Chapter Text
“Mydei?” Phainon knocks against the door. “Are you there?”
No response. He frowns, paces the floor for a few moments, then knocks again.
“Are you feeling better?” Phainon asks, raising his voice. He waits, flexing his hands when there’s still nothing. “You aren’t passed out in there, are you?”
He counts down from ten in his head, running a rough hand through his hair. He starts pacing the length of the door again, cataloguing through everything that could go wrong. Realistically, it isn’t like Mydei can die from a fever. He’d come back, hale and whole like he always does—no matter how sick he got. But—
Phainon stops. His scent smells bitter with anxiety—rot permeating through the air. He touches the door lock. The mechanism spins, then stops, unlocking with a click.
“I’m coming in.”
He shoves the door open.
Mydei’s curtains are drawn, the room dark if not for the tiniest sliver of light that slips between the blinds. That’s the only thing Phainon notices before he’s pushed—back hitting the door with a loud thud.
He grunts, instincts flaring. He throws an arm out—jabbing his elbow against his assailant’s throat.
A warm hand grabs his wrist. Phainon sucks in a breath and tastes baked goods and burning firewood in the air. The scent weighs heavily—oppressive in the way it permeates, smothering him until it’s all he can sense.
He stills.
“Titans, Mydei,” Phainon murmurs, lowering his arm. Mydei presses closer into his space, and Phainon breathes in the smell of warm bread by a fire—all of it achingly familiar. “You’re in rut.”
A nose presses against his wrist—the heat of breath ghosting across his skin. Phainon stares at the figure in front of him, watching Mydei shudder when he inhales. He opens his eyes, bright with rut and dazed with fever. His stare, though, is still just as disarming.
“You’re an alpha as well, Deliverer.” Mydei’s voice is low—hoarse and husky. “Did this possibility not occur to you?”
Phainon blinks, swallowing roughly. The other’s scent is sweet—enticing in his rut and overwhelming.
“I thought your temperature last night was from the hot bath,” he argues weakly, watching Mydei press his cheek against Phainon’s hand. His skin burns hotly. Phainon’s eyes flicker down, catching sight of the loose chiton Mydei’s got half draped over his body. “Or maybe you caught a fever.”
Mydei hums.
“Were you going to come take care of me, Deliverer?” he asks, voice low and teasing.
“What if I was?” Phainon shoots back.
“And if I told you to leave?” Mydei asks. He steps closer, dipping his head low. Phainon feels a weight drop on his shoulder—Mydei’s hot breath ghosting across his neck in a long sigh. His scent settles into something milder in the air, content. It’s practically unfair with how tense Phainon is.
“You aren’t telling me to leave now,” Phainon says tenuously.
Mydei snorts.
“I should.” His nose travels up, cheek pressing hard against his neck. Phainon feels the change in air when Mydei sniffs along his scent gland and freezes—pressing further against the door. “You entered my room without permission during my rut. I should kick you out now.”
Phainon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Mydei,” he warns when he feels him press against his scent gland.
“I’m not going to do anything, Deliverer,” Mydei scoffs lightly. “Only an idiot can’t control themselves during their cycle.”
Phainon bites his lip and exhales.
“Then, what’s with the scenting?” he asks quietly, hands hesitantly settling on Mydei’s hips. He breathes through his mouth, tasting the sweetness of bread and finding himself wanting.
“You smell good,” Mydei murmurs, lips skimming across his skin. Phainon shivers, heat warming him like he’s entering his own rut. Mydei presses closer, his arms wrapping around Phainon’s waist. “Your skin is cold.”
“You’re just running hot,” Phainon mutters, fingers flexing on Mydei’s waist. He feels high-strung, body coiled tight as he lets Mydei brush his cheek against his skin like a cat.
Mydei huffs a laugh, and Phainon feels it rumble against him like an earthquake. He wants to dig his fingers into Mydei and drag him in, to bury in the nook of Mydei’s heart and make a home for himself there. He wants this to be because it’s him and not because of Mydei’s rut.
“It’s calming,” Mydei says.
“My scent?”
He nods.
