It's not so long at all after this that he finally breaks.

If his sisters could see it—or, indeed, had foretold it—they might call it poetic, that all of this would circle back to just the place where it began: Zagreus' bedchambers. Back to that cluttered and claustrophobic space where Death would come to bury, deep and deeper, that growing bolus of conflicting emotions and choke down his pride—all to grant the wayward Prince a few hours more of rest. If he allowed it, the more vindictive side of him might belabor those feelings—resentment, fear, shame, anger, want. He might recall how they had wounded. How it had hurt, had pierced like an arrow, to restore Zagreus to health, knowing the dangers and outcomes that would soon follow. He might abandon this path altogether.

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

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

Thanatos pauses just short of advancing over the threshold, choosing instead to lean against the door frame. With furled arms, he clears his throat to announce his arrival. And In a way, he is thankful for the perpetual low-light, because this veil softens what he knows for certain: that the Prince's eyes are now riveted on him. He suffers a sense of being stripped, and with it, a stirring of shame. Shame that even after an eternity of pining (known not even to himself) and an explicit confession (returned), Thanatos still finds it difficult to look Zagreus straight in the face. It is the fear of a mortal facing the sun, beholding that which will always be beyond his reach.

It's very nearly too much, and Death nearly turns back. His tongue is thick in his mouth. But as he strides slowly up to where the object of his folly stands, the noted lack of vexation on Zagreus' face signifies to him that not all might be lost.

"Say, Than," Zagreus greets him on a breath, half in-out, one eyebrow climbing. Bemused, but pleased; a foundation. "I'd ask you to come in, but…you're already here." His face lapses to produce a genuine smile, and the thread coiled around Thanatos' heart eases. "It's good to see you."

The Prince's skin refracts color like a jewel's facets, brilliant spots of purple-and-gold light. If Thanatos knew no better, he might suspect it is Aphrodite's doing, that it is her favor which gilds him. But the true source is easily deduced from a wink, come from where it fastidiously watches them both. To look back on the night-mirror for strength is tempting, but Thanatos refrains, looking where he can elsewhere. The room smells faintly fragrant, as if imbued with Zagreus' scent—darkness, decidedly humanlike skin and and warm life-blood. And he has only just noticed the near-full bottle standing on the bedside table; but Death is still not so unabashed as to reach out and drink. What he can muster is to brace himself rigid, and bid himself to finally, finally ask for what he wants, for the very first time in all of his existence.

"I'd like a word, Zag." The sleek curtain of silver hair obfuscates his face, burnished from beneath the cowl, concealing even his breaths. "Did you mean it, what you said before? That we ought to take our time?"

Zagreus' discordant eyes each flare wide; whatever kind of greeting he might have expected, this was not among them. "Eh—What's this about, Than? When I said that, I mean—I didn't mean any—ahem. What I meant was, I just don't intend to push you," Zag mumbles, dragging a hand through his hair. "I just know that all of this is, er. A lot. So I meant to reassure that...that I can wait for you. However long you need. However long it takes."

(Astounding. Truly astounding, that this stupidly, maddeningly perceptive Prince could be so short-sighted. This same Prince who had toiled so tirelessly to earn Death's trust. Who had gifted him poppies. Who felled Lord Hades with his butterfly. Who had terminated Death's ill-founded offer of his own volition to spare his feelings. Feelings that Death was, at the time, woefully unaware that he even had.)

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 crash upon in a veritable ocean of fear. Indignation at such over-conscious treatment, as would be given a child. Indignation at the sting of once again being rebuffed. Indignation at himself, for being unable to stop it. Unable to do anything except wait and wait and wait and wait.

No more.

"You truly have no concept, do you? Of which impulses to act upon, and which of them to keep in check. You'll wait, you say? Well, let me ask you this; what are you waiting for?" The indignation festers, righteous whorls in his stomach, air to the fire, fodder to the coiling snake. "What are you waiting for, hm? I'm here, already. I'm here. I—"

The kiss comes clumsily, the seal of mouth hard but somehow also too brittle, and filled with a nervous tension; but it retains in it some eager bite, a sharp ray of light piercing baleful clouds. Death hopes it conveys what message his words have failed to deliver. He hopes Zagreus' heart is ignited in it; he hopes to stoke those latent embers with this strange fierce fire.

