Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Whore.

The word ricochets inside the inside of his skull, otherwise empty with the echoes of his own hatred. It’s stuck inside, like a bird in a cage and no matter when he tries to unlock it and set it free, the bird refuses to fly away free. 

Telemachus knows.

His skin is hot– itchy , and he wishes for a dagger so he can dig under his skin and feel the satisfaction of relieving himself from that itchiness. He no longer has that, had thrown it over the balcony after the thoughts– more like screams –  grew to be too much and he nearly…

His thoughts fade away like words written in the sand when his fingers brush against that spot deep inside of him and he has to stifle a moan into his pillow. He curls them, pressing hard against that spot while his other hand–

He hates this. He should stop. He wants to stop. And yet, his hands still move. Almost as if on their own accord but Telemachus knows better, he understands that it’s all his own doing, it’s all his own faults. Even as that self loathing grows inside of him, a more disgusting feeling grows faster, hotter, and he finds himself running towards it. 

The two fingers aren’t enough so he adds a third finger, thrusting hard and fast and then slow and painful. He has no rhythm, there is only the end goal to both draw this out for as long as possible and get it over with as quickly as possible. 

He doesn’t understand .

Telemachus’ hand moves swiftly, thumb swiping over his head and his toes curling as the pleasure coils tight in his gut. His face is squished against his pillow now and he can scarcely breathe, but he likes it better this way. At least this way he doesn’t have to worry about the two guards stationed outside his room hearing his depravity and come rushing in only to find him on his knees with fingers in his cunt and a hand wrapped around his cock.

One time was already more than enough and Telemachus did not want to humiliate the three of them any more than he already had. They were kind and had swiftly left the room the moment they realized what he was doing, but the damage had already been done and Telemachus hadn’t been able to leave his room for the better part of three days. Not even his father and Athena could rouse him from the heaviness of the self loathing that befell him in those days afterward.

So no, Telemachus does not understand. He would have thought that after everything the suitors, Eurymachus, Melantho, Antinous –

The arousal within him rises and he groans pathetically into his pillow, fingers and palm moving in tandem now to get him to climax. 

Antinou s . His skin only gets more itchy and he knows that he’s writhing now, bucking into his hands at the thought of– of–

He’s sick. 

It would have been bad enough if what Antin– what he did to him had sworn him off of pleasures of the skin entirely, in fact, it would have made all the more sense. He would have preferred that. Not– this . Not getting off to thoughts of his own violations. 

Because he’s not thinking about the gentle curves of a woman or the soft smiles of men. He’s thinking about violence. The very real violence that he went through. 

Telemachus is thinking of all the ways that Antinous hurt him emotionally, physically, and sexually, and finding pleasure in that.

What the actual fuck is wrong with him?

What sort of sick fuck did he have to be to find it– arousing?

And despite that hatred a storm in his soul, Telemahcus’ hands do not stop, and his mind only supplies suffering.

“That’s it, bounce on my cock, wife. Ride me like the good little whore you are,” Antinous grunts.

Telemachus can’t get a clear view of the monster beneath him, the tears blurring his vision. Maybe that’s for the better. He’s always crying, it seems. From rage, humiliation, and fear. They dance together so fluidly that Telemachus doesn't know to discern one from the other.

“I–hate… you,” he spits out. But his tightening cunt says otherwise. 

It always does. Even with Antinous beneath him like he is, hands lighting holding his waist. He’s not keeping him in place, he’s merely holding Telemachus steady. Because Telemachus is doing all of the work. Telemachus is the one bouncing on Antinous like his life depends on it, and it doesn’t even. Telemachus could lash out and curse and bite and even try to kill Antinous and the man wouldn’t give him mercy.

No, Antinous will keep him alive for as long as he takes pleasure in Telemachus. And right now, he’s taking plenty of pleasure in watching his newly acquired wife ride his cock like a champ.

Telemachus has already cum thrice, his cock limp with fatigue. Antinous likes it when he’s overstimulated, his cunt clenches tighter around him when it is. So he took great pains to finger Telemachus until his cock simply couldn’t get up anymore. Telemachus had thought that had been the end of their night, but he should have known better.

Antinous is insatiable. Of course he would want to be pleasured. Of fucking course. And what better way than to have his wife bounce on his cock like he was nothing more than a whore.

“Please,” Telemachus whimpers when Antinous’ cock brushes against that spot inside of him. “Too much. Hurts. Please finish.”

Antinous gives him a cocky smile, thrusting up a little into his tight hole, to which Telemachus only cries harder. “Only if you kiss your king.”

