Chapter Text
It’s dark when Thanatos returns to the surface, having delivered his last batch of souls. Dark where he finds Ares leaning against a wall with a bottle of wine at his side, sheltered by the remains of the wretched city that only recently had been. Fresh though the destruction may be, the snow that coats the crumbling walls and the uncanny stillness of the place make the air itself taste ancient.
Ares sheathes the blade he’d been toying with when he sees him, then picks up the bottle of wine and steps forward. “Thanatos. I wasn’t sure that I’d see you.”
Thanatos sets his feet flat to the ground, and Ares really is taller, like this. “You would doubt me?”
Ares grins, somehow harsh and sheepish all at once. His eyes gleam red in the deep of the night, red as poppies and the blood still splattered across his armour. Red as the feeling in the pit of Thanatos’ stomach as Ares looks down at him, and he knows it now for what it is. “I would never doubt you—only, I was beginning to think that perhaps I’d mistaken—”
Thanatos cuts him off with his lips; the bottle of wine falls to the snow. It’s harder, clumsier, perhaps than he’d intended—but Ares returns the pressure immediately, blisteringly, until Thanatos shoves him back. The metal of his cuirass rings against the broken stone behind him, cutting through the chill night air as Thanatos catches his breath. Ares laughs with surprise. “Gentle Death, you say?”
“Shut up,” Thanatos growls, pushing back against him.
Ares breathes in sharp as he does, and suddenly Thanatos can feel his influence in the miserable anger that boils up from somewhere deep and hidden to curdle his stomach. Thanatos glares and pulls away, full of rage, enough rage that he could claw and tear and kill—but Ares only grins awkwardly down at him. The feeling eases just as quickly as it had come.
“Don’t make me be awful,” Thanatos snaps.
“I don’t make anyone do anything,” Ares scoffs, “I only encourage what’s already there—though, I admit, it wasn’t my intention,” he quickly adds, apologetic. When Thanatos stills, he continues with a sudden seriousness. “But, awful? Awful according to whom? You and your awful.” Ares reaches up to run a knuckle over his cheek with so much restraint that his hand shakes. Somehow it still it feels like a blow. “And what if I want your awful? We’re the same, after all, you and I. I know you, Thanatos.”
Thanatos breathes in with a hiss, leaning into the touch, and when he does Ares is quick to tug him close and touch and touch and touch.
His hands are hard with callouses, veins beating with the same coolness that runs through Thanatos’ own, and it’s easy, to sink into the feel of such hands that want him. Easy, to sink into skin and pulse and need—and what cruelty to have such need, for a creature like him that was made to be without.
It’s bruising, the only way that Ares seems to know how to touch, but perhaps bruising is what Thanatos wants.
Perhaps he is bruising too.
.
The thought stills him and Ares breaks away, eyes flashing over his face.
“I shouldn’t ask this of you,” Thanatos says quietly.
“Ask what?” Ares looks down at him, breath shallow. “You’ve never asked anything of me—I wish that you would.”
It's disorienting, the burn of Ares’ eyes as he watches him, unblinking, arms heavy around him, cuirass pressed cold against Thanatos' chest.
“I’ll only hurt you, you know.”
Ares smiles. “I know,” he murmurs then kisses him, and what is there to say to that?
Thanatos shivers and leans into him, nails catching at Ares’ neck as he tugs him down. Ares lets out a low noise, bringing a hand up his back; brushes away his hood to run his fingers into his hair, and again Thanatos freezes—and why is it always this, always these betrayals of his body? Ares begins to take his hand away, slowing against him, but Thanatos snatches it back.
“Please don’t stop,” he whispers.
Ares sucks in his breath and he is firm then, catching tight at Thanatos' hair, mouth sinking to the exposed sliver of his neck with teeth too sharp, the harshness good enough to make him gasp. And though the air is icy, the thrill at being held is shield enough against the chill; shield enough, the heated way it turns in his gut. Thanatos pins him back against the wall and Ares’ breath is heavy at his ear as his hands fall rough to the folds of his chiton. When he shifts his hips forward against him, Thanatos can only shudder.
It shouldn’t be so new a thing, not really. Thanatos knows the stories, knows the thoughts that sometimes come to him, knows the feel of himself. It shouldn’t be so new a thing, but it is: enough to overwhelm, to break, to make him regret having denied himself such things before.
His chiton slackens under the pull of Ares’ hands, and Ares is quick to run those hands under the folds of fabric and up his back, the touch carving a path through his nerves. Thanatos sinks into the feel, weightless as Ares kisses into the curve of his jaw and grinds back against him; weightless against the hardness of him that he can feel even through the leather of Ares’ pteruges. Weightless, the press of it against his own enough to pull the air from Thanatos’ lungs.
