*Author's Note*

Please be aware that this chapter contains explicit material, meant only for mature adults.

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It really isn't so long after this that he breaks.

If his sisters could see it—or, indeed, had foretold it—they might call it poetic, that all of this would cycle back to where it had begun: Zagreus' bedchambers. Back to that cluttered and claustrophobic space where Thanatos would come just to choke down his pride, just for the chance to grant the Prince a few more hours of rest. If Thanatos could think over the reeling of his head, the more vindictive side of him might draw upon past shame or anger or hurt—recalling how it had wounded, to restore Zag's health knowing the dangers that would soon follow. He might abandon this path altogether.

(But he cannot. He never could, when it came to this.)

The door to the Prince's bedchambers is just ajar, as it usually is. Inside, trinkets twinkle, spinning their small lights in all directions. The night-mirror refracts them back warmly, a welcome. Zagreus is there, as Than had known that he would be, aligned to the bedframe. His body cuts a hard line against the gleams and glows, his face set strong in profile, broad shoulders posed in a statuesque casting. This is the portrait that greets Death Incarnate.

Thanatos stops just short of entering the room, choosing instead to lean against the door frame. With arms folded, he clears his throat to announce his arrival. In a way, he is thankful for the veiling low-light, because he knows for certain that Zagreus' curious eyes would now be riveted on him. He suffers a sense of being stripped, and with this, a stirring of shame. Shame that even after endless years of pining and a returned confession, Thanatos still finds it difficult to look the Prince straight in the face, as mortals fear facing the sun. But Zagreus has no such qualms, those eyes already doing their best to core him, to peer into Thanatos' very soul.

It's almost too much, and he nearly turns back. His tongue is thick in his mouth. But as he strides slowly up to the bed, the look on Zagreus' face tells Thanatos that he has done well.

"Say, Thanatos," Zagreus greets him on a breath, half in-out, one eyebrow climbing, quizzical. "I'd ask you to come in, but…you're already here." His face softens. "It's good to see you."

The Prince's skin refracts color like a jewel's facets, flecked with spots of silver-gold light. If Thanatos knew no better, he might suspect it is Aphrodite's doing, her favor. But he knows the true source stands behind them both, winking. To look back on the mirror for strength is tempting. He refrains, looking elsewhere. The room smells faintly musky, whipped with Zagreus' scent. There's a near-full bottle on the bedside table, but Thanatos hasn't the strength to reach for it and drink. Instead, he braces himself rigid, and bids himself speak.

"I'd like a word, Zagreus." His hair obfuscates the bulk of his face, burnished even from beneath the cowl, concealing even his breaths. Inhale/exhale. "Did you really mean what you said before? That maybe we ought to take our time?"

Zag's eyes both widen in surprise, going almost glassy. "Eh—What's this? I didn't mean any—I just don't mean to push you, Than," Zag mumbles, dragging a hand through his hair. "I just know that all of this is, er, a lot. So I meant to ensure that, I can wait for you. However long you need. However long it takes."

If Thanatos scoffs, it's a testament to the limits of his patience. The indignation is something familiar, at least. An island, a solid thing to seize upon in an ocean of fear. Indignation at such over-conscious treatment. Indignation at once again being rebuffed. "You have no concept, do you? Of which impulses to act upon, and which to keep in check. You'll wait, you say? Well, let me ask you this; what are you waiting for?" It builds, swirls in his stomach, air to the fire, fodder to the striking snake. "What are you waiting for, hm…? I'm here, already. Aren't I…?"

It's a clumsy kiss, the press of mouth too brittle but hard, filled with a nervous tension; but it retains some eager bite in it, a sharp light piercing stagnant clouds. He hopes that it conveys a message that his words cannot. He hopes Zagreus' heart is ignited for it; he hopes to stoke those embers with this newfound fire.

