It wasn’t long before the two said their farewells, and while Rene made his way back to the estate, Phaedon was left to contemplate his next move. His father certainly didn’t have the authority to hold him back from participating in the festival, but that didn’t mean he was lacking in resources to physically stop him.

A scowl formed on Phaedon’s lips as he walked away from the district and closer to the center of Artemest. “Just a week before the festival, too,” he muttered. The shelters he passed by were filled to the brim with survivors, and while there were those that put smiles on, they were clearly masks to keep spirits from waning.

The young heir eventually found himself in front of the Kastrionis estate. Its usually guarded premises were short of its men. Perhaps some had gone to help with the Flockmother search party. Maybe others had gone to help the people—an order his own father would never issue if it didn’t aid in his “grand purpose”.

What Phaedon didn’t expect was security thinning further.

A wave of screams reverberated through the air, coming from the direction of one of the nearby shelters. Suddenly, the estate’s defenses were pooled into aid, and though Phaedon would have wanted to stay to gauge the need for more assistance, another conversation caught his attention.

“D’you lock the highlander’s cell?”

“He’ll be fine! He’s basically his own guard. Now, get moving!”

The highlander’s cell? Just a week before the festival didn’t seem like a good time to have his old acquaintance in confinement. Was the archon using his own resources to shackle the man here, too?

-----

The cell was quiet. Its walls and flooring were clean of anything but a few fixtures meant to keep it in a livable condition. The air was stagnant, almost stuffy. Every little sound bounced around, mixing into the low hum of whatever noise the guards left Grits alone for.

He took a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The bed beneath him creaked as he exhaled.

“How long do they plan to keep you here for?” a familiar voice echoed somewhere outside the cell. There was only one thing going through Grits’ mind.

“Is Lady Cynthia doing alright?” There was a hint of desperation in the question despite the half-highlander’s best attempts to sound in control.

“I haven’t seen the carriages of any major Healmage outside, so it’s unlikely that there’s anything to worry about,” Phaedon replied.

Grits let out a sigh of relief. Thank Gods, he thought to himself. There wouldn’t have been a need to even ask the question if he had just protected her. A fucking brute through and through.

“The Relic Festival is in a week,” Phaedon continued, his question still unanswered.

“Do you wanna tell me why you’re here, Phaedon?” Grits finally turned to him. Standing behind the cell bars, the young heir stood in his usual type of leather attire and a cloak. No matter how many fights Phaedon got into, it was like he always had the time to spiffy up before they saw each other again.

“Rumors said the archon had ‘the highlander’ locked up, and I wanted to be sure.” Phaedon sneered, and Grits furrowed his brows. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here for.”

“And the festival?”

“I … I don’t know …”

The heir pushed the cell door open with ease, and Grits let out a disappointed sigh. “They left it open because they didn’t think you’d leave,” the former said as he stepped into the hold. Grits stood up and approached to block his entry further.

“This is meant to be solitary confinement, Phaedon. You’d best be on your way before I force the solitude.”

There wasn’t much noise or sunlight coming into the cell. All it had was a small window towards its side that let in a single streak of sunlight, very gently irradiating the empty concrete wall at the back end of the room.

“I want you to leave,” Grits snarled when Phaedon didn’t move. “That didn’t seem like the case during the last festival.” At that, the half-highlander shook his head and sneered.

“Oh, please, if you’d trained a little harder, we’d all have been relieved to see you go.”

“And if you’d done your duty to Cynthia this year, you’d have gotten the cha—”

“You don’t get to tell me about doing my duty to anyone.” Grits forcefully stuck a finger into Phaedon’s chest, causing the man to step back. “Congratulations on being there when Lady Cynthia needed defending during the attack, but you weren’t there in any other moment she needed someone. You think any of this is easy for me? Like I have this whole Kastrionis affair ‘crystal clear’?” Though his head tilted and eyes widened in mockery, his words were sharp.

“You’re one to talk when you have such a great relationship with Lord Lysandros.” At that, Phaedon grabbed the half-highlander’s wrist. “Don’t start,” he said sternly. Without missing a beat, he lifted his foot and push-kicked Grits to the wall. There was a small break in the concrete.

“I don’t need to hear from anyone about my situation. You of all people should know I’m not happy to be here, right?” Phaedon’s question was rhetorical, although Grits knew the answer to it.

The young heir stepped closer, and Grits began to take a defensive stance. Even before he could secure his footing, however, the heir swept him by the feet, causing him to fall backwards against the wall. Phaedon squatted down to meet the half-highlander’s gaze, arms on knees, and for the first time since he got here, sunrays struck and illuminated his eyes. There was anger in them.

A hand flew from the cold concrete, grabbing at Phaedon's collar and pulling him closer. Mere inches away from Grits' face, Phaedon stared at him with wide eyes. A harsh breath left his sneering lips.

Phaedon merely blinked. Perhaps that was his second mistake, the first being attacking a half-highlander. Phaedon was deft with a sword, and he was well-informed of the fact that Grits was as well—though one could only hazard what a man was capable of when stripped of his weapons.

