Sunkissed
A week had gone by since Kyra and Thaletas had returned to Sparta. Seven whole days and six whole nights of Deimos watching Thaletas and Thaletas pretending that he didn’t want to talk to Deimos until the world stopped spinning and the birds stopped chirping. Seven days and six nights of Deimos leaving a room when Thaletas entered it, seven days and six nights of Deimos putting his knowledge of Sparta’s back routes to good use until the two couldn’t avoid each other any longer.
Each day sat heavy in both men’s minds, stewing and festering. Deimos worried more than Thaletas; he went over every moment obsessively, wondering if every movement of his body, every moment of pretend-eye contact and brush of shoulders would have changed everything if only they had not happened. Every day was its own box in his head, its own chest of treasure.
On the first day, Thaletas did not visit Deimos at the fountain. He was okay with this; after their conversation at the shrine, he needed some time alone. Some time to breathe, without having the air being stifled from his lungs just at the mere sight of the Spartan officer.
This was also the day that Deimos learned that Kyra and Thaletas were staying with them for the duration of their trip, another piece of information people seemed keen on keeping from the dark-eyed man, for reasons he could only obsess over. This was revealed to him at dinner, a period of time in which both men pretended that they were not staring at each other as they ate.
Kyra was staying in Kassandra’s room, naturally, and Thaletas in the small spare room that was attached to Deimos’ room. There wasn’t even a door; they hung a large cloth over the entrance way for privacy. This, of course, was something Deimos was so ready to argue about-
And then he saw Thaletas smile sweetly at him, thanked him for his hospitality, and move his small amount of things into the spare room, which was nothing more than a glorified storage closet that had been cleaned out before the two rebels arrived. He did not argue then. Deimos kept his mouth shut.
On the first night, Deimos did not sleep. He was doing so well in the past weeks, too; the nightmares were bearable, although after he woke up from one, it was a miracle from the gods if he managed to drift off again for more than an hour. But not on the first night, oh no. Every time he closed his eyes, Thaletas was above him, raising a knife branded in with the Spartan seal. Every time he tried to roll over and rest his eyes, a man dressed as a spartan officer was behind him, almost about to pounce.
Deimos watched the night sky instead, until he could see the pink and orange of the sunrise poking through.
On the second day, Thaletas did find Deimos at the fountain. He sat next to him, quietly watching him sketch the woman selling fresh bread across from them. They did not speak the entire time, not until Thaletas said something about dinner and the two of them walked home quietly, Thaletas not even greeting the people in the market with more than a smile. The only thing he heard was the sound of his pencil dragging across the paper, and Thaletas’ light, airy breathing. It made his heart flutter. From nerves or something else, he was not sure.
Deimos was not sure about a lot of things, even on the second day. He was not entirely sure if he liked being watched while he worked, too. He was used to being alone. He wasn’t sure if he liked the way Thaletas’ fingers brushed along his back as they walked, or the way he called Deimos’ name for dinner from the garden without even caring that Kassandra was glaring and Myrrine was suddenly unable to look at him. Deimos was so used to being alone.
The third day brought Thaletas back to Deimos, this time bearing food. Deimos could not bring himself to thank the officer in a voice above a whisper; he just nodded to him, like a child receiving a gift on their birthday from someone they rarely know.
They ate goat cheese, bread, and salted meat. The former cultist knew exactly where the bread was from, and the cheese, yet he did not say anything the entire time. He did not comment on the way Thaletas licked his fingers after devouring a piece of meat, nor did he say a word when Thaletas beamed at Deimos when he caught him staring.
Thaletas left him alone once they finished eating, and Deimos wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted him to go.
Once he was gone, Deimos cursed himself inwardly. Thaletas probably thought him some fool, with the lack of actual conversation they had up until this point. The truth was, he found conversation hard nowadays. He always has, really, the Cult never cared about teaching him social skills. He had to learn those on his own, and by the gods, were his examples skewed. People wanted to talk to him, now; some did, at least. Deimos knew for a fact, on the third day, that he would not pretend to be someone he wasn’t with Thaletas.
Thaletas was a fresh start, of sorts. Someone new, someone he didn’t have to keep up appearances with. Not all of them.
On the fourth day, Stentor and Deimos argued, something that was far from rare in their household. He hadn’t wanted to, not in front of Thaletas; the only person who called him Deimos, who didn’t care how broken he was. No one made Deimos so angry, and so utterly calm, and he didn’t want to ruin that.
On the fourth day, however, Stentor had said something that Deimos doesn’t even remember now, and Deimos snapped. For a rare, deadly moment, there was silence in his brain. And then he could hear bones breaking in his head. He could see his hands around Stentor’s neck, squeezing, squeezing, until he stops writhing and squirming and he’s just. Limp. Lifeless.
