he says, "You won't be short of company tonight. Many people wish to speak and dance with the Deliverer of Okhema. The younger ones have many questions they wish to ask."
And you? Phainon wants to ask. What do you wish for, Mydeimos?
Instead, he takes a deep breath. The last of the heat between them dissipates like smoke in the air. He says, "I hope to not disappoint them."
Mydeimos shakes his head. "You have not, and will not." He glances to the side. "Hephaestion."
Hephaestion materializes quicker than Phainon can process, hands folded behind his back with the biggest smile of the night. "I'll show him to the pallet."
"The others?"
"Already there," Hephaestion says. "Come, Lord Phainon. There are some people eager to speak with you while Mydei prepares the meal."
Phainon tries not to frown, confused. "Allow me to help the prince. I'm no stranger to the kitchen." He may not hold a candle to Okhema's chefs, but his parents did not raise an incompetent son.
"It's not a question of capability," says Mydeimos with a wave of his hand. "This is something I must do myself."
His tone brooks no argument. Phainon wavers nonetheless. In Okhema, etiquette for a deipnon does not involve leaving the host alone to prepare food for guests. And in Aedes Elysiae?
"Prince Mydeimos, permit me," he says, splaying out his hands. "If my mother and father find out I allowed my hosts to—to simply serve me dinner, I won't ever be able to show my face to them again."
Hephaestion's eyes widen. Mydeimos straightens up.
"Your parents," Mydeimos says, a hint of question.
"Are in Okhema," Phainon fills in, "and would be immensely displeased to know their son would have done poorly by xenia."
Mydeimos says, "You fought me for days without rest." His eyes latch onto the various bandages on Phainon's body. "Your wounds will likely scar. By Okhema's standards, we are the ones who've done poorly."
In that regard, Okhema's senate and Council of Elders would wholeheartedly agree. The moment Mydeimos lunged at Phainon with gauntlets drawn would have been considered an act of war.
But Phainon recalls the lilt in Aglaea's tone when she advised him to prepare himself for a difficult mission, to remember what he had studied about the old traditions of Castrum Kremnos. It is likely she knew from the start he and the lion-prince would come to blows.
Perhaps she might have even known it would be better that way. A prolonged speech to the Kremnoans would have only driven Phainon out of the detachment's camp with little hope for reconciliation.
Besides, it's not like Phainon didn't enjoy himself during their fight. He will wear his scars with pride, although that particular opinion is not something he'll blurt out in front of Mydeimos and Hephaestion.
"Okheman customs are one thing, and Kremnoan another," Phainon agrees. "But Elysiæn xenia calls for equal reciprocation. Even as a guest, please don’t expect me to be a burden to you.”
Mydeimos meets his eyes and, with devastating confidence, says, "The only expectation I have for you is to enjoy what I will give you."
Time must move a little differently after that, because when the hot smoke clears from Phainon's head, he is being led by a red-faced Hephaestion from the hearth toward a large pallet. His fingers twitch.
"Oh good, a sign of life," Hephaestion says, pausing to peer at him closely. "You've returned to us?"
"I feel like I was struck by a mortal blow and revived," Phainon says, thready.
"It was indeed miraculous," replies Hephaestion.
"I was?"
"No. The way Mydeimos laughed." Hephaestion runs a hand through his hair. "It was more of a cackle, really. I've never seen him so delighted before."
Phainon has to steady the ridiculous surge of happiness that fills him at the thought of making Mydeimos laugh. "I'm happy to be of some amusement for the prince. But I was being serious about Elysiæn xenia, Hephaestion."
"Mydei's mind is not easily swayed," Hephaestion muses. "But don't fret. You can bring it up again later over dinner. A full belly yields a faster nod. Trust me."
He tugs on Phainon's hand. Phainon lets him, still slightly off-kilter and holding back the urge to search over his shoulder for Mydeimos.
There are four young men sitting on the pallet, including a grinning Perdikkas. Phainon recognizes the other three: Peucesta, Ptolemy, and Leonnius. All part of Mydeimos's inner circle. All of whom observed every step of their duel without pause, and congratulated Phainon personally before Perdikkas swept him away to the healers' tent.