Telemachus doesn’t even hesitate. He really should. Submission like this to Antinous is only going to get him more arrogant. But more arrogant means that he lets his guard down and Telemachus needs him to be unassuming as he whores his own way through the throng of hungry dogs.

So he leans down, still fucking himself on Antinous’ cock, and kisses him. He knows what Antinous likes. He opens his mouth and lets Antinous dominate the kiss. He moans airily into his mouth and lets out a high pitched sound at just the same time as he comes back down on his cock. 

Antinous grunts as he finishes, filling Telemachus’ cunt up with–

Telemachus cums with a shout and keeps stroking himself until his hands jerk away from his body with a mind of their own, nerves spent from… how many times has he’s touched himself in the past two hours?

Ashamed– oh so ashamed and hateful– Telemachus glances down beneath him. His sheets are soaked. Reek. They’re absolutely filthy and he dry heaves at the smell. He’s jumping back from his own bed and stumbling against the wall, gagging and making pure animalistic sounds as he tries to get as far away from what he just did.

His legs shake from the sheer exhaustion and adrenaline fighting for victory. He’s not sure which one will win. His hand scrambles for the chiton hanging on the wall– his mind flashes to something else hanging, mouth agape and stomach crying venom– and quickly puts it on. 

Hands are cramping and his insides feel cold now. There’s barely afterglows now, there’s none of that blissful nothingness that he grew to love when he was– married . He almost snorts at that. He wasn’t married, not really. Barely in the eyes of the law and not at all with his heart— his heart, his heart, his heart is always cracking and he’s ruined, he’s broken— The chiton sticks to his skin, clammy, and Telemachus raises his hands to run them through his hair, but thinks better on it when he smells his own spend.

Absolutely disgusting.

Telemachus clenches his hands at his side and tries to take deep breaths, suddenly remembering that he does need to breathe. He can still feel them; their grips. He always does. Lingering like ghosts and haunting him like phantoms. He feels them even when he sleeps.

The breaths come as pants, stilted and he’s sure that none of it is going in his lungs. Or perhaps he’s breathing too fast? He can see the way his chest heaves. It’s too fast— or he’s in slow motion… he can’t think. Properly. Or at all. There a hand in his hair, pulling him back and—

Telemachus leaps away from the wall, looking wildly around the room. It felt real . Too real. Everything feels too real now. He thought that the realness would be a comfort. But it isn’t. It’s too much. It’s always too much and there’s laughter that’s real in his ears, hands on his waist, lips against his skin, and a cock in his—

He’s throwing open the door and running through the halls, the voices of the two guards calling out after him. Telemachus doesn’t heed them. His bare feet slap against the tiles as he runs . 

His breath comes shorter now and he’s sure that he’s probably not breathing at all. The fear is back, the all consuming weight that shakes him to his core. But it’s better. It’s good . Because the fear and grief he can deal with, the anger is a monster he’s never brave enough to face. 

The hiccup sounds like a dying instrument. 

That fear coils itself in Telemachus’ gut, a grim reminder of what else was just coiling. Despite his legs carrying on like a sprinting animal, his heart doesn’t quicken. He feels it thud heavily in his chest, like a boulder rolling down a hill. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about his body or mind makes sense. 

He’s supposed to be the mentee of the most intelligent and warlike goddess, the son of two greatest minds of Greece, and yet his own body is something that eludes him, is beyond his ability to understand . Telemachus sucks in a ragged breath as he continues to run. The footsteps following him sound further away, or perhaps the ringing in his ears is simply louder, dulling all thoughts except that. He cannot hear his own breath nor his own feed thudding down the hall anymore. But that ringing, that shrill vibration consumes him. 

Like haughty laughter in his ears, nails dragging over his skin, a beard against his lips—

He nearly breaks his face on the door, only stopping himself just in time by coming to a skidding halt. The air he begs for taunts him, leaving him gasping. Hands on his knees, back arched — like a good whore— as he tries to stay upright, his legs— no his whole body shaking. 

His nails dig their own crescents into his skin, the faint sound of his own ragged keening in his brain, and his lips itching. His mouth is wet while his throat remains dry but no matter how much he swallows, Telemachus cannot relieve the parched sandpaper rubbing inside him. He wants to drown it. 

Whether it be because he’s about to fall over or his nerves are quite simply fried, Telemachus’ hand snaps out and slaps against the door, a dull thump. 

Everything goes quiet, which is odd because Telemachus thought it already was. His skin prickles and he’s standing up in a flash, whirling around. 