"Than…!" laughs the Prince—a novel sort of laughter, same telltale traces of playfulness in it, but roused now with new richness, sun-warm and satin-seductive. Coating, spreading deep, to where bone meets flesh, forging every sinew with raw desire; fueling this shared flame. "You're right. I did not mean to spurn what I now see were your advances. I'm so—"

And Thanatos must have made a motion to hide himself away again after that, because Zagreus exhales oh, no, don't and is already brushing the bladelike strands from his face. And though he still burns, Death obeys, forcing his eyes open as the Prince slowly encircles him and kisses his jaw, his chin, his neck; he nips, gently, at the shoulder and Thanatos jerks in response, feeling himself swell. The chamber's twinkling lights spin softly around him, dappled stars. Blindly, he reaches; Zagreus catches him by the forearm with flaming fingers and kisses up-up-up, blood-hot and butterfly-light—first the wrist, then the line of his inner arm.

Zagreus' mouth as it is now, his lips so indisposed, inspires in Death an eager fascination—he seems, at the least, pleased by Thanatos' actions, this show of courage, the shift in the pattern. His eyes, too—one a fervid new flame and the other glassy and blown wide. Stunned, maybe, by such a long-suppressed desire made manifest, especially when it comes to him in this form. The prim, prudish harbinger of Death: revealingly open and only half-armed.

The Prince's eagerness is assuring; 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 in that sense. Between their levels of...expertise.

(But no. He cannot afford to suffer such thoughts as those.)

With a fortifying breath, Thanatos presses his body into Zagreus' own; maladroit, but earnest. His reward is a delighted gasp of surprise, and quick, strong arms slipping round his waist, drawing him closer in. Their bodies crush together in synchrony with their lips, chests rising and falling in a gentle sway; Thanatos can feel the heave of Zagreus' ribs, straining under him.

Now well overwhelmed, Death's eyes squeeze firmly shut. Adrift in these foreign sensations, swirling in his gut; like swallowing the sun, or being so devoured, dwarfed by the immense wave of heat crashing over and in him. Suffocating in its intensity. It is, now as ever, too much…every drawn breath consumes him, every new slide of tongue touched to tongue…and the heat, dripping, drenching, pooling below his waist. More exquisite than even Death's gentle kiss, bestowed to the most pious among mortals.

"Mm. Than," Zagreus mutters into his skin. Every syllable branding; an arsonist's prayer. Then, whispered into his very membranes: "I want to ravage you. Will you let me...?"

It should be thrilling, 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 roaming but never straying. Already tugging fruitlessly at his pauldron before crawling in, positioning himself above Thanatos with an open, wanting stare. Death's mind straining desperately—are his movements too zealous? Will his inexperience deter Zagreus? Is what they are doing even safe? Could someone not…intrude? Zagreus' door is so much more often open than not; no one measure could truly guarantee that—

"Than, what's wrong?"

A sharp flare of panic, visible solely in that lone green eye, lances Thanatos from his jumbled thoughts. Oh, he had so sorely wished to avoid this. It hurts, to see Zag in such a state, when just before his face had been so enraptured. This is your failing. Can't you just enjoy this? Can't—

"Do I look like there's something wrong?" he growls.

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

This deflates him at once. "No, Zag. No, no. It felt…I'm just taking it in." He sighs, deeply, and holds a hand over both eyes for a handful of tense seconds. "All right. First...let's shut the door."

"Oh! Of course!" Predictably, the Prince is trailing embers across the room and back again not a moment after the request has been made. "I can't believe I forgot. Well, I guess it wasn't like I was anticipating—"

"Fine, fine, it's fine." The anxious explanation strikes too close to his core. No time to fixate on it, lest he forfeit what momentum is left. "Listen, Zag. There is one other matter. You should be aware, that I…I lack a proper understanding. Of what to do, that is. Perhaps you know this already."

Zagreus' face changes, but more threads of empathy linger there than of 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 the ghosts of words uttered past. "Zag. Do you really...hm." He hums. "You truly wish to...ravage me?"

(Never, not once, in all of the vast expanse of Death's existence in this realm or any other, had he ever beheld a more solemn face, nor one that so moved.)