"Finally, the Deliverer has come!" Perdikkas crows. "A little pale in the face, eh? Must be hungry. Come, come, the food will taste better when shared with friends."
Phainon hesitates, because can he really be considered a friend when he hasn’t yet proven himself to these warriors? But Hephaestion doesn’t seem to have the same reservation, guiding him to sit in the middle of the group with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Budge over, Leonnius,” Hephaestion says to the messenger. “What are you sprawling those gangly limbs out for? Trying to catch someone’s eye?”
Leonnius grumbles but rolls into a slouching position. "Must you make it sound like an impossible challenge?"
Peucesta snorts, a short twang escaping his lyre. He says, “The only one who’s catching anyone’s eye tonight is Okhema's champion. Honestly, putting him in a phainomērídes, Hephaestion? You might as well serve him on a silver platter.”
Phainon’s cheeks burn at the insinuation. “In Hephaestion's defense, I chose to wear this,” he says. "The other choices were too… bright.”
The musician glances at Phainon’s long bare legs, awkwardly folded under his knees, and shakes his head with a sigh. “Here, Lord Phainon."
A quilted blanket falls over his lap. He blinks up at Peucesta, who shrugs and resumes plucking at the lyre. His hands are broad, though his fingers are long and nimble enough to weave a pleasant melody.
"Best keep that on you, my lord. It gets chilly in the later hours."
"Thank you, but there's no need to call me that, Peucesta," Phainon says, tucking his lower half under the blanket. "Just Phainon is fine, all of you. And I'm quite used to cold nights back at home."
Ptolemy clears his throat, studying Phainon with a glint in his eyes. "I thought the Dawn Device keeps the Holy City in constant warmth and daylight."
"Not Okhema," Phainon says. "My hometown. Aedes Elysiae."
"I've not heard of this Aedes Elysiae," Hephaestion says, making himself comfortable on Phainon's right. "I don't recall seeing it on any of our maps," he directs the half-question to the other men, who shake their heads.
Phainon buries his hands in the blanket. His chest aches. The fabric is soft under his sword-sore fingers. "It is—was a small farming village. Too small to see on any map. It's gone now."
He doesn't need to say why, or how. He knows just as well as Aglaea that the detachment has encountered dozens of city-states lost to the Black Tide. That their warriors are intimately familiar with the aftermath of such attacks.
It is why he is here in the first place.
The group falls into silence, filled in by the dancing and singing of the Kremnoans. Phainon searches for a way to break the quiet when Peucesta speaks up.
"I figured you're not an Okhema native. Your accent is different, like this." Peucesta plays two notes, one gentler than the other. "It's far easier to listen than Okheman."
Phainon chuckles, glad for the change in subject. "Elysiæn is simpler, I suppose."
Peucesta and Ptolemy both look intrigued. Driven by a sudden boldness, Phainon repeats the sentence in his native tongue. The men lean forward with wide eyes.
"It took a while to learn Common, and longer to learn Okheman," Phainon admits.
Ptolemy says, "A man is only multiplied by the languages he speaks. If I may, you speak both languages as beautifully as you write."
"You've read my writing?" It dawns on him. "Were you the one who wrote the letter to Aglaea requesting a meeting?"
Ptolemy smiles. The stern lines of his features melt, leaving him disarmingly handsome. "Were you the one who replied with a speech so long it took us three quints to decipher it?"
Phainon gives a weak laugh. It had been a rather long response by necessity, outlining terms of friendship and peace. Aglaea entrusted the response to Phainon and he could not disappoint her.
"It was not a bad thing," Ptolemy says, reclining. "I just thought you more a scholar or poet than a soldier."
"I did study at the Grove of Epiphany for some time," he admits. He won't mention some time constitutes an entire decade of his life. "My teacher is Professor Anaxagoras of the Nousporists."
Leonnius slings his arm around Phainon's shoulder, a shock of firm lean muscle that makes Phainon's heart jump. "A man of many talents, our guest of honor!"