"Than…!" laughs the Prince—an odd, new sort of laughter, traces of roused playfulness in it, ghosts of satin warmth. Coating, spreading deep, to where bone meets flesh, forging every sinew with raw desire; fueling this new flame. "You're right."

Thanatos must have made to hide again after that, because Zagreus exhales "oh, don't," and follows with "I want to see you." And he obeys, holding his eyes open as the Prince cloaks him and kisses his jaw, his chin, his neck; he nips, gently, at his shoulder and Thanatos jerks, feeling himself swell. The lights spin softly around him. Blindly, he reaches; Zagreus catches him by the forearm with flaming fingers and kisses up-up-up—first his wrist, then the line of his inner arm.

Zagreus' mouth, lips half-agape, reveals an eager fascination—he seems, at least, pleased by Thanatos' entrance, the show of courage, the shift in the pattern. Stunned now, maybe, by this show of long-suppressed desire, especially when it comes to him in this form (the surly god of Death himself, revealingly open and only half-armed). The show of eagerness is assuring to Thanatos; another island. It pleases him, too, that he can produce such an effect—no matter how deftly Zagreus might play at hedonism, or how cavernous the gulf between them. Between their levels of expertise.

(But no. He cannot afford to suffer over that.)

With a steeling breath, Thanatos smooths his body forward against Zag's, gliding each into the other. His reward is a delighted gasp of surprise, and quick, strong arms slipping around his waist, drawing him closer in. Their bodies crush together in synchrony with their lips, rising and falling in a gentle sway; Thanatos can feel the heave of Zagreus' ribs, straining under him.

Well now overwhelmed, Death's eyes squeeze shut. Lost in these foreign sensations, carried, taken by them; like swallowing the sun, devouring it hungrily, dwarfed by the immense wave of heat crashing over, suffocating in its intensity. It is, now as ever, too much…every hot breath consumes him, every new slide of tongue to tongue…and the heat, dripping, pooling below his waist. More exquisite than even Death's gentle kiss to the most pious of mortals.

"Mm. Than," Zagreus mutters into his skin; like steaming him from inside. "I—There is nothing I should love more than to ravage you."

It should thrill him, but all he can think is this is dangerous, even as Zagreus beckons him to the bed. Greedily he sucks on one finger, his glazed eyes never leaving Thanatos' form. Already tugging fruitlessly at his pauldron before crawling in, positioning himself above Thanatos with a hungry glare. Death's mind straining desperately—are his movements too zealous? Will his inexperience deter Zagreus? Is what they are doing even safe? Could someone just…walk in? Zagreus' door is so much more often open than not; there could be no foolproof way to be truly safe—

"What's wrong, Than?"

The sharp flare of panic, visible only in that lone green eye, displaces Thanatos from his swirled thoughts. He had so sorely wanted to avoid this. It hurts him, to see Zag so worried, when just before his face had been so enraptured. This is your fault. Can't you just enjoy this? Can't—

"Do I look like there's something wrong?"

"It's just…I can tell you're thinking. Is it too fast? Did I do something that you disliked?"

"No, Zag. It felt…I'm just taking it in." He sighs, deeply. "You should be aware, that I…I lack a proper understanding. Of what to do, that is. Perhaps you know already."

Zagreus' face softens, but there is more empathy there than incredulity. "Then, you haven't…?"

"No."

The Prince smiles, all gold. "How fortunate for me, then. That I should be the first."

Death peers down, and remembers his words. "I should love nothing more."

Before he can react, Zagreus reaches up and pulls Thanatos onto him, so that his body drapes Zag's, dragging skin against hot skin. He cranes and presses parched lips to Thanatos' jaw. He smells like warmth and minerals and incense ashes, a scent that Thanatos has always favored, starkly in contrast to the musk and sharp-edged stain of Surface rain on his own skin.