"There is nothing I'd love more in all of the worlds."

He blinks. Once, twice. The whim is there, has made itself known. Death need only answer the call.

"You had better do it, then."

Before he can react, Zagreus reaches up and pulls Thanatos onto him, so that his body drapes Death's, dragging skin against hot skin. He 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 dark musk and sharp-edged stain of Surface rain on his own skin.

They part from another languid lingering kiss, each panting for breath. Blue silk sheets drape splendidly over the Prince, and little lights strew about his face and neck. Together, they bedeck him with water and pearls. Zagreus continues his enthusiastic explorations. Thanatos' head spins with the monumental effort not to burn up on this axis, this dizzying revolution: his cold, fledgling planet to the Prince's life-giving sun.

Flame-tongue fingers skim the contours of his tepid cheeks—tenuous, featherlight touches, as if he is made of the same stuff as the mirror. As Zagreus does this, his lips quirk into that secret, shimmering, unreadable shape. Thanatos' heart beats a feral drum in his sternum; though they are both still largely mantled, he cannot help but feel naked.

A flash, gold. You need only ask, the mirror reminds him.

"Zagreus."

The touches cease instantly, before he has even finished speaking. "Than?

Death's tone is snuffed, a mere whisper. "Is it—am I…satisfactory? To touch? To…see?"

Though he wishes to, he cannot elaborate further. If he were to attempt it, his own bitter and deep-buried feelings toward the physical might threaten to spill over. He tries for a more neutral approach, remembering how his form had appeared in the mirror. Steel-straight and assured, almost fair. Perhaps this might be enough.

"Thanatos," Zagreus half-gasps, and cradles Death's face in his hands; and the once rapidly circumducting room has a sudden sense of spiraling slow until stilled. The expression he sees could be catalogued as disbelief. "I told you already how I have longed to do this. To love you in this way. How I'd love nothing more."

A pause in speaking, the space filled by a gentle ruffling of Death's hair. "Would you care to hear a few more things about you that I love?" Gesturing to him, Zagreus tips his head upward and places a tiny kiss to the corner of Thanatos' eye. He makes a strained sound, dead in the throat.

"I love these eyes. I love this shade of gold—it isn't like most things that are gold. They're clear like ice, and the shine is different, not like anything I've ever seen. I couldn't stop staring at the way the Phlegathon lit them, or how fierce they were when we would meet. Like they were calling. Your eyes made me feel—well, many things. Guilt at first, then a sort of purpose, like motivation, and then...desire, but I pushed that down. 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, straight, beautiful. The way the light hits it. How frames your face and moves in one unbroken line. It's always the last thing I see when you disappear on me, before the green anyway. Used to bring me pain, watching. Wanting to follow you. Knowing that I couldn't."

Thanatos flushes, and hangs his head, that same swath of hair falling into his face again, to shroud his shame. "I'm—"

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

He closes his eyes. "What?"

"What I love most…is this face of yours, Than. Austere, but so lovely. Especially how it is when you are joyful, or at peace. It brings me joy, just to see it. Oh, but—" 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. "I confess, to that point…I have thought of bringing all manner of expressions to this face, just like this," 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, and fingers 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 ligament that joins mandible to neck. "I wanted so dearly to tear each of these blasted pieces away, slowly, and kiss and bite this neck raw. All those times you would scold me—rightfully, I'd add—and then, when you'd come back to 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 having this neck for mine?"

"Mmph—"

It's all that he can manage, because Zagreus is once more bearing up, smothering him with those insolent lips. Like he is made of moonlight and diamonds, or ambrosia itself—tasting all that he can, scraping his tongue across Thanatos' mouth, forcing from him a sweet, long, soul-shattering moan that turns his cheeks deeply gold.

"Thanatos," Zag breathes, and it's so earnestly uttered that Death finds himself mired. "To answer your question, you are lovely and pleasing and very, very satisfactory, and that is to say absolutely nothing of your heart, or your beautiful soul. I…I want to see all of you. Please."

Death would hang by the gravity of that plea.

"Only, only if…I want to see you, too."

Zagreus shudders, full-body, down to his scorched toes. "Help me?"