"Oi, be gentle with him," Perdikkas snaps, poking at Leonnius with his toes. He releases Phainon with a squeal, batting away at Perdikkas's feet. The other men laugh.
Over their ruckus, Perdikkas says to Phainon, "Your bandages are still fine, I take it? Hephaestion told us you were almost made to dance after you left my tent."
Phainon nods. "Your work remains unscathed, but I make no promises for later. Prince Mydeimos said the people want me to dance with them."
"Dance, sing, among many other things—mercy, Hephaestion!" Leonnius whines, grappling uselessly at Hephaestion's fingers pinching his cheek.
"Behave, all of you," orders Hephaestion. "Phainon is our guest. We don't want to scare him off, do we?"
The men chorus quickly, as if accustomed to this, "No, Hephaestion."
Phainon can't help but chuckle. "It’s fine. I don't scare easily."
"I believe it," says Peucesta, strumming a livelier melody now. "You didn't shake when you shared the kantharos. Even we could see Mydeimos staring you down from here."
Hephaestion glances at Phainon with the hint of a smirk. Phainon doesn't take back his words. His reaction to Mydeimos's declaration hadn’t been out of fear.
Phainon lifts his chin. "There was nothing to be afraid of."
Fear was not the feeling that stunned him into obedience.
All their faces light up. Hephaestion winks at Phainon. Leonnius and Ptolemy exchange a grin. Perdikkas elbows Peucesta who plays a jaunty seven-note tune.
Ptolemy says, "It is the heart that does not quail, rather than the arm that does not tremble, which defines the truly courageous."
"Here, here!" says Perdikkas. "Though if Mydei looked at me like that, I'd probably run straight into the sea and not look back."
Peucesta curtly says something in Kremnoan, which makes Perdikkas yelp and turn bright red. They laugh and jostle each other. Phainon gets the impression there's a hidden joke he's not yet privy to, but doesn't feel too left out. The seating arrangement has left him comfortably tucked into the middle of the group, with Hephaestion on his right and Leonnius on his left.
Their revelry feels almost cozy.
"Speaking of Mydei,” Hephaestion says, sounding excited. “Look alive, men.”
Their heads swivel, and Phainon also seizes the opportunity to look.
Mydeimos strides toward them bearing a platter so wide he has to stretch his arms out to balance it. It's piled high with food and dishware so abundant that the individual dishes can't be made out.
Phainon's first instinct is to rise and rush over to help, but Leonnius presses a gentle hand to the small of his back.
"Don't run," Leonnius murmurs, his proximity sending goosebumps down Phainon's arms. "Let him approach you first."
Phainon obeys. A faint sensation buzzes under his skin. Mydeimos comes closer, and the fires behind him cast his magnificent body in vivid contrast. Hard muscles in his arms and chest strain to hold up the platter.
Mydeimos says nothing, expression set like marble, but his eyes are clear and focused when they fall on Phainon, and only Phainon. He tips his chin up, a wordless question.
Is he greeting him? Asking for permission, or issuing another challenge? What are the crucial words Phainon should say, as the outsider among these people whose hearts he needs to win over?
A loaded silence stretches. He can feel the other men look at him, expectant. But Mydeimos's gaze holds no such expectation. Instead, it feels like the blanket on Phainon's lap, heavy but warm and soothing to the touch.
He breathes past the anxiety in his throat. Gives one deliberate nod, slow and steady.
A ripple passes through the group, and Phainon realizes it's everyone exhaling as one.
Mydeimos's face softens around the edges. When he finally crosses the distance, there is no hesitation, only a flurry of action and cheer as the men rise up to greet him in Kremnoan.
Phainon makes to move aside, but now it is Hephaestion who pushes him back down to sit.
"Hephaestion," Phainon hisses, but the man shakes his head. Before Phainon can argue, Mydeimos steps around Leonnius and sinks down beside Phainon, setting the platter in the middle of the pallet.
He's hot. Furnace-like, the way heat radiates off him. The smell of hickory wood and something sweeter, more subtle. Taut biceps flex as he reaches and fixes something on the platter. His thigh presses against Phainon's above the blanket. The bottom hem of his exomis rides up enough to reveal smooth knees and sculpted thighs.
Speaking suddenly feels impossible.
Mydeimos reclines with a sigh, bracing himself on his palms. The man who almost tore into Phainon with his gauntlets is gone. In his place is the picture of a content, classic beauty.
"Thank Nikador," Leonnius groans, leaning over the platter and inhaling deeply. "I thought you'd go through the whole hearth before you were satisfied."
"I would have taken longer if I let any of you help," says Mydeimos. "I see you haven't scared off our Deliverer."
Five pairs of eyes slide over to Phainon, wide with hope. He replies, a little hoarse, "They have been nothing but hospitable."
"See?" Perdikkas says smugly to Mydeimos. "We've made sure he's safe and warm and right where you want—ow, Heph!"
Hephaestion smiles. It drips with honey. He keeps his fingers pinched on Perdikkas's cheek. "Mydeimos," he says sweetly, "don't you think we've made our guest wait long enough for dinner?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turns to the rest of the men, who all start stammering in Kremnoan.
Mydeimos doesn't flinch, but Phainon feels the minute shiver that runs through him. He bites his lip.
"Don't laugh," mutters Mydeimos from the side of his mouth. He dips his fingers into a shallow pan of water, rinsing carefully.
"I'm not."
"You're grinning. I can hear it."
"Still not laughing, though."
"You recovered fast for someone so astounded he couldn't speak a quint ago."
A beat. Phainon struggles to keep both incredulity and mirth from bursting out of him.
"Your men have kept me in high spirits."
"Have they, now?"
"Did you think they'd be cold to me?"
A snort. "Cold? No. Overzealous, now that…"
"Well, I didn't say they weren't, either."
"You speak frivolously. Say what you mean."
"I mean they were rather attentive. More than what I deserve as a guest. One might think they were competing to keep my attention."
Sharply, "Were they?"
"They asked many questions and shared much laughter. Peucesta even gave me a blanket, see?"
"They shouldn't have crowded you so."
"I thought it rather welcoming."
Two beats. Then, almost biting, "You must be used to it. The champion of Okhema."
He is not, but doesn't know how to explain it yet. "Your men's company is different." Softly, "More giving."
"… Do you—"
"Mydeimos," Hephaestion says, saccharine and sharp as a dagger.
Mydeimos actually jumps. Phainon covers his own startle with a cough. Clearing his throat, Mydeimos leans to the platter and starts arranging something onto a grape leaf.
The form of his back is as outstanding as his front. Broad, strong shoulders, a proud spine, the delicate arch of his lower back covered in alluring scarlet tattoos.
A mighty, perfect body. But the more Phainon peeks from under his eyelashes, the little imperfect details become clear: the way Mydeimos's wild hair plasters against his nape, still damp; the goosebumps dotting his skin; his ears, blushing at the tips.
Phainon smiles, helpless. He feels hot and tender all over. He dares to lean forward until his side presses against Mydeimos.
"What. Are you doing. Deliverer."
"Resuming our conversation, naturally. You were cut off. Your shield-bearer is quite a scary man."
"Let me do my work, lest you want that scary man to turn his smile on you too."
"What are you doing?"
"Making dinner."
A gesture to the hearth. "I thought that was already done?"
"This is different! Now hush."
"Why must I be quiet, too? Can't concentrate on two tasks at once?"
Gritted, "Not when you're panting in my ear like that."
"Now, Crown Prince, that's too much of an exaggeration. You know from our duel how I sound when I pant."
Mydeimos faces him, aghast. "HKS. Do you even think about what comes out of your mouth?"
"At least once."
"Try twice, for your sake and mine."
"Why? Have I said something that flustered the fearless lion of Castrum Kremnos?"
"There is no word for flustered in the Kremnoan language."
"That's fine. There's at least three words for it in Elysiæn and multiple synonyms for it in Okheman. If you'd like, I could help fill that up for you—"
"Fill what up?"
"Your vocabulary! Kephale, at least let me finish talking—"
"That's more dangerous," Mydeimos snarls and stuffs something into Phainon's mouth.
