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Phainon, as Mydei has learned, is prone to a sort of post-mission depression. It’s annoyingly heroic of him—every time he comes home from some grand expedition, he smiles and bows to his grateful citizens and then locks himself in his quarters for three days to wallow in hollow, listless despair. Like he doesn’t know who he is without that eternal fulfillment of being a savior.
Usually it wears off. There’s a pattern to it. By the end of the first day, Phainon usually eats something. By the end of the second, he’s texting Mydei stupid chimera videos. By the end of the third, he’s begging Mydei to bathe together, just like usual, his tail wagging between his legs and his heroic smile right back, like it had never left at all.
But it’s been three days since they returned from saving a Georios-devoted farming village, and he still hasn’t texted.
Mydei has never claimed to understand him, but he thinks he’s come pretty close. He knows Phainon. Knows his sharp-edged smile, his soft laugh. Knows his favorite rhythm of poetry and the gleam in his eye when Mydei smells like sword oil and sweat. Knows the way he spirals when he’s left alone.
So when the third day arrives, Mydei sighs and picks himself up and knocks on Phainon’s door incessantly.
It takes two whole minutes, but eventually Phainon throws open the door, his eyes bleary. “What do you want?” he says, his voice dull. Then he blinks. “Oh. Mydei. Hi.”
He really does look terrible. The dark circles under his eyes are atrocious, and he hasn’t shaved in at least two days. Instead of commenting on it, Mydei just steps across the threshold, already taking off his shoes. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
Phainon stares down at him, baffled. “I’m—well, yes, I did know that, but what did I do this time?”
“It’s what you didn’t do.”
Phainon looks utterly lost. “Did I forget to submit a mission report? Sorry, Mydei, I could’ve sworn I did my half.”
“Ridiculous Deliverer,” Mydei mutters, grabbing his hand. “I’m saying that if you were having a hard time, you should have just told me.”
Phainon glares at him. “What, so you could hold it against me?”
Of course not. He wants to help his stupid, stubborn Deliverer get back to normal. He wants his Phainon back, and anything he can do to help is the least he can offer. But the words don’t feel right on his lips.
Instead he punches Phainon in the gut.
Phainon yelps like he’s a six-year-old girl who’s just tripped on the sidewalk instead of a grown-ass man who’s been slugged. When Mydei lifts his fists again, he readies his stance, his hands flying loosely into position.
Mydei aims a kick at his shoulder. Phainon blocks it with his forearm and stumbles backwards from the impact. It’s not terribly hard, especially given that Mydei’s fighting him in his Bubbles the Chimera fluffy socks in his own hallway. There’s very little force involved in the mock fight. If he broke one of Phainon’s vases, he’d never hear the end of it.
Mydei stays on the offensive, pushing him back, until Phainon finally stumbles into the kitchen and crashes into the cabinets, cornered. He looks up at Mydei, his eyes wide. For the first time, some semblance of emotion glints in them.
“So?” Phainon says, his breath heavy. “You gonna take your victory or what?”
“Haikas,” Mydei says, rolling his eyes. “No. I’m not going to punch you. Sit down.”
Phainon blinks at him. “Huh?”
Mydei sighs, exasperated. “I said, sit down. You’re going to drink an entire glass of water and I’m going to shave off your stubble. And then you’re going to tell me what the hell’s wrong with you.”
Phainon looks at him like he’s never seen him before. When Mydei steers him to his own kitchen table, he goes easily, melting into Mydei’s hands like he’s never had a thought of resisting. Mydei settles him into the chair carefully and heats up water in Phainon’s favorite mug—a bad facsimile of a Ladonian relic that he bought for an exorbitant sum about three years ago. When he’s done, he sets the mug in front of Phainon and waits.
Slowly, Phainon raises it to his lips. His hands shake faintly, maybe with the lingering adrenaline of their mock battle. When he swallows, his eyes brighten slightly.
Mydei sits at the table with him and half-watches the window, trying to pretend he isn’t looking at Phainon. He gets the feeling neither of them is fooled, but it’s the thought that counts. They can both pretend he isn’t watching. Pretend he isn’t worried.
It takes Phainon a long time to drink the whole mug. By the end of it, his hands are steady and his breath has evened out.
When he sets the mug down for the final time, he looks at Mydei, his eyes softer than before. “Why do you always heat up the water for me?”
