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Mydei sleeps like a soldier, stiff and unyielding even at his most vulnerable state. He lies on his back, arms tucked against his sides, legs spread a little more than shoulder width apart. His blankets are sparse and only cover his stomach. His clothes are thin. His head rests upon a single, worn-out pillow.
His bedroom door is slightly ajar, allowing a crack of light to pierce through the darkened room and fall upon his face, but he doesn’t stir. Khaslana looms above him, eyes the color of molten gold, and he doesn’t seem to notice that either.
Today is the last night before Mydei leaves for Castrum Kremnos. He’s never been able to wheedle an extra day, or even an extra afternoon out of him before he sets off for his old home and never looks back. That man is, unfortunately, disciplined to a fault.
For Khaslana, watching Mydei disappear over Okhema’s skyline is the last he’ll ever see of him before he himself makes that inevitable trek to Castrum Kremnos. Before Dawnmaker cleaves through Mydei’s last strike and nearly severs the god in two, and Mydei - proud, fearless, death-defying Mydeimos - bows his head in defeat. Allows him to strike his back, to soak his hands in his golden blood for the tenth, fiftieth, hundredth time.
This time is no different. But he must force himself to remember the distinct way it hurts, to mold that pain into his heart past the rage and hatred of a futile existence and remind himself what it’s like to be human.
The bed sinks under his weight as Khaslana crawls to Mydei’s side, lying down just a breath away, curling up in a fetal position. He watches Mydei’s chest rise and fall with every breathe, etches the motion into memory. His fingers twitch. He’s done this before countless other times.
He reaches out to caress his hands, first. Khaslana was never able to touch his bare hands often, but now he takes the opportunity to run his finger over his callouses and the swell of his knuckles, digging into the grooves of his rough palm. He leaves crescent-shaped indents in the skin with his nails and watches them disappear. He takes Mydei’s limp hand in his own, like he did after he died, but he feels a pulse running at his wrist and can’t help but feel relieved.
He traces his veins, following them up his muscled arm and past his shoulder. He curls his fingers into the crook of Mydei’s collarbone, strokes his Adam’s apple and imagines biting into it. His hand slides to the spot where the point of his blade will emerge, like clockwork. Khaslana wishes he could hide in the hollow of his chest; nestled in the space between ribs, or instead pushing his way through the chambers of his heart, falling asleep to the sound of Mydei’s steady heartbeat.
He maps out the ridges of his impressively large chest. It’s one thing to see it up close and personal, to watch the muscles ripple as Mydei swings a fist in his direction, but it’s another to press against it and feel how firm it is. His hand moves slowly towards his waist, giving it a light squeeze, and he would go even lower if he could but he knows that Mydei will awaken soon. Reluctantly, he pulls his hand back.
Mydei’s eyes flutter open.
“…Deliverer?” He mutters, his voice rough from sleep. He squints against the light, turning his head. “The fuck are you doing?”
“I - well,” he goes quiet, acting like he’s scrambling for a response. In truth, he’s said these words many times over. He just hopes that his eyes aren’t glowing. “I had a nightmare.”
“A nightmare.”
“I just - I dreamt that you died. Permanently,” he says in a rush, the words spilling out of him, cycles and cycles of seeing Mydei die by his hand giving a desperate edge to his voice, like it always does. “I was - there was a sword in your back, and I watched the blood pour from your mouth and the light leave your eyes. I was waiting for you to come back and you never did. I waited until your corpse had rotted into a pile of bones.”
His admission stuns Mydei into silence. Khaslana takes that opportunity to push a little further.
“Let me hold you,” he whispers. He shuffles a little closer, close enough to feel the warmth of Mydei’s body radiating out. “Please?”
I need to know you’re alive, he thinks. At least for now. At least in this moment, while you’re still in front of me.
Mydei doesn’t respond. But after a moment, he turns his head so he faces the opposite direction. His ears are red. “Close the door, then.”
Immediately, Khaslana gets out of bed to shut the door, then glances nervously back at Mydei, who’s propped himself up on his elbows and has a look of exasperation on his face. He knows that Mydei will invite him back to his bed every time, but he can’t help but feel a little anxious.
Mydei sighs. “Come here.”
Cautiously, carefully, Khaslana lowers himself back down on the bed. He snakes his hand across Mydei’s midsection while clinging to his side, tangling their legs together. Mydei drapes an arm over his shoulders and something in Khaslana’s heart fractures.
“Sleep,” he mutters. “Do not grieve for me while I’m still alive.”
In response, Khaslana just clings tighter. Mydei drifts off at the exact second he’s expecting him to. He counts the heartbeats, one by one.