Somewhere outside of the bubble that has enveloped him and Mydeimos, there are scandalized gasps and howls of laughter. A drum clatters to the ground.
But Phainon barely registers any of that. The world narrows to the weight and burst of flavor on his tongue: a small portion of fragrant rice and vegetables wrapped in grape leaf. Dolmades, bite-sized and cooked to perfection with a tangy, savory sauce.
He moans. The sound tumbles out of him, reckless, and he's too enraptured to stop it. When he chews, the tenderness of the rice entwines with the crunch of fresh vegetables. The tart grape leaf gives way to hints of lemon, mint, and parsley, bringing to mind a shaded meadow ripening before the peak of summer.
It's sublime, and gone far too soon. A mild aftertaste lingers in the back of his throat, accompanied by a sticky sensation on the side of his lips. He swipes a thumb through the droplet of sauce and into his mouth, humming.
"That was delicious," he begins, looking up.
Mydeimos's gaze is incendiary. His pupils are blown wide, golden irises nearly covered in black. His lips part and a soft breath puffs against Phainon's cheek. Mydeimos's hand hovers between them, the tips of his fingers wet with sauce and oil.
They're too close. Phainon should move away. Keep the lion-prince at arm's length. Honor a distance more appropriate between the heir to a dynasty and a mere soldier sworn to another nation's cause.
Mydeimos's eyes flick to his mouth. Heat blooms for Phainon like a flower. His thighs clench, legs shifting under the blanket.
He can hear Mydeimos's breath hitch and becomes aware of his other hand resting near Phainon's knee. A little to the left, and the only thing that would separate them is thin fabric.
"Mydeimos."
Multiple voices ring out. They jerk back at the same time. Hephaestion is gripping Mydeimos's shoulder, looking stunned and ruffled in equal measure. Peucesta's fingers has stilled over the lyre, his mouth agape. Leonnius is covering his mouth; beside him, Perdikkas has one hand tight on Leonnius's chiton. Ptolemy is staring like he wants to immortalize what he's seeing on paper.
Suddenly, Phainon feels the weight of dozens, if not hundreds, of eyes on him from around the clearing. The singing and dancing has persisted, but slower now, the Kremnoans' collective attention turned to something else.
He shrinks back, but a solid hand on his knee stops him from bolting outright. He traces it up to a contrite Mydeimos. Behind him, Hephaestion gestures to the other men, who all look away politely.
"It shouldn't have happened like that," Mydeimos says. Phainon hears the apology for what it is, but it doesn't answer much.
"I know little of your customs, your highness," Phainon says. "What exactly should have happened?"
It comes out more brusque than he intended. He's not upset, as other messengers or envoys would be, but to say he's puzzled would be an understatement. They fought to near death for ten days, and now he's clothed in Mydeimos's colors and folded into his inner circle. The taste of the dolmades lingers in his mouth.
"You mentioned Elysiæn xenia earlier," Mydeimos says. "We Kremnoans have our own way of honoring guests and allies." His hand flexes on Phainon's knee, but he doesn't look away. "Healing for your wounds. Good cloth for warmth and comfort. Company so you may not feel alone."
That's more than Phainon expected him to say. More than what he expected to learn. The knowledge is precious, the intentions even more so.
"And the food?" he prompts with a small smile. "Is it the Kremnoan way to stuff their guests' mouths while they're talking?"
Mydeimos's lips curve up. "When they're talking too much to notice their host holding up the first offering? Yes."
Phainon blanches. Mydeimos's cheeks twitch.
"Could we possibly restart the last quint?" Phainon asks weakly. "For the sake of diplomacy?"
Mydeimos hums. "Think twice, Deliverer. What if diplomacy demands you being hand-fed by me again?"
This time, Phainon thinks twice. This time, unlike when he approached the pallet, Mydeimos looks expectant. The shimmering night and firelight paint him an eager young man.
Phainon says, "If it does, I would not say no."
Mydeimos swallows. He was not expecting Phainon to be serious, that much is clear. "I will not force you," he says, grave.
"You will not," Phainon agrees. He gives in, and puts his hand on Mydeimos's. "It would be to my liking."