It isn’t new to him, the wanting need, but it’s worse, so much worse, to know it can be felt by another. Thanatos shuts his eyes against the sudden sense of shame, but Ares only groans and rolls his hips against him. Drops his hands to Thanatos’ and pulls him forward with a firmness that could ruin him. When Ares lets him go and runs his hand over the press of his cock Thanatos grits his teeth at the ache of it, the difference of the feel, the glut of so much touch. Grits his teeth as he shudders forward against Ares’ hand despite himself.
Thanatos stills when Ares hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pants; stills at the harshness of his calloused fingers as they brush over the sensitive skin of his hips. Ares moves back to look down at him. “I expect nothing of you,” he whispers, the quiet sincerity of it so out of place amid the bloodlust that raises from him like heat. “I've said it before and I mean it still.”
Ares is still as iron, still as an arrow waiting nocked, and Thanatos sees it in him all at once—the vicious uncertainty, the loathing, the specific fear only known by things so wretchedly hateful as they—Thanatos sees it, and the same dark thing within his own ribcage stretches itself out in recognition. Ares’ pulse is fast when Thanatos catches the fragile skin of his neck between his teeth, the sound that leaves his mouth low and surprised. This time when Thanatos feels the bloodlust return, writhing hot in his stomach, he lets it take him; lets Ares mould him into a thing that bites and breaks and tears. Brings his nails like talons down Ares’ shoulders as he draws down the band of his pants. Ares lets out a sharp breath and grapples to move aside the linen of their chitons, the leather of his own pteruges to where he is bare; kisses the hair over Thanatos' ear and takes them together in his hand.
Thanatos gasps at the feel, freeing Ares’ skin from between his teeth. When he does, he can taste the sweetness of ichor, can see it shimmering gold on Ares’ neck. He pulls away and looks up to him with horror, apology rising, but before it can leave his lungs Ares’ mouth is on his, his teeth at his lips like knives. Ares shifts his hand down and Thanatos loses his thoughts loses his words loses himself.
Loses himself in the hold of Ares’ hand, the steady rhythm, the silky skin of his cock hard against his own. Loses himself in the sharp of Ares’ teeth as they pull at his lower lip, in the taste of ichor—and whose it is Thanatos couldn’t say, same as they are. Loses himself in the softness of Ares’ tongue when he kisses him deep and quickens his hand. Thanatos snatches at his hair, his pauldron, the torn fabric of his cape; searches for something to steady himself with as Ares tightens his grip on them with a low groan.
What a feeling to be touched in such a way, wanted in such a way.
Thanatos trembles at the thought, shuddering into that hand that could break him. Trembles at the sweetened sting of Ares' teeth, the careful gentleness of the cruelty, the greedy rage of skin. When Ares breaks the kiss, for a moment Thanatos can only stare up at him: the flush that sets his face ashine and shimmers his lips, the mess of his hair. The wolfish way Ares stares back, and what brutal want there is in the look.
Brazen Ares, insatiate.
It's almost dizzying, the way the need rushes over him, more darkly desperate than before. Thanatos pushes him back against the wall, brushing his hands over the openness of Ares’ throat, light as a question. Ares gasps, the movement of his hand stuttering then becoming more urgent. His eyes meet his own, all fire and wanting reverence, and what a way to look Death in the eye. “Please,” he whispers.
Thanatos hisses in a breath at the offering and tightens his grip ever so slightly, running his thumbs up the swell of Ares’ throat; watches the way he sparks and glows. And what a thing to hold, what a thing to offer him freely: but there are no threads that Thanatos could cut, deathless as Ares is. There is no risk, no harm, no threat, and so when Ares blinks wetly down at him, eyes hungry and pleading, Thanatos tightens his grip again. Kisses him as he trembles and lets Ares drag his hand over them harder, harder. Lets himself spill over at the feel, the look, the taste of lips and sweat and ichor. The things so freely given. Ares swallows beneath his palms, throat vibrating low as he frees his lips, groaning, and follows him.
For a moment, there is quiet. For a moment, there is calm.
As the world begins to steady, Thanatos slows his breath. Loosens his hands, rubbing his thumbs gently along the soft skin of Ares’ neck as Ares sets his forehead against his own, eyes drifting shut. With a final shift, Ares takes his hand from between them, and suddenly Thanatos is aware of the ichor wet under his hand, of the dampness between them. Mind rushing with a sudden self-consciousness, he thinks to his home; summons a towel and begins to pull away. Ares’ eyes flicker open and, before Thanatos can move, he’s kissing him, kissing him, kissing him.
Still, when Ares finally frees him, Thanatos can only avert his eyes, the shame clinging to him like a shadow. He looks to the shattered stone around them; the blackened tree stumps. The frozen blood. Thanatos begins to swipe the towel awkwardly over himself, then reaches for Ares, who snatches it from his hands.
“…we’ve made a mess,” he finally says.
Ares laughs. “Indeed.”
Thanatos frowns, looking from the gold on Ares’ lips and his neck to where it shimmers across his own hands. “I’ve harmed you.”
“I told you before that I’d not resent you for any cruelty and I do not.” Ares follows his gaze to the ichor on his hands, then looks back up, expression odd. “Thanatos—would it be rude of me to call it libation to you?”
The shock of it shoots up his face and Thanatos looks away. “There are no libations given to Death,” he mutters dismissively.
Ares watches him, unblinking, then lowers himself to his knees in the snow. Thanatos starts to argue, but Ares ignores him and plunges a hand into the ground: frozen though it is, the icy earth gives way like flesh. He reaches to grab the bottle of wine from the snow where he’d dropped it; opens it and lets a measure of the liquid flow into the hole, dark as blood. As he reaches his other hand to the ichor still wet at his neck, Thanatos stares, breath slowing. When Ares brings his hand down, his palm is coated gold. Holding Thanatos' gaze, Ares turns his hand over the pocket he’s opened in the earth, allowing the ichor to drip slowly down to blend with the wine. “Accept from me this offering, Thanatos, with which I would draw Death nearer to myself.”
“You can’t—don’t say that—” Thanatos hisses, skin electric.
“Meagre and incomplete though it may be, it is given freely without expectation, only in admiration and the acceptance that you will take of me what you will.” The words are almost a whisper, loud though they feel in the stillness of the air, loud though they feel as Ares watches him, eyes burning into his core.
Ares brings the dirt back over the little hole, smoothing it carefully with the palms of his hands, and Thanatos nearly buckles over at the sudden way it hits him: the fullness of the devotion that runs over him, enough to overwhelm, and is this what the rest of them feel so often? Thanatos shuts his eyes and leans his weight against the wall.
“Thanatos?” Ares murmurs, voice oddly soft.
When Thanatos looks back, Ares is still sat on his knees in the snow and the blood and the dirt. Thanatos stares, gaze drawn to the white cut of Ares' warpaint, smudged now as it is in places; the lines of gold that mark his arms. He steps forward and reaches out his hand. Ares’ eyes flicker down to his outstretched palm then, slowly, he takes it, hand still gritty with earth and the stick of ichor as Thanatos pulls him up.
As Ares straightens, for a moment Thanatos can only look up at him: the lines of his face carved sharp with shadow; eyes burning red against the star-strewn sky, hot against the frozen air. The firmness of his hand in Thanatos’ own, the filthy sublimity of it a shock to hold.
Thanatos runs his tongue over the back of his teeth, searching for something to say, but what words could he offer after such a thing? Finally, he mumbles, “I supposed I’ve partaken of it already now, but—you promised wine?”
Ares’ lips twitch. “Of course. Come, I’ve brought the best of Naxos. I diluted it myself, I hope it will be—?”
Thanatos brushes him off. “I trust you.”
Ares stares, silenced for a moment with something near shock in his eyes, and Thanatos almost draws him into his arms again—but, before he can, Ares nods and turns sharply away. The moment has passed and Ares is gone, stooping to the ground to pick up the bottle. When he turns back his eyes are gleaming with his usual self-assurance. “Come then, let’s sit.”
.
The air is still dark and crisp with snow as they sit side by side on the crumbling rooftop.
Thanatos takes a drink from the bottle, then passes it back to Ares. “What does this mean?”
Ares glances down at him then shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “What do you want it to mean?”
Thanatos stares up at the stars, bright from where they sit in the destruction. He searches for the best answer, then gives the honest one. “I’m not sure.”
An owl calls from somewhere nearby, disturbing the stillness of the air.
“Are you—displeased?” Ares asks quietly.
“No.” He frowns. “No, not at all. I’m…” he pauses, suddenly nervous at the realisation, “…happy, actually.”
Ares’ lips quirk as he looks down to his hands, then raises the bottle to take another swig before passing it back. “Maybe that’s all it needs to mean.”
“But are you—?”
Thanatos loses the thought as Ares catches his face in between his hands and kisses him, the world narrowing down to the taste of wine, the lingering sweetness of ichor on his lips. When Ares pulls away, he's dizzy with it. “Thanatos—I’m happy. You’re happy. That’s enough, isn’t it? Let’s just be happy.”
“Alright,” he murmurs, forcing his worries down, “let’s just be happy.”