Mydei tears his eyes from the nothing going on outside the window. “It’s better for you,” he says, a non-answer. “Warm water is good for your circulation. And it won’t mess up your digestion.”
Some of the weariness leaves Phainon’s eyes. He brings his hand up to his face, tracing the outline of the stubble on his chin.
“Let me take care of it for you,” Mydei offers, already standing from the table. “It’s still in the bathroom cabinet, right?”
“You don’t have to,” Phainon says, though the protest is weak. Then, quieter, “Yeah. Second shelf.”
Mydei smiles a little. He turns around quickly to hide it.
Phainon’s apartment isn’t very large; he’s got a place close to the city center, five minutes away from the bathhouse. He’s in a second-floor unit above a hairstylist, where he gets his roots touched up twice a week. Mydei sometimes wonders how his hair stays that soft, even with all the bleach damage. He grabs the single-blade razor and the shaving foam and brings them to the table.
Phainon smiles at him when he comes back. It’s fainter than his usual grin, but it still sets something in Mydei’s chest at ease.
“Why do you hate your stubble so much, anyway?” Mydei says, as he’s foaming up the cream between his hands. “It doesn’t look bad.”
Phainon looks at him skeptically.
“It’s not awful,” Mydei corrects himself, which is mostly true.
Phainon laughs through his nose. “It’s not even the same color as my hair, Mydei. And it’s a nightmare to feel that stuff.”
Mydei carefully lathers it onto his face. The stubble prickles gently at his hands. He picks up the blade, so delicate in his hands, and angles it carefully against Phainon’s face. Then he drags it down his jaw, watching his hands to make sure they don’t slip.
Phainon obediently sits still and lets him work. He doesn’t close his eyes, but his gaze is soft as he watches Mydei work.
The blade drags against his skin. Mydei doesn’t look at him. He focuses carefully on his task, and not on the weight of Phainon’s eyes on him. It doesn’t take long; his stubble is longer than usual, so it cuts easier, too. Mydei wipes the foam from his face with a towel and picks up his teleslate, swiping to his camera and handing it to Phainon.
Phainon examines his own face on the screen, twisting his mouth into odd angles to check. Eventually he sets it down. “Thanks,” he says softly. “That’s way better.”
Mydei just nods. He takes the towel to the sink and rinses off his hands.
Phainon slumps back in his chair. The wood creaks under his weight.
“You gonna tell me now?” Mydei calls from the sink.
Phainon breathes out, half-amused. “It’s stupid.”
“What’s stupid,” Mydei says, taking the seat across from him, “is that you won’t tell me what’s on your mind.”
Phainon’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “You just won’t give up, huh?” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “It’s just—it was a farming village, you know? And all their fields burnt. I… don’t like to think about that.”
Mydei’s stomach sinks. Of course. Of course Phainon would be off after that. Of course he’d spend his time wallowing in guilt after a reminder of the one thing that still eats at him, after all these years.
“It’s much better now, Mydei. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Mydei scoffs, mostly out of habit. “It’s just that if you have my back, I should have yours too.”
“Yeah,” Phainon says, his smile a little easier. His eyes flicker down for just a second, like he’s seeing through to that spot opposite Mydei’s heart, the spot Mydei trusts no one but him to guard, the spot Mydei trusts no one but him to exploit. “I’ve got your back.”
They sit there in silence for a moment.
“Anyway,” Phainon says eventually. Some of the color has returned to his face; Mydei can’t tell if he’s blushing, or if it’s just the warm water and the remnants of the shaving foam. “It’s silly. I just miss home a little. You know?”
Mydei doesn’t quite know. He’s never really had a home to miss, not the way Phainon does. He had the detachment, he had his friends, but they weren’t a home in the same way that Aedes Elysiae must have been to Phainon. He loves that place, Mydei knows. Loves it in his nightmares every night.
Phainon laughs, a little forced. “It’s really not—”
“Let me make you dinner,” Mydei interrupts.
Phainon blinks. “I… okay. That sounds nice, actually. What are you gonna make? Are you still working on that stuffed squash recipe? I liked it better with the wild rice and mushrooms.”
“No,” Mydei says. “I want to make something from your hometown.”
Phainon stares at him.
Mydei feels a little flustered, suddenly. “You’re homesick. I want to help.”