He does, hands already working on each metal ornament starting from the collar, creaking clasps and yielding fabric that exposes an endless expanse of marble-cold skin that Zagreus soon scalds by his fiery touch. The Prince's hands skip fast to his waist, pulling his chiton free from the belt and scrabbling against the folds of Death's tunic, skittering across the gathering hardness beneath. His lips, shiny and slick, attend to that unspoiled neck. It's novel, and hypnotic, this hunger for each other's skin. Zagreus guides his lips down the curve of neck and traces the fine rods of bone at the base, then further still to uncharted swells of flesh. He pauses at sternum-height before darting lateral, taking one dark nipple into his searing mouth. His heated tongue crests over the erect tip.

Thanatos expels a snakelike hiss; and then he is himself tugging, stripping metal from cloth from limb and before he can even comprehend the volition of his own hands, pushing Zagreus down for another hungry kiss. Rocking into him, 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 blissfully blank and white-hot. In desperation, he tugs at the waistband of Zagreus' leggings. The body beneath him eagerly cooperates, wriggling, allowing the garment to slide easily off him. They succeed too in divesting the remainder of their clothing, and before Thanatos can truly reckon with this 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, I have dreamed of this, Than."

(These words, so candidly and wantonly spoken, threaten to him to remit—back to fear, back to apprehension, back to a painful yet utterly familiar shape of himself, from a time when he still wore embarrassment like a stain.) He looks away from Zagreus' light too quickly; lights careen across his field of vision. An edge, already forming on his tongue, pushed down just as fast. In search of an island, he summons levity.

"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 bit as he does so, thick and flushed red with interest. Endeavor as he might not to stare, eyes darting in the vertical, then parabolic, Thanatos finds this to be an impossible task. Zagreus, noticing this, proudly preens, taking the opportunity to push out his hips. His arms and legs splay artfully from him, proud cock and flame-feet both gently bouncing, and his eyes glint to see Death admiring this show.

Then, abruptly, he pauses.

"Ah. Hold on a moment," he mutters, and Thanatos nearly panics, a thousand iterations of the same rejection warring in his conscious mind (has Zagreus changed his? Had he stared too intently?)—but then he is only just rolling to one side and reaching over, pulling open a drawer on the far bedside table to procure a small green bottle.

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

Thanatos gulps thickly, unable to offer much more of a response than to stare blankly down and let relief wash over; of course, he could have guessed as much at the bottle's purpose, but finds himself too paralyzed to comment regardless. Zagreus is already slicking himself, smearing the fragrant liquid from base to curved head, and visibly savoring the choked groan that Death cannot kill in his throat.

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

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

Now flushed and oiled, Thanatos' cock twitches—many measures cooler but bobbing heavy with arousal, and aching from the absence of Zagreus' hot fist. The Prince curls up around him and kisses his neck, brushing over the shell of his ear—whispering so good, telling him how good he is. Thanatos would certainly have scolded him for this, if he could only form thoughts. It's no matter, though. He would not have meant it.

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 string on 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 the Prince's head thumping against the pillow with a strangled groan. Thanatos buries his face into that 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 eons. Hamartia. Wrong. It must be hamartia, this blinding pleasure, the intense pressure building, this aching for relief. This need, this excruciating need for release—it would surely kill him, bring about his downfall. And if it did not, surely every tenant of the House—from simpering shades to Lord Hades himself—as well as all of the 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 altar. Zagreus who is now reaching cheekily upward, sliding a glistening thumb over the leaking head of Death's cock and purring as if they will not both soon perish. Death, embodying his namesake, dipping his forehead to Zagreus' shoulder and too overwhelmed by sensation even to protest. And Zagreus, for his part, heat-swept and needy and given to abandon; his toes splayed ablaze, his heart too ignited.

Beyond these, though, there is that disquieting heat, gathering mass, burning him hot, hotter than he has ever been; and more, far more than any misgivings of stopping, there is that unslakable need, the need for—

"More," Thanatos chokes, not even knowing what he is begging for, between the myriad sensations and the glut of encouragements spilling from the Prince's lips. And Zagreus hums so easily before hoisting himself upward, turning Thanatos over and onto his back like it's nothing at all. Looking down to him now for approval, and when Thanatos gives it, bearing down against him—until they are flush to one another, unbroken length of body sliding against body.

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

"I," he stammers. Hundreds of cultures and thousands of languages to to pin name to desire—both living and dead, both mortal and deific—and every word fails him. "I don't know. This, just—more. Please."

And because, when it truly comes down to it, Zagreus can never seem to deny him—he cranes his neck and crushes one last lascivious kiss to the column of Thanatos' bare throat, before lifting his sturdy hips and socketing their bodies together. He rolls his hips once, just to test the sensation of slotting their cocks properly together, thrusting together; the honey-heat-haze of it blinds Thanatos' vision, staining his senses, lacquering him in gold. He isn't cold anymore, can scarcely recall ever so being. He gasps and hooks his legs around Zagreus' waist, drawing him in, frantically chasing the delicious friction. The Prince curls fast fingers around them both, and Death lets himself be devoured. The pleasure consumes him, swallowing down to the sinew and bones, and he cries out.

(Secretly, and in a far-off recess of Death's mind, he prays that Olympus can hear. That all of its inhabitants listen to their satisfaction this night. Let them witness as he is taken by this god who is a man, by this man who is Life, by this life that belongs, in this moment, to him. Let them witness, he prays. Let them know that their favorite has lain with him and supped on his nectar, and Thanatos on his life-blood.)

They're straining now, each into the other, rocking in a helpless, hopeless rhythm. The mounting pressure caught between them coalesces and sparks to an inferno, roaring and white-hot. Zagreus works them diligently, thrusting them sinfully into his oiled hand, crying Thanatos' name each time his hips piston him into the bed. It gives Death courage, as much as raw desire; he forgets hamartia, forgets himself, forgets to feel shameful, instead relishing in power granted through the action of extracting such ecstasy from another. Seeing and hearing and living 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 strangled moan—the finest offerings that Death Incarnate has ever received.

Understanding that he cannot possibly withstand this much longer, he tilts his head upward and kisses Zagreus' jaw, the column of his throat, the curve from neck to shoulder. Rutting against his fingers. sucking a bruise into his collar. One more secret, hidden from the gods.

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

And then—the winding, snaking pleasure curls deep, deep within that nested coil 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 noises scattering from his lips.

And as he shudders through the feelings—euphoria, awe, adoration—filling him raw with warmth, this blazing, blinding rapture. Keening, gasping into the sweat-slick juncture of Zagreus' collar, raking hands up and down his chest, leaving star-shaped marks he hopes to the gods will last: so that they might see whom this Prince favors most, and who loved him first. Little dark signatures and half-moons, red welts against red skin. Drinking each movement, relishing every last whimper this wrings from him—a deific boon in its own right, every one.

And Death has just enough time before it happens to marvel, this is a secret, too—how beautiful Zagreus looks just before he meets his end, how the muscles in his stomach flutter, the way each tendon shudders—and with that revelation, the Prince's thighs spread open, cock arching and yes—spilling, spilling now onto his.

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

But the mirror's light gives him strength, and besides, Zagreus is here—present and real and soothing, draping him in 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 the spirit of fire. The sun living in him, running in the red blood of his veins, shining in each brilliant eye. In this wondrous presence, Death is reassured of a truth already known: that to touch this Life is to hold a living, breathing star in the palm of one's hand. Painful, yes, but 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 this. "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 digs for more words. "Like light. Like smoke and fire within me. Your fire. The one that called me to you, all those times before. From the time that I first saw you."

He feels so carved-out and achingly empty, taking up space inside that dark, comforting cavern of Zagreus' chest. As they collapse into each other, sated and breathless and still so entangled, Thanatos' fingers find and thread the Prince's. Feelings and thoughtforms compete for precedence in his mind, love and fear and satiety and silent yearning. They exhaust themselves until there is nothing left but the present moment, a still calm unburdened by past shame or future fear. A moment in absence of day or night defined. In which nothing exists outside of this chamber.

And Zagreus…

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

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

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

Thanatos burns gold from ears to neck to pulsing heart. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if this would conceal 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 would 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's already sensed it. Perhaps he truly can. "Must you go? Will you stay, just for a moment?"

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

"For a moment, I will."