“You smell earthy,” he murmurs. Mydei sags against him. Phainon sucks in a breath and only gets more of his scent in the process. His fingers twitch, the urge to bury his face in Mydei’s shoulder and huff in the smell of his rut terrifyingly intense—even when the whole room smells of him.
His own scent flares—wheat fields and forget-me-nots—a hungry ache of possession that feels out of place when he’s soaked in Mydei’s scent.
“It helps,” Mydei admits.
Phainon laughs shakily.
“You’re just saying that.”
“When have I ever ‘just said that’?” Mydei asks pointedly.
“Mating cycles are better spent with another,” Phainon blurts out. He wonders what Mydei would smell like with his scent on him. It would be so easy to test, with him so close. “It’s why alphas and omegas will ask for betas or people of the opposite designation. Even just having another person there helps ease the ache, even if nothing happens. And people have comfort scents they latch onto, too. Flowers, foods, objects. Those instincts are only amplified during a cycle, and you seek those scents more.”
The small hoard of Mydei’s clothes he amasses just before his own ruts can attest.
“Anything with the slightest hint of something you like, you’ll hoard during your ruts. And you’ll want to smother it with your own scent to mark as your own.” His wrist to Mydei’s scent gland, breathing Mydei in at his most potent, marking him in the way Mydei’s marked him—no matter how unintentional. “It’s all hormones controlling our urges. Just hormones.”
Mydei doesn’t respond. Phainon’s heart lodges in his throat. He wants to pull away and drag him in. He wants to wear Mydei’s scent out in the world like it’s a badge of honor and watch Mydei do the same. He wants all the time when it comes to Mydei, and it’s unfair how Mydei draws him in like moths to flames.
Mydei lifts his head, and Phainon almost protests the loss of body heat. There’s an odd expression on his face as he studies Phainon.
“Your scent is bitter now,” he mutters.
“Is it?” Phainon asks, more of a croak than words. His fingers twitch on Mydei’s waist. Mydei still smells just as steady.
“I don’t ask for people during my ruts,” Mydei says slowly, eyes pinning him in spot—his chest fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. “You can leave if you are uncomfortable, Deliverer.”
Phainon stiffens.
“I’m… not uncomfortable,” he mutters. Mydei raises a brow, as if urging him to continue. “I’m not. I just… don’t want to be just a warm body. To you.”
His tongue feels numb and heavy in his mouth. He wonders if it’s possible to choke on his feelings and asphyxiate on his words.
Mydei blinks slowly.
“You aren’t just a warm body to me,” he says. His hands raise—settling along the line of his jaw. They’re hot against his cheeks, guiding his gaze to meet Mydei’s head-on. “Deliverer, I don’t normally ask for people during my ruts.”
Phainon wets his lips and nods.
“I’m asking for you now, though.” Mydei’s gaze flickers from his before coming back—eyes glowing.
“Oh.” He exhales shakily. “I mean… I did barge in without asking.”
“And I’m saying, I want you to stay.”
Phainon shudders. He raises his hand, slipping it under Mydei’s hair until he’s cupping his neck—wrist against his scent gland.
“Is this okay?” he whispers. He can smell his scent flaring—horribly saccharine with need. He smells like a Titans-dammed garden, even with Mydei’s scent drowning him out, and yet, he can’t bring himself to feel ashamed of it.
Mydei’s eyes soften. He presses against Phainon’s hand and nods. So Phainon rubs his wrist against Mydei’s scent gland, running fingers through his hair—carefully scenting him. Mydei’s eyes slip close, shoulders loosening and a soft sigh leaving his lips. His hands fall until they wrap around Phainon’s waist, urging him closer.
His heart claws at his chest. He pulls Mydei forward, curling his arm around Mydei’s back and tucking his head against the crook of his neck—suffocating in Mydei’s firewood scent. He feels Mydei lean against him, radiating heat in his rut.
Phainon presses his cheek against Mydei—marking him until he can smell his faint scent pressed against Mydei’s. Wheat fields and forget-me-nots. Baked goods and firewood. So homely for a man dripping in Strife.
Mydei’s arms tighten around him, fingers pressing against his body possessively.
“I’m tired,” he says. “We’re going to bed.”
“Okay,” Phainon murmurs, a smile curving on his lips. “Whatever you need, Mydei.”