They part from another languid lingering kiss, each panting for breath. Around the Prince, the silken sheets tangle splendidly; light spackles his face and neck, draping him in water and pearls. Thanatos' head spins, endeavored to stay present; his eyes lock onto Zag's, quivering fingers skim the contours of his cheeks in light, feathery touches. His lips quirk into an unreadable smile. His heart beats wildly in his sternum; though they are each still largely mantled, he cannot help but feel naked.

"Zagreus."

The touches cease instantly. "Than?

His tone is low, a mere whisper. "Is it—am I…satisfactory? To touch? To…see?"

Though he wishes to, he cannot elaborate further. If he were to try, his own bitter feelings toward his own reflection might risk to spill over. He attempts a more neutral approach, remembering how he'd looked in Zagreus' mirror. Steel-straight and assured. It might be enough.

"Thanatos," Zagreus half-whispers, and cups Thanatos' face in his hands. He looks disbelieving. "Would you care to hear a few of the things that I love?" He tips his head upward and cranes his neck, placing a tiny kiss to the corner of Thanatos' eye. He makes a strained sound.

"I love these eyes. I love this shade of gold, precise one moment and mercurial the next. I couldn't stop staring at the way Asphodel's fire lit them, or how clear and cold they shone when we would meet. Like they were calling. Your eyes made me feel—well, many things. Guilt at first, then a sort of protection, purpose. Those feelings stayed with me; and though I foolishly failed to notice at first, because I wasn't minding to look where I was going, I fell. Right into infatuation." He drags his thumb across Thanatos' cheek and smiles, impish. "Mm. They're darker now, Than. Almost black."

"Oh," Thanatos chokes. Breathless. The rest—impossible.

The Prince's fiery fingers slide up Thanatos' temples and into his hair, combing it from his face. "I love your hair, too, Than. Silver and beautiful. The way the light hits it. How frames your face and moves in one unbroken curtain. It's always the last thing I see when you disappear on me. It used to bring me pain. Wanting to follow you. Knowing that I couldn't."

Thanatos flushes, and hangs his head, that same hair falling into his face again, as if to obfuscate his shame. "I'm—"

"Ah, no," Zag smiles. His lips travel to Death's throat, small clouded breaths on pebbling skin. "No…not done yet. Don't you want to know what it is I love most?"

He closes his eyes. "What?"

"What I love most…is this face of yours, Than. Austere, but so lovely. Especially when you are joyful, or at peace. It brings me joy, to see it. To produce such expressions, myself." A kiss delivered to the chin. A velvet drag of tongue to the exposed sliver of Thanatos' neck. Death's eyes shoot open, his lips indecently parting. "Yes, expressions exactly like these," Zagreus murmurs. For all the worlds pleased with himself. Another swipe.

"Zag—"

"And...if we're making confessions, I must admit, too, a love of your neck. it's…elegant, though it has no need to be. But always hidden behind these bulky adornments," he pouts, fingering the crowning of the overlarge bracer that guards Death's windpipe. "When I first noticed—truly noticed, I mean, what was underneath there—it was so distracting." Zag's teeth are probing now, nipping teasingly at the protruding bone just joining neck with jaw. "I wanted so dearly to rip each of these blasted pieces away, slowly, kiss and bite this neck raw. All those times you would scold me—rightfully, I'd add—and then, when you'd come find me even so…can you fault me for it? How could I attend to your words, when I was so occupied with thoughts of seizing this neck for mine?"

"Mmph—"

It's all that he can manage, because Zagreus is once more bearing up, covering Thanatos' lips with his own. Like he is made of moonlight and diamonds, sparkling—tasting everything he could, scraping his tongue across Thanatos' mouth, forcing from him a sweet, long moan that turns his cheeks bright-gold.

"Thanatos," Zag breathes, and it's so earnest that Death is entranced. "You are beautiful and pleasing and very, very satisfactory. I…I want to see all of you. Please…"

He swallows deep. "Only if…I want to see you, too."

Zagreus' breath shudders. "Help me?"