“No, I get that,” Phainon says hurriedly, waving his hands. “But I don’t think you want to make dishes from my hometown, Mydei. It really won’t work.”
“Are you doubting my cooking abilities, haikas?”
Phainon hesitates for that one fatal second.
That seals the deal. Mydei crosses his arms, determined. “I am going to make you something from your hometown. Just give me something to work with. I’ll figure it out.”
“…Well,” says Phainon carefully. “It was a farming town. We ate a lot of wheat. Potatoes, during the winter. Sometimes dairy. And my family had a garden plot with tomatoes and watermelon.”
Mydei scoffs. “Too easy,” he says, already grabbing his teleslate from the counter. “Give me an hour, Deliverer. I’ll be back.”
***
The ingredients Phainon listed aren’t hard to cook with. It’s pretty obvious, in fact, what Phainon was talking about. Tomato, dairy, and wheat? Easy. It’s obviously a pasta dish. So Mydei buys heirloom tomatoes from the market, and a fresh lump of goat cheese, and returns to Phainon’s place and rolls out potato and wheat gnocchi by hand. Then he boils and pan-fries them and slices the tomato thick, layering it with the cheese to create a beautiful, rich pasta dish.
Phainon stares down at his plate. He looks baffled.
“So?” says Mydei, more than a little proud of himself. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful. Just like always.”
Mydei sets down his own bowl of gnocchi, along with another glass of water. He pushes it in Phainon’s direction, an unsubtle reminder.
Phainon takes a bite. He sighs in delight, like he hasn’t eaten in days. Given his bout of depression, that might actually be the case. Mydei watches him devour the meal, a little endeared but unwilling to admit it. He eats his own dish much slower, enjoying the savory tomato burst and the herbed goat’s cheese half-melted into the pasta.
“Your childhood must have been nice,” Mydei says, in between bites, “if you got to eat food like this all the time.”
Phainon sets down his fork. He raises his eyebrows.
Mydei frowns. “What?”
“This is really good,” Phainon says carefully. “But—”
“There’s always a fucking ‘but’ with you,” Mydei mutters, waving his fork vaguely. “You could just tell me the food was good and leave it at that.”
“Mydei,” Phainon says, stronger than before. “This is nothing like what I grew up eating.”
Mydei draws a mental blank.
“It’s definitely delicious!” Phainon protests quickly. “And I like it! But I’ve never had this before in my life. This is entirely new to me.”
“Of course it isn’t new,” Mydei says, still confused. “I used the ingredients you told me about.”
Phainon snorts with laughter. “You think my family was rich enough to eat herbed goat cheese? Titans, Mydei, we barely even had bread for dinner most nights.”
Mydei’s face feels hot. He had, somehow, completely forgotten that. Phainon’s told him about it before, too—he should have remembered. Should have known, from the way Phainon’s shoulders stiffen each time it’s his turn to pay for lunch. Should have known, from the way Phainon spends all his money the minute he gets it, like every paycheck is a windfall that might never come again.
Phainon looks amused. His smile is real this time, almost as bright as usual and ten times softer. “I appreciate the effort, you know. That’s what matters.”
Mydei glares down at his bowl of pasta. It has betrayed him. It has not fulfilled its purpose of making Phainon less homesick. Traitorous gnocchi. Traitorous tomatoes.
Phainon tilts his head. “Mydei?”
“Tell me,” Mydei blurts, before he can think better of it. “Tell me what you had in your hometown, and I swear to Nikador I will make it.”
“You really don’t have to,” Phainon says, looking a little lost. “I already feel much better, Mydei. I think it was the stubble! You know how much of a sensory nightmare that is? I should have you come over and—”
“Deliverer.”
Phainon sighs. “You really won’t give up?”
Mydei looks at him sideways. “We both know there’s no word for ‘giving up’ in the Kremnoan language.”
This makes Phainon crack a smile again. “Alright, alright, you big baby. We didn’t eat much on normal days, but on special occasions, we’d make a big cherry tart and split it between us all. It had strawberries in it, too.”
“Say no more,” Mydei declares. He can already envision the pie. And it is going to be perfect.
***
Two days later he marches into the training grounds brandishing a cake plate like a spear.
Phainon’s eyebrows fly into his hair. He puts down the polishing cloth he’s been using on his sword. “I thought we were dueling?”
