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“Do you have any idea what time it is, Deliverer?”
All Phainon offers Mydei is a smile, the same way he does when he greets Mydei every Entry Hour he can - and under the everlasting, if slightly dimmed light of the Dawn Device, it could very well be the long lost dusk or dawn with the the way the light filters through Mydei’s curtains in the color of muted rust.
But it isn’t. Not yet. All of the surrounding doors and windows are firmly shut, curtains drawn within, and the sounds of Okhema stilled to cottony quiet. It is no Evernight, but a shroud of silence hangs in the deserted pathways outside Mydei’s quarters.
It cannot be much past the Curtain-Fall Hour’s second quint.
Mydei narrows his eyes, blinking the ache of interrupted sleep from them, and then shifts to the side and sighs. “Come in, then,” he says, and he makes sure not to let his gaze linger on the reddened corners of Phainon’s eyes and the way his smile is the wrong one; it’s the bright, confident, hero’s smile he gives the city as he reassures its citizens, not the blazing, unrestrained grin in response to full-force blows from Mydei’s gauntlets or the soft, quiet curve of his lips pressed into a kiss against Mydei’s.
Phainon’s smile turns from blazingly heroic to something more true to himself, something achingly mortal, as he steps past Mydei, gratitude in the way his blue eyes soften. Dressed in only a worn, pale green chiton, Phainon’s presence is softer. Quieter, too. He is well-built, handsome and strong in any attire, but smaller beneath the weight of his armor and regalia. No less eye-catching in linen as opposed to gold and metal, but more like the gentle glow of the moon than the flaming radiance of the sun.
Mydei closes the door behind Phainon with a little click, and then turns back to see him standing absently in the middle of the room. Mydei’s quarters are not particularly large, but when Phainon folds one arm across his stomach and frowns into the shadows, he seems so far away. Like he’s looking at something Mydei can’t reach. Like he’s about to set off on a journey that Mydei can’t follow.
“I’m going back to sleep,” Mydei says, then, without fanfare.
Phainon’s head raises quickly. Mydei can practically read the questions across his face as they flit through his mind: Huh? and then, You aren’t going to ask me why I’m here? and finally, What should I do?
And then, when Mydei steps forward, slowly and softly, Phainon’s eyes drift from his bare feet against the woven, corded rug to the loose cotton pants hanging around his hips to his face, and silently asks the question Mydei has been waiting for. It’s written in the way he angles himself towards Mydei, the near-silent inhale as his lips part even if no words escape, the muted, hesitant hope in those beautiful, vivid blue eyes:
Can I stay with you?
Mydei lets his lips lift into a soft smile as he sits on the low, wide kline. The mattress is thin atop the olive wood base carved with images of wheat fields and stars and sheep, but there are blankets and pillows enough to be more than comfortable. Mydei watches Phainon’s eyes wander over him, the blankets, the kline, the room, back to him, aimless and uncertain, before he answers.
“Don’t just stand there.”
Phainon’s eyes snap to his, questioning, hesitant, still hazy from too-recent dreams, until Mydei pats the empty space beside him twice, as if beckoning a cat.
Slowly, Phainon moves to the other side of the kline. He pauses, brow furrowed, as he toes off his sandals and touches the blankets lightly - so lightly it’s as if he’s afraid this, too, is a dream and it will shatter at the barest of touches. Mydei does not rush him, nor does he break the silence. All he does is slowly nestle back into the pillows, finding the familiar shape he left imprinted against the mattress and the pull of lingering warmth, and gathers a large woolen cloak in his arms, the kind to sleep under.
Phainon rests one knee on the bed and lowers himself the rest of the way slowly, stiff and awkward against the pillows, like he isn’t sure this is where he should be. But as soon as he is horizontal, Mydei tosses the woolen cloak over them both. The inside is a light cream, and the outside is the color of dawn; orangey pink, with flowing, fractal sunburst patterns of dark red and gold stitched on the edges. It’s soft, warm, and just heavy enough to be a comfortable weight.
A moment later, Phainon lets out a breath and turns on his side to face Mydei.
In the dim almost-darkness of the room, Phainon’s expression looks a little more at ease. Mydei doesn’t ask, but he can imagine why Phianon is here. He can imagine that Phainon is running away from visions of fire and blood, the smell of ash and destruction. He can imagine that the silence and utter stillness of the Curtain-Fall Hour makes it seem like Phainon is the only one remaining when he walks the streets. As if the whole world has left him behind, and he alone is made to bear witness to what comes next.
But he is not. Not right now.
Mydei breathes deeply, already feeling the pull of sleep calling to him again. Phainon looks at him with such warm affection that it chases away the haze that dimmed his gaze when he first entered Mydei’s quarters.
“Thank you, Mydei.”
Phainon’s voice is a warm whisper beside him, so close that his breath tickles Mydei’s cheek.
Mydei laughs, just as quietly, slow and indulgent. He closes his eyes, letting his breathing deepen and even out, but he still shifts his hand and covers Phainon’s. If it was trembling before, it is not, now. Phainon turns his hand over and interlaces their fingers, hidden beneath the dawn-colored cloak like a secret from the rest of the world. When the real dawn comes, Mydei hopes despite himself that they will greet it just like this, hand in hand.
“Go to sleep,” Mydei murmurs.
Phainon laughs, then, too. It’s soft and fond and at ease.
When Mydei steals a glance at Phainon a while later, he is watching Mydei, as if following the way the dim light reflects off his golden eyes. But Phainon is smiling. It’s the right one, this time.