And Grits was no more a man than he was an orc.

A sliver of tanned skin glowed under the meager ray of sunshine, throwing into sharp relief the jagged scars on Grits’ face. Some matched his complexion. Others were darker and ghastlier as they crept closer to his lips. Perhaps they had not healed as well.

"What happens next, Lord?" The title was spat with venom. Any lesser man would have flinched. Phaedon was far from that. "Pray tell, how does a man raised as refined as yourself find joy in bickering with th—"

Phaedon lowered his knees, bone meeting concrete, and straddled the half-highlander. His arms encased Grits' head, and with a sudden wave of inexplicable moxie, he closed what little gap remained between their bodies and let his lips fall on Grits.

An array of emotions shone in Grits' eyes in quick passes, and Phaedon watched as his brows furrowed and gaze narrowed. Skepticism was the last response Phaedon expected, and it vexed him to no small extent.

A beat passed. Grits moved his hand from Phaedon's collar to his throat, fingers digging into the column of his neck. The young heir grunted in surprise. A callous demand sat at the edge of his tongue, for Grits to remove his hand, but it was his body that spoke for him.

He grinded on the half-orc's torso as if he were nothing but a depraved reprobate who thought with his lower half. Indignant, he swiftly pulled himself away. Grits, however, was faster—following his movements and pinning Phaedon's thighs to his sides.

"Let me go," Phaedon ordered, though without much conviction. All lectures of manners and social conduct had left him. He couldn't even maintain eye contact, gaze attached to the half-orc's mouth.

As if Phaedon hadn't spoken, Grits said through clenched teeth, "Do it again."

"Pray. Tell." Phaedon's tone carried a vindictive edge, looking down the slope of his nose at Grits' sharp, awaiting gaze. There was emphasis in each word. "Why. Should. I?"

With a harsh tug by the bend of Phaedon's knees, Grits repositioned the heir by the cradle of his hips—aligning his torso right underneath the man he should have pushed away but could not. The man he should not have allowed within a hairsbreadth of himself but decided against it despite. The man he should push to his knees, and it would be no daunting task, but he could not force himself to do it.

Besides, he liked their current reality better than any possibility—not that he would ever tell a living soul of any of that.

"Enough, Phaedon," he started, "I don’t find any enjoyment in repeating myself."

"You don’t seem like you enjoy anything at all."

Grits grunted, a rough sound rumbling from his chest. His hands traveled from Phaedon's knees to the curve of his hips, reminding him of where he was seated. It appeared comfortably so as well despite the acrimony dripping from his every word.

A lapse in judgment could only explain what Grits did next. Clouded by his personal aggravations—that surely must be it—he crashed his mouth against Phaedon's, lips moving in a manner that belied his experience.

Phaedon was torn between exasperation and a deep-seated pleasure that he would rather not dissect.

He tried to take the lead, yet whenever he began to steer them in a momentum he wanted, the vise on his throat would tighten, only to relax when he would yield.

His hands pushed against Grits' wide chest, impossibly hard and sculpted under his palms, to no avail. Phaedon needed to pull away before his lungs collapsed from a lack of air. He nipped at Grits' bottom lip, not enough to draw blood but enough to throw him off-kilter. Grits only responded in a masculine groan ending on a breathless note—a nonsensical plea. For what, even Grits did not know.

In a moment of sheer desperation, Phaedon's hands enclosed around Grits' thickset neck, fingers barely touching. Adding pressure, he felt the half-orc's heartbeat against his palm. It was beating as hard as his own, if not more thunderous, as if it was trying to escape the half-highlander’s body.

Grits finally took pause, withdrawing with a noise of annoyance. "What is it now?"

Phaedon regarded the man—eyes at half-mast, coarse skin underneath his palm warmer now, and lips glistening with a mixture of their spittle. But what shocked Phaedon were not any of those but his unfazed expression.

"What do you think?" Phaedon began to remove himself from Grits' lap.

He didn't get far before his back met the wall, legs barely keeping himself upright as Grits towered over him, crowding him at the very spot where he pushed the half-orc.

Braced palms on either side of Phaedon's head, thumbs grazing the tips of his ears, wrists next to his neck—a ruddy shade from his grip, Grits looked down on the smaller man with a barely-there glint of mirth in his sharp eyes.

Phaedon was easy to manhandle when he thought he had the upper hand. Just because a man was laid supine underneath you, with less knowledge of the art of romance than you would expect, does not mean he'd lost all wit.

But Grits was on precarious grounds. Shoulders hiked near his ears. Uneven breaths. Tension bracketing his sinewy form, muscles so tight they threatened to tear his peasant’s attire.

With all the patience Grits could muster, he bit out, "Caught your breath?"

"You brute—"

"Careful." Grits lowered himself close to Phaedon, head tilted to the side. It was not lost on him how it seemed as if he were fitting pieces of a puzzle. "You don’t seem to understand how unwise it'd be to keep aggravating me."