But Deimos does not touch him. He does not reach over the table, over Thaletas, and he does not choke Stentor until he’s limp. He just screams. He screams, and half of what he says does not make sense. His screams turned into loud ramblings, and Kassandra was angry, but she did not move. She didn’t even yell back. She rubbed her temples and glared at both of her brothers, but she didn’t yell back. Stentor, however, did yell back, of course; but after a while, he shrunk back into his seat, watching Deimos spit and scream and heave in horrible, shaking breaths.
The worst part, to Deimos, was the look on Thaletas’ face, whom he had noticed about halfway into his rant. It was not anger, nor was it fear; he was sure the officer had been through worse. No, it was a sadness, a pity Deimos saw in his sister, in the people on the street when his knees gave out and he could not breathe anymore. He hated it, loathed it.
On the fourth day, Deimos ran. He ran when he could not scream anymore. He ran, and he did not look back, not until the sun was coming up and his eyes stung from crying. He stumbled on rocks, yes, and once or twice, he got caught on a branch, but he kept going, until the city was behind him and he was in the serenity of nature.
On the fourth day, no one followed him.
The fifth day was different. On the fifth day, Deimos took Phobos out for a ride in the country. The horse didn’t get as much action as he did when Kassandra was hunting for her family. Sure, he was ridden well enough; but not what a horse that was bred for riding was meant to do. So, Deimos told himself that if he was going to try sometimes, a good way to prove he was getting better was to care more for animals. He loved Phobos, he did; so much so, he seemed to be able to forget the horses he had gutted as a sign of war to both Athenians and Spartans.
As he was saddling up, the thought crossed his mind that Kassandra would want him to invite Thelatas. That she would appreciate his effort to spend time with someone that wasn’t a pad of parchment and a pencil. Deimos knew that Kassandra would smile if she saw the two out the window, and she’d probably pull him aside after dinner and thank Deimos for trying, like he wasn’t trying enough for her.
This realization made his choice to not go inside and invite the officer a tad bit sweeter.
It didn’t last long, though, his sickly sweet victory. As soon as he mounted Phobos and took the reins, the door opened, and a sun kissed Thaletas stepped out, smiling just enough for Deimos’ hackles to drop.
He wanted to go with Deimos. Deimos was hesitant.
“Phobos is our only horse,” He had replied curtly, not looking Thaletas in the eye as he ran his thumb over the worn leather of the reins. “There’s no one for you to ride.”
“I’ll borrow a horse at the stables.” This, of course, silently infuriated Deimos; he had thought this through. Not a moment of thought was put into Thaletas’ answer, not a second was needed for him to think of a solution. He just knew.
So, they rode together, on that fifth day. They did not speak of Deimos’ outburst the night prior. They did not speak about their promises at the shrine, they did not speak about when Deimos was going to draw Thaletas or when Thaletas was going to ask him the obvious questions that everyone asks, eventually. They did not speak about how Deimos was sure, on the first night, Thaletas was going to kill him, and that was going to be the end of the infamous Deimos.
Even as Deimos led Thaletas farther into the woods, they did not speak about where they were going. The officer did not question his companion, so much so that Deimos felt a twinge of apprehension when Thaletas smiled at him.
“What?” He had hissed, and it sounded angry, so angry, but he was just scared. And that, in its own right, made him angry all over again.
“The beads, in your hair. They catch the sunlight, like they’re glowing.”
The twinge in his gut disappeared. It dissolved when Thaletas smiled, when he spoke of Deimos. He did glow, once, in a sick twist of irony. But it was not the sunlight that made his bones tingle.
“You look like a demi-god.”
Deimos’ shoulders raised again, and he sucked in an audible breath. He was no demi-god.
The sixth day came, and it went. It was relatively uneventful, except for the fact that Deimos found a small trinket on his side of the doorway, between Thaletas’ room and his. It was a necklace, with an eye pendant made of silver.
Deimos thought it was stunning. He ran his thumb over the pendant, letting out a calmed breath as the metal was smooth and cold under his touch.
He put on that necklace, on the sixth day, and silently swore to himself to never take it off.
It was the seventh day, now, and Deimos’ fragile facade was about to break. Stentor was snarling and hissing, and Deimos could only hear the sounds of wolves that he had to strangle with his bare hands as a kid.
Kassandra was yelling, too, but Deimos couldn’t tell exactly who she was yelling at. Maybe both of them. Thaletas was watching with Kyra, and he knew they wanted to jump in, to get into the fight, because Stentor was throwing a punch and actually hit Kassandra.
Deimos was pretty sure he actually heard a piece of dead, dried straw break in the back of his head. He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore, his mind was above his body, outside it.
He lunged for Stentor, snarling like a beast. The beast he was, inside, deep down where he liked to pretend that he was better. He was no better, there was no getting better for him.
Stentor’s eyes widened, his orbs now the size of saucers. Deimos did not care. He saw nothing but red, blind rage feuling him to go forward, to press Stentor into the wall.
The polemarch was strong, clearly a product of the agoge. He was the peak of Spartan health, but Deimos was not Spartan, he was not even human anymore.
His hands found Stentor’s neck.
He could hear bones snapping in his head, but Stentor was still struggling. He was yelling, too; but Deimos’ head was underwater, he was swimming in the ocean by himself, drowning, only able to see the surface.
Someone was pulling him off. Strong, large arms wrapped around him in a bear hug.
Kassandra was yelling.
The man holding him dragged Deimos outside, the door shutting loudly behind them. He thrashed and screamed, but his body ached, and he was dragged all the same behind the house, where no one could see them.
The man -it was definitely a man- brought the both of them to the ground, still holding Deimos tightly. His heart was still pumping, and his head was still underwater, but without someone to snarl and growl at, he was shaking.
“Deimos, calm…”
Thaletas. It’s always Thaletas nowadays. Thaletas is in his dreams. In his home. At his fountain in the morning, on the trails he rides and in his fucking head.
His shoulders slumped. Tears pricked Deimos’ eyes. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t pretend like he was getting along just fine, like he could smile and wave and he didn’t want to plunge his blade into soft, vulnerable flesh, and it flip flopped between someone else’s and his.
Thaletas held him tight. “Breathe. You’re safe here, you’re safe now.”
He was not yelling at Deimos. His voice was calm, his accent thick and sweet; he breathed close to Deimos’ ear, but it was not unpleasant, not how people laughing too loud was unpleasant. It was soothing, bringing him back to earth, back to the garden they were in and back to Thaletas’ embrace.
And then he was being flipped around, the officer’s hands set deeply on his shoulders. Fingernails dug into his shoulders. “Get a hold of yourself, Deimos! What the hell were you thinking!?”
Thaletas lectured him like he was just another Spartan soldier, fresh from the agoge with so much to learn about the world. Like he hadn’t been through many wars, most fought in the place where he was forced to call home, where they treated him like a dog and then told him he was the chosen one.
Kassandra used a word, once, on one of the few times Deimos had felt like he was able to tell her about some of the things he went through. “They were gaslighting you,” She had said with a frown, and Deimos just nodded, because he was embarrassed that he didn’t know what that even meant. Context was enough, anyway, and he carried that indirect title with him, like a weight on his shoulders.
But Deimos was not a Spartan soldier straight from the agoge. He had not trained with polemarchs or been put up against other boys his age before he was even five feet tall. Oh, no. He was put in pits of bears and wolves who had not eaten for weeks, he was put against bloodthirsty warriors and people who embodied Deimos more than he did himself.
He was no Spartan warrior. He was a beast, a beast who wore a collar and leash, a beast who has a Spartan brand on his flank.
Deimos wanted to scream all of this at Thaletas. He wanted to shriek and to punch him and he wanted to make Thaletas hurt, because he always hurt, everything was in pain and if he yelled loud enough, it was sure to stop.
But he couldn’t yell anymore, not after Stentor and Kassandra and everything else. His throat was raw and sore, so he hit. Deimos weakly banged his fists on Thaletas’ chest for a minute or so, tears forming.
He couldn’t help it. He would not help it. Deimos could not remember the last time he cried. Sobbed, even. He sobbed so hard now that his whole body shook as he laid his forehead against the Spartan’s chest.
Thaletas had been pissed, about thirty seconds ago. Now? The hardness drained from his face, his eyes softening as a hesitant hand found Deimos’ spine. He lightly traced comforting circles on the other man’s spin, letting out a breath..
“Forget it,” He said after a moment filled only with Deimos’ quiet sobs. “You can tell me later.”
It was a promise, that statement. It was not a question of if Deimos was going to tell him about why he screamed at Stentor so much or why he acted out like that. It was a question of when he would tell him. When Deimos would be ready to do more than draw or eat in Thaletas’ presence, when they would stop dancing around each other like they were circling at the beginning of a fight, sizing up their opponent before one of them lunges and aims for the neck.
Thaletas had not come to Sparta for Deimos, although the man was a morbid curiosity of his. Yet, here he was, with a weapon sobbing against his chest, clutching his tunic like he was the last life raft in the middle of the dark, deep ocean.
He could feel Deimos nod, still sobbing, but he did not look down at him. Thaletas just pulled him closer.
“On your own time.”