He does, hands already working on each metal piece starting from the collar, loosening clasps and parting yielding fabric, exposing an endless expanse of cold marble skin that Zagreus soon scalds under his fiery touch. The Prince's hands skip fast to his waist, pulling his chiton free from his belt while scrabbling against the folds of Death's tunic, skittering across the gathering hardness underneath; his lips attend to that unspoiled neck. It's novel, and thrilling, this hunger for each other's skin. Zagreus guides his lips down the curve of neck and collar and traces them to the knob-line of bone at the base, then down-down to uncharted swells of flesh. He stops at sternum-height before darting lateral, taking one dark nipple into his hot mouth. His heated tongue swirls slowly over the erect tip.

Above him, Than expels a hiss of pleasure; and then he is himself tugging, stripping metal from cloth from limb before pushing Zagreus down for another hungry kiss. He rocks upward, nudging their hips together; and this time, it is the Prince's breath that hitches, his jewel-and-flame eyes that roll back, his world that goes blank and white-hot. Desperately, he tugs at the waistband of Zagreus' leggings. The body beneath him eagerly cooperates, lifting, allowing the garment to slide off of him. Struggling, they succeed in divesting the rest of their clothing, and before Thanatos can truly ascertain their absence, they are bared: flushed and naked, and each darkly fleshed into the other.

"Mmm—beautiful," Zag purrs, his flame-feet kicking up sparks at the edge of the bed. He runs a gentle hand down Thanatos' chest, then drags it slowly up again. It burns sweetly where his nails scrape the skin; Death becomes acutely aware of the chill there, and realizes that he feels cold. "Though, I knew that you would be, after so much fantasizing." His mouth curls into a wicked smile. "Oh, how I have dreamed of this, Than."

(The directness of these words carries him back—back to the fear, back to the apprehension, back to where he would wear embarrassment like a stain.) He looks away too quickly, the edge already forming on his tongue. Lights swirling. Pushing it down as fast, he summons levity.

"You shouldn't have taken so long to act on it, then."

Zagreus laughs out clear, like a bell, and gives Thanatos a playful shove from beneath him. His cock sways a little on the come-up, flushed with interest. Then, suddenly, he pauses.

"Ah. Hold on a moment," he mutters, and Thanatos nearly panics, a thousand iterations of rejection swirling in his conscious mind—but Zagreus is only just rolling and reaching over, opening up the bedside table drawer to procure a small green bottle.

"Oil," he explains, letting the pale thick fluid sluice into his palm. "It'll feel much better this way."

Thanatos gulps thickly, unable to do much but stare blankly down; of course, he could have guessed as much at the purpose, but finds himself too flushed to comment regardless. Zagreus is already slicking himself, smearing oil from base to curved head, and visibly savoring the choked noise that Thanatos cannot quell in his throat.

"Here, Than. Let me take care of you, now. Hold still for me, hm…? Just for a moment."

He bites on his lip, reeling, every raw emotion tangling themselves all at once—fear, raw nerves, anticipation, exhilaration—but he steadies and spreads his knees and thighs apart, head hanging down as Zagreus' warm hand reaches up to slick him. The oil smells fresh, clean, like life. He stifles a whimper when he catches a glance at Zagreus' face, his eyes dark with want, the tiny slice of tongue just darting from between his lips.

Now flushed and oiled, Than's cock twitches, bouncing with the heavy beat of his arousal, aching from the absence of Zagreus' hot fist. Zagreus curls up around him and kisses his neck, brushing over the shell of his ear—whispering to him how good, how good that he is. Thanatos would have scolded him for it, if only he could form thoughts.

When they again settle, the first touch of Zagreus' oiled erection against Death's lower abdomen—burning and velvet and achingly wet—is like nothing Thanatos has ever dared imagine, not even in the lurid fantasies he had long buried, sunken twisted knots in his heart. And he's so hard—so painfully aroused that he nearly explodes when an experimental thrust sends him sliding into the sweet, hot crease where Zagreus' thigh joins with his body. He angles himself (ungraceful) and moves in again, and the friction between them sears, sending Zagreus' head thumping against the pillow with a strangled groan. Thanatos buries his face into his hair.

No—this is like nothing he has ever fathomed, far from the strange and discomfiting experience of touching himself those scant few times in solitude, worlds away from any dream or impure fancy that he has suppressed across aeons. Hamartia. Wrong. It must be hamartia, this blinding pleasure, the intense pressure building, this aching for relief. This need, this painful need for release—it would surely kill him, bring upon his downfall. And if it did not, surely all the House, and all gods of Olympus, would make him to answer for it. This grievous transgression; this profane sacrament; the dark triumph of flesh over spirit.

He clutches to Zagreus as if he is the only solid thing in existence—his island, his cornerstone. Zagreus who is now reaching upward, sliding his thumb over the head of Death's cock and purring as if they will not both soon perish. He, dipping his forehead to Zagreus' shoulder, dizzied, too overwhelmed by the sensations even to protest. And Zag, for his part, flushed and needy and given to abandon; his toes splayed ablaze, his heart too ignited.

"More," Thanatos breathes, and doesn't even know what exactly he's begging for, between the myriad sensations and the soft little encouragements spilling from Zagreus' lips; and Zagreus hums so easily before hoisting himself upward and turning Thanatos over and onto his back. Looking down to him now for approval, and when Than gives it, bearing down against him—until they are flush to one another, the whole length of body sliding against body.

"Than," Zagreus smiles, breathless and beautiful—grinding down upon him, branding his neck with lips, robing him in pleasure—in pure, unbroken connection. "Tell me. What is it that you want?"

"I," he stammers. No words. "I don't know. This, just—more. Please."

And because, when it came down to it, Zagreus could deny him nothing—he cranes his neck and crushes one last open-mouthed kiss to the column of Thanatos' bare throat, just to feel it—to feel the vibrations there—before lifting his sturdy hips and socketing their bodies together. He rolls his hips once, just to test the sensation that comes from slotting their cocks properly together, thrusting together; the heat-honey-haze of it blinds Thanatos' vision, staining his senses, lacquering him in gold. He's not cold anymore. He gasps and hooks his legs around Zagreus' waist, drawing him in, grinding frantically, chasing the friction. The Prince curls fingers around them both, and Death lets himself be devoured. The pleasure consumes him, swallowing down to the sinew and bones.

They're straining now, each into the other, rocking in a helpless and hopeless rhythm. The mounting pressure caught between them coalesces and builds to an inferno, a white-hot blaze. Zagreus works them diligently, thrusting them sweetly into his oiled hand, crying Thanatos' name each time his hips piston him into the bed. It gives Than courage, equally as much as raw desire; he forgets himself, forgets to feel shameful, instead relishing in the feeling of power that comes with extracting such pleasure from another. Seeing and hearing and feeling that pleasure—each scrape of fingers razing his arms, tugging his hair, skating the sweat-slick blades of his back. Each whisper, each hissed breath and choked moan—the finest offerings Death has ever received.

He knows he will not possibly last much longer, and so he tilts his head upward and kisses Zagreus' jaw, his throat, the curve from neck to shoulder. Rutting against his fingers. sucking a bruise into his collar. A secret, hidden from the gods.

"Good, Than, gods, you're so good—that's it—"

And then—the winding, snaking pleasure coils deep, deep in his belly and snaps. His hips arch off of the bed, his cock grazing Zag's, his vision blind-white. And as sudden, it peaks, transforming fire to pure light as he trembles and shakes and rocks through release, tiny keens emerging from him.

And as he shudders through the feelings—ecstasy, awe, adoration—filling him raw with warmth, this blazing, blinding rapture. Keening, gasping into the sweat-slick juncture of the Prince's neck, raking his hands up and down his chest, fingernails leaving telling marks he hopes to the gods will last. Little dark signatures, half-moons, red welts against skin red with life-blood. Drinking each movement, relishing the choked whimpers Zagreus is making.

He has just enough time before it happens to marvel, this is a secret, too—how beautiful Zagreus looks just before he comes, the muscles in his stomach fluttering, the way each tendon shudders—his thighs spread open, thick cock arching and yes—spilling, spilling now onto Than's.

The night-mirror's lights drag him back to the surface as soon as it is over, like a gentle ward against the coming invasion—already, poison fear threatening to seep back in, to invade his mind first and then his senses; dripping cold like the dew sweat from his skin, the pearls leaking from his spent cock. (Shame; the instinct to be afraid; the instinct to hide away.)

But the lights give him strength, and besides, Zagreus is here—present and real and exquisite, curled now beside him, draping him in his intoxicating warmth. Glassy-eyed and touch-drunk, dark curls spangling into the pillow. His Prince. Prince of the world Under and the world above, Prince of the heavens, Prince made of life and fire. The sun living in him, running in the red blood of his veins, shining in his brilliant eyes. Looking on him, Death is at once reminded of a truth already known: to touch Zagreus is to hold a living, breathing star in the palm of one's hand. Painful, but unbearably exquisite.

"Than." Zagreus' lips flutter over his throat, hands gripping deep in his hair. "That. You felt…ah. Did it feel good…?"

It takes a stretch of silence before he can speak, following the ravenous thunder of his heart, the resounding in his chest. The flood. The heat. The drums. Zagreus' pulse in the column of his throat. He would savor it always. Remember it always.

"It felt…" he shivers, still shaking off the vestiges of pleasure. "Divine." He's already retreating, closing into himself; but Zagreus is there to catch and hold him, warm and solid, and so he reaches in deeper and discovers more words. "Like light. Like smoke and fire within me. Your fire. The one that called me to you, all those times before."

He feels boneless and so empty, so vastly, echoingly hollow inside that the dark, comforting cavern of Zagreus' chest. As they collapse into each other, sated and breathless and still so entangled, Death allows his fingers to find and thread the Prince's. Feelings and thoughts run feral in his mind, love and fear and satiety and silent yearning. They exhaust themselves until there is nothing left but the present moment, the stillness of an existence without past, without future, without day or night defined. One in which nothing exists outside of this chamber.

And Zagreus…

Zagreus is smiling so fondly above him, wearing his abandon like a mantle. "Thanatos," he murmurs, moving his mouth to press slick and insistent at the corner of Thanatos' lips. "You did so well."

He stretches, and leans in for a kiss that lingers; he nuzzles his nose to the shell of Death's ear, and whispers:

"Next time…I'll take you into mouth, as well."

Thanatos burns gold from ears to neck to thumping heart. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if this would hide it.

"You will yet drive me mad," Death finally mutters, and after a long while, "I suppose I wouldn't mind. But I'll want to reciprocate, you know. So you'll have to teach me."

Zagreus chuckles richly, recalling: "There is nothing that I should love more."

Though he revels in this new-forged warmth, Death can already hear them starting to pierce through—the whispers, wind-whippings, Surface voices breaching. Was he somehow suppressing them, all of this time? Supplications, once sent forth, are so hard to deny; indeed, Thanatos never has, before this. But this time—well, what of a few moments more? Would it truly make such a difference, to steal one more handful of seconds for himself, for the first and only time in a half-million years?

Lazily, Zagreus stirs to comb his head, press a solemn kiss to Thanatos' jaw. As if he can sense it. Perhaps he truly can. "Must you go? Will you stay, just for a moment?"

And Thanatos closes his eyes and smiles, and commits for the first time in his existence what could be called a purely selfish act. (He only hopes Charon won't mind.)

"For a few moments, I will."