“Change of plans,” Mydei says, slamming the cake plate down on the table next to his sword. Phainon hurriedly shoves his weapon out of the way. “I made your cherry tart.”
Phainon’s eyes widen. “Mydei, you—really? Huh?”
“I told you I’d do it,” Mydei says, crossing his arms. “Did you doubt me?”
Phainon wipes off his hands on a clean rag, rinsing the oil off of them. “I said it was for special occasions. And it’s just an ordinary day today. Nothing special about it.”
Mydei opens his mouth.
“And if you say some shit about how every day a warrior survives to see the next sunrise is a special day I’ll actually kick you in the balls,” Phainon says, all in one breath, before he can say anything.
Mydei closes his mouth.
Phainon looks at him and bursts into giggles.
“Whatever,” Mydei sighs, pushing the cake plate further away. “If you want it to be a special occasion, I can beat the shit out of you. Make you grateful to be left alive.”
“I think I can do without that,” Phainon says, grinning apologetically. “Let me see!”
Mydei takes off the cover with a flourish. This pie is some of his finest work, if he does say so himself. It’s got a perfect flaky crust, made with layers of butter stacked between the dough so that it puffed up beautifully as it cooked. The cherries are lined up in a spiral inside the crust, and he’s added rhubarb and strawberry slices in between each one. The whole thing is flavored with mulling spices usually used in cider, and he’s layered the top with honey glaze so it shimmers red in the light.
“Holy shit,” Phainon says, his face utterly blank. “Mydei, what the hell?”
Mydei’s hands feel cold all of a sudden. “What?”
“This is the most beautiful pie I’ve ever seen in my life,” Phainon says, sounding like he might faint.
Mydei grins, a little self-satisfied. He’d worked hard to get the crust just right, and he’d spent hours cutting all the fruit perfectly and arranging it in the spiral. He hands Phainon the knife and lets him slice the first piece.
“Even the cross-section is beautiful,” Phainon marvels, staring at his piece like he’s trying to dissect it.
At last he takes a bite. His eyes fly wide open.
“Thoughts?” Mydei says, leaning back smugly. “Did I nail it or what?”
“It’s amazing.”
Mydei lets himself gloat a little. He picks up the knife to cut himself a slice.
“But we never had rhubarb,” Phainon says.
Mydei’s hand slips on the knife. He cuts his slice off-center. “The flavor profile is similar, though. Right?”
“Well, no,” says Phainon, through his second bite. “For one, we never had the money to make the crust this buttery. And the spices in this are totally different.”
Mydei stares at his pie, disappointed. He taps his foot on the ground.
“And we didn’t arrange it like this,” Phainon continues, waving his hand vaguely. “I think we just stewed all the cherries together and piled it in there! The crust was really thin, so sometimes we’d make a lattice with the leftover dough. And—”
“So I didn’t get it right,” Mydei interrupts.
Phainon hesitates. “Right is a strong word…”
Mydei glares at the cherry tart like it’s the one at fault.
“It’s wonderful,” Phainon reassures him. “It’s probably better than the ones I had in my childhood, honestly! It’s perfect, Mydei, don’t even worry about it.”
Mydei stabs despondently at the pie.
“Don’t give me that.” Phainon reaches out and places his hand on top of Mydei’s. Mydei glances up at him, surprised. He’s smiling. “If you really want to make something from Aedes Elysiae, I remember every summer we’d have salted corn! That’s easy. All you have to do is boil it and salt it. Maybe put it on a stick. You can make me that, and it’ll count as your victory, okay?”
Mydei sighs and picks up his slice. “Salted corn,” he repeats, already drawing up the recipe plan in his mind. “I can do that.”
***
Phainon takes one look at the bowls of beautiful grilled corn, complete with cotija cheese and cilantro and a generous sprinkling of Kremnoan chili, and bursts out laughing.
Mydei groans and drops his head onto the counter. “I can’t help it, Deliverer. I need to make good food. I can’t do it.”
“Dear Kephale,” Phainon says, still fighting for breath in between giggles. “We’ve finally found your one critical flaw! The Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, honored leader of the Kremnoan Detachment, can’t boil corn!”
“I did boil the corn,” Mydei mutters, ducking his head. “It makes it juicier if you boil it first and then grill it. Then you get the nice charred edge without compromising the softness of the kernels.”
Phainon laughs so hard he tears up.
“Whatever,” Mydei mutters, his face hot. “I’ll just leave.”
“No, Mydei, wait,” Phainon calls, catching his arm.
Mydei freezes. Phainon’s fingers curl tighter around his bicep, like he’s trying to keep him. They look at each other for a moment. Mydei’s grip on the bowl of corn slackens.
“I like it,” Phainon says, quieter. He pulls his arm back hastily, his face stained red. “I like that you want to cook for me.”
Mydei sets the bowl back down. It feels a little like giving up. “The whole point was that I’d make something from your home. I haven’t done it. Not even once.”
Phainon’s laughter slips into surprise. “But you have.”
“Not really,” Mydei admits, looking at his bowl of traitorous beautiful grilled corn. “I keep messing it up.”
Phainon’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile that’s somehow more endearing than the brightest grin he ever offers to the citizens. “You don’t get it.” He steps closer, letting his hand fall on top of Mydei’s on the counter. “You’ve been making food from my home this whole time.”
“But it’s all wrong,” Mydei says, a little lost. “I can’t even boil corn. You said it yourself.”
Phainon’s smile widens. His eyes are so thick with fondness that Mydei can hardly tell what color they are anymore. “Mydei, you idiot,” he says, and then he closes his hand around Mydei’s wrist and leans in and kisses him on the mouth.
Mydei blinks. He stares at Phainon so hard that his eyes start to hurt. He stands there, bemused, in Phainon’s kitchen, one hand on the corn and the other held in Phainon’s.
At last Phainon pulls back. His grip tightens on Mydei’s wrist. “This is my home,” he says, smiling a little. “Right here.”
Mydei parts his lips. “…Oh.”
Phainon gives him a smug look. “Words of wisdom from the Grand Sage Mydeimos, huh?”
“Shut up,” Mydei mutters, shoving off his hand with a smile. “Eat your fucking corn. I worked hard on that.”
Phainon just laughs. “Thanks,” he says, quieter.
His eyes glint with the light from the window. Mydei swallows. “It’s nothing,” he says, a little absentminded. While Phainon gets out the silverware, he touches the corner of his mouth and wonders if everyone will know, somehow, that Phainon had touched him there. If he’ll wear it like one of his tattoos: This is where I learned him. This is where he taught me the art of himself.
Phainon turns around from the table. “Aren’t you coming?”
Mydei shakes himself out of it. “Yeah,” he says, dropping his hand back to his side. The corner of his mouth still burns with that sweet sentiment. “Always.”
***
“We should make something together,” Phainon says one evening, as they sit in the baths. His face is flushed. He’s always been bad at handling the heat of the water. “You know. Like, a new dish. So that you can make it whenever I’m homesick.”
Mydei’s heart catches in his chest. “You’d want me to do that?”
“‘Course I would,” Phainon says, leaning back against the edge of the bath. “No one’s more qualified to come up with my new home’s dish than you.”
Mydei looks at him, a little breathless. Does he mean—?
“I was thinking maybe a stew,” Phainon continues, unbothered. “It obviously has to have protein, but you always lecture me about fiber too, so maybe something with root vegetables? You can do that thing where you make the beef stock into a soup and then you cook the raw beef by pouring the broth over. And then Castorice can have a vegetarian option, and Tribbie can let hers cool down a bit… Oh, and Aglaea can add extra carbs to the side, and Anaxa can drink the broth without having to eat any actual food!”
Mydei’s heart thunders in his chest. He reaches out and takes Phainon’s chin in his hand.
Phainon blinks, bewildered. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason,” Mydei says, and then he leans in and presses their mouths together, and Phainon’s face flares to a fiery blush between his hands.
It’s not a long kiss; it’s just a reciprocal of the mark Phainon left on him. His own way to return the sentiment.
“I’m making your broth extra spicy,” Mydei murmurs, grinning into his mouth.
Phainon sighs dramatically. “Why must you always make me suffer?” he groans, throwing himself back across the tiles. “Is it because you hate me? I think you hate me, Mydeimos. Truly, there’s no other answer.”
“Truly,” Mydei agrees, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. “And I’ll keep hating you for the rest of our lives. You’ll never escape me.”
“What agony,” Phainon says, beaming, “I think I’ll never recover,” and he takes Mydei’s hand and doesn’t release it even when they get out of the baths, their skin stained from the warmth and their breath thick with steam.