"Like you aren't on my nerves?" Hands clasped around the neckline of Grits’ shirt, Phaedon pulled him closer. “You kiss like you fight—” Phaedon drew closer, “Sloppy.”

They stared—sneered—at one another, much less conviction behind their malice. Both recognized the shadows that lied beneath their anger; it mirrored their own in ways they did not expect and hated to have witnessed.

Grits was unlike Phaedon; Phaedon could not have been further removed from the likes of Grits. Yet, they hurt and yearned all the same.

And if there was one thing they had in common right now, in that barely-lit confinement cell, it was the desperate need for a distraction.

With a pained grunt, Grits crashed his mouth onto Phaedon’s, moving just as hurried and wild as before. This time, Phaedon did not try to take control. He let himself be as wanton and unrestrained as Grits. He let himself be imperfect and relentless.

Lips moved in an uncoordinated manner over each other, and Phaedon would have recoiled if it weren’t for the suffocating fervor in which Grits consumed him whole. He made him forget himself—how terrifyingly freeing.

A calloused thumb dug into Phaedon’s chin, coaxing his mouth open. He fought Grits’ silent demand at first, holding out to test the man’s determination. Grits, seeing through his thoughtless impudence, pushed Phaedon’s feet apart with a swift sweep of his ankle. Phaedon gasped, and the half-highlander swallowed the sound as if it were his lifeline.

Grits pushed his tongue into the man’s mouth, a sound akin to an animal more than anything emanating from his chest. Heavy, corded arms snaked around Phaedon’s waist, pulling him flush against the half-highlander’s front, the smaller man struggling on his toes.

Losing his footing, Phaedon unintentionally pulled away. Grits was quick to palm the back of his head and follow his mouth, slamming Phaedon back on the wall and pressing his larger body against his.

Phaedon’s nose scrunched at the tightness of his leathers. Grits rode the thin line between releasing Phaedon to adjust himself or keep his hold on the man.

Driven by their blinding need, they grinded their pelvises against each other’s, bulge grazing the other man’s whenever their hips dipped and rolled. The sound of leather brushing against cotton and the wet smacks of their mouths created an obscene harmony that bounced off the concrete walls—enveloping them in their own gentle sin. It was a minute slight amongst their tome of offenses yet the one that would haunt them for as long as they breathed, for as long as they denied themselves.

Of the truth. Of each other.

Limbs were tangled, grunts and moans were sung and shared in the same breath. It took effort for both to keep themselves vertical when all they wanted was the floor and nothing else between them.

Phaedon, in a moment of reprieve granted by Grits, dared his hands to venture lower. And lower. Until his fingertips brushed the cincture of Grits’ britches. He teased the hem just as he teased the half-orc with the licking of his lips. Though Phaedon considered him now more of an earthly man than anything his lineage proved.

Grits, untangling his arms from Phaedon’s body, roamed his leather clad figure with greedy hands, exploring the curves and dips, taking note of where the straps were and where the knots were tightest. As Phaedon continued to tease him, fingers dipping agonizingly slow, Grits busied himself with unlacing strings, starting from the bottom.

The half-highlander tensed at the tender intrusion near his groin, a deep crease forming between his brows. Before the mental probing began, he was stripped of Phaedon’s warmth. Eyes shooting open, he watched as the shorter man studied his tusk.

His nose flared at the sight. He readied himself for yet another squabble, the words right at the tip of his tongue—

Phaedon planted a kiss on the tip of the ivory then licked the spot while looking at him dead in the eye.

The wall crumbled beneath the pressure of Grits’ forceful shove. Cleared of their lustful haze, indescribable fury ignited in Phaedon’s eyes.

In quick succession, he brought his knee up, separating their bodies, and planted his sole on Grits’ chest. He pushed with all his might, sending the half-highlander stumbling across the cell.

A second of heaving, exchanging looks of bitter indignation.

Then, Phaedon leapt from his crater on the wall, meeting Grits in a cruel brawl of unrestrained strikes.

Phaedon took hits from Grits’ bare fists. The latter clenched his teeth at every blow Phaedon managed to land: on his jaw, the side of his ribcage, right in his abdomen.

The cell trembled from their sheer strength. The hum outside had quieted amidst their dance, and the guards on-duty finally returned. It took four of them to break up the fight; three held back an angry half-highlander while Phaedon pushed at the remaining keeper.

“If you’re gonna keep me here, put me in another cell,” he spat, “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what my father says. Put me in another cell, or tell him that he’s lost an heir.”

With that, the guard reluctantly shackled his wrists and ankles. Grits watched as Phaedon avoided his gaze, letting the metal bite against his skin, hands hauling him out of the room.

For a moment, he looked up. “If I end up not leaving this place because of you again, you’ll regret it.” Phaedon spat at Grits’ feet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

---

Huge thanks to the author behind [email protected] for letting me commission her for the spicy parts! She captured my carckship in a way I could never ✨

I wish the author of Mimicmage would stop getting attacked by gorillas so often.

Bonus PhaeGrits: