( He scoffs, rising to the challenge as easily as the tease is placed down. Fine, if Phainon thinks he can't handle a bit of touch, he'll show him otherwise. Better this man than some stranger, true, and at least they have traded physical interactions in some form for the length of their rivalry; the Deliverer is a known quantity, someone who Mydei trusts enough to give him the secret of his immortality. He is... unlikely to bring up this moment in any arena where Mydeimos cannot respond in kind, and therefore he relents.
For a moment, Mydei thinks nothing of it: a gentle pressure, a warmth, the itch of hair trapped between their skin. Intimate, certainly, but no more than a bare hand grasping another's to pull someone to their feet. The exchange of blows with armor cast aside. He is about to pull away, having seen the ServiTon move, but before he can there is-- something else.
Aglaea has described him as a burning fire, and Mydei knows how true that is -- he will likely burn himself out long before the others are ready to say goodbye to this world, this life. But it is his duty, his fate, his role, and he has made his own peace with it. There is no time, no space, for regrets in his life. Not when every step forward is a fight against something, but he knows no other way to live. And yet -- the feeling that bursts forth from his chest doesn't threaten to smother that flame but exist besides it, turning the scorching heat into the warmth of a fire, the light of a candle.
His eyes go to Phainon's in that moment, meeting a gaze as wide as his own golden one; clearly neither of them know the source of this comfort, this sense of contentment. (As if there is a library, as if Mydeimos is playing host to a man who shares his interest in history and language, as if there is no other fate for them than this.) Before Mydei can get in a word -- a question of what they'd experienced -- Phainon is gone. The feeling lessens, though it does not abate completely.
A hand goes to his head, gloved fingers brushing the place where they touched before his eyes snap back to the other man. Mydei's patience is stretched thin at this moment, pulled tight in the distance between them. )
Enough. ( Mydei says, slicing through Phainon's words as his eyes snap to the other man, burning gold. ) You felt it, too.
no subject
For a moment, Mydei thinks nothing of it: a gentle pressure, a warmth, the itch of hair trapped between their skin. Intimate, certainly, but no more than a bare hand grasping another's to pull someone to their feet. The exchange of blows with armor cast aside. He is about to pull away, having seen the ServiTon move, but before he can there is-- something else.
Aglaea has described him as a burning fire, and Mydei knows how true that is -- he will likely burn himself out long before the others are ready to say goodbye to this world, this life. But it is his duty, his fate, his role, and he has made his own peace with it. There is no time, no space, for regrets in his life. Not when every step forward is a fight against something, but he knows no other way to live. And yet -- the feeling that bursts forth from his chest doesn't threaten to smother that flame but exist besides it, turning the scorching heat into the warmth of a fire, the light of a candle.
His eyes go to Phainon's in that moment, meeting a gaze as wide as his own golden one; clearly neither of them know the source of this comfort, this sense of contentment. (As if there is a library, as if Mydeimos is playing host to a man who shares his interest in history and language, as if there is no other fate for them than this.) Before Mydei can get in a word -- a question of what they'd experienced -- Phainon is gone. The feeling lessens, though it does not abate completely.
A hand goes to his head, gloved fingers brushing the place where they touched before his eyes snap back to the other man. Mydei's patience is stretched thin at this moment, pulled tight in the distance between them. )
Enough. ( Mydei says, slicing through Phainon's words as his eyes snap to the other man, burning gold. ) You felt it, too.