The two guards— not his own— look at him with trepidation. Glancing between him and each other, unsure. They haven’t drawn their weapons but their hands are outstretched, not to harm him but almost as if they’re trying to calm down a feral animal. Their faces are blurry in his mind and even as he blinks, the fog behind his eyes is too thick to place them. 

He knows these men, has seen them before and the tapestries behind him. His eyes recognize while his mind is left grasping at straws. 

“Prince Telemachus… are you— are you well?”

The question is laughable but Telemachus is far too busy trying to level out his breathing to properly snort. It sounds more like he’s being strangled. 

—Antinous’ hands around his neck and cutting off his air supply while he rapes his cunt—

The two suitors— no, guards— share another look, the silent conversation they’re having is loud enough that Telemachus can almost hear it. He glances behind him. The hall is still silent, no sight of his own guards. He must have outrun them. Or they’d gotten lost. Or perhaps they’ve found some staff to assault—

“Telemachus.”

He jerks his head at the sound of the voice, his father’s face a sight for sore eyes and still fills his head with a myriad of joy and grief. 

Oh. He came back to where it all started. Of course he did. Of course his body would love to return to the one place that was the source of most of his nightmares (wet dreams, he’s a fucking sick thing ) when his mind failed him. 

His father is pushing the door wider, stepping into the light of Selene. He looks… tired. His face is worn and body sags, hair disheveled, and his eyes are… bloodshot. A red that is so unlike the first time Telemachus was reunited— had first met— him.  

And an even worse feeling than the fear and grief washes over Telemachus. 

Guilt. 

His father had been crying. 

The night is still young, perhaps just past midnight. Not late enough for Hypnos to stake claim to those who try to escape him but still not early enough to excuse being awake still. 

Unless you’re a grieving husband. 

The guilt is neither hot nor cold, but an uncomfortable room temperature, as if it knows that it can linger in the back of his mind without the need to assert itself. Telemachus will feel it regardless. 

“Telemachus?” his father says again, only this time he phrases it like a question. Is he asking if Telemachus is Telemachus ? Even he doesn’t know the answer to that. “My sweet joy.” 

Telemachus can hear the guards shifting on their feet but he doesn’t look at them. His gaze is solely on his father, or well, his fathers’ mouth. It’s odd and he does not understand it, but he has a fascination with mouths. Or perhaps he’s just too much of a coward to raise his eyes and meet others. But in every conversation, he stares. At lips, tongues, and teeth. The way a person will talk. 

It makes even him unnerved. He can’t imagine what everyone else feels. 

Telemachus does not need to have the mind of a genius to know that he reeks of spend. It’s on his hands and between his legs and in all honesty, he’s probably been leaving a trail of his own evidence from here to his room. It’s a wonder his guards haven't found him yet. The shame and guilt are lovers, raping one another with a twisted passion and even though his skin feels clammy, his face flushes. 

“S-sorry,” he stutters out. “I don’t— I didn’t mean to… it’s late and I… where the.. uh… you— I…” What is he even trying to say? It seems that not even he knows. “I cannot sleep.” He settles on that because there is truth to that. But it’s not more so he can’t sleep as he doesn’t want to sleep. Because if he sleeps, then he’ll dream. And his nightmares are just the memories come to life in horrific vivid imagery. 

Odysseus’ eyes soften even more, not in pity but understanding. He opens the door the rest of the way, an invitation. 

Telemachus’ mind and body do-not-make-sense. He should feel terrified to step foot back inside this room, because this room is where the worst of it happened. Where his innocence was forcibly taken from him in the most violent way, where he claimed him with something that Telemachus will never get back. He should outright refuse the notion of even returning to this room. 

But he doesn’t feel anything of the sort. In fact, it’s a comfort to be in the room. And to that he wants to tear his own skin off. 

In the months after— after , Telemachus hasn’t gone a day without being back in this room. Whether from his father and his long hours of talks or when it’s him sneaking in. When it’s just him by himself, he doesn’t do anything. Just stands there. Staring at the bed. 

It’s been cleaned. Odysseus told him that the gods took pity on them and washed away any of the… residues of— all that. Telemachus supposes he should pray to each and every one of them to thank them. But he hasn’t. Because— because — he doesn’t know why. 

There’s only been one god he’s been able to talk to, let alone think about, and she’s been nothing but patient with him. He’s sure the other gods would find him pathetic at best and irksome enough to smited at worst. 

Athena is stern, kind for herself, but she doesn’t treat him as an invalid. He’s grateful for that. She’s a good friend. 

“Come ins—” Odysseus pauses and corrects himself, “Would you like to come inside? And talk?” 

Telemachus wishes that his father hadn’t been so smart. He’d prefer it if his father simply told him to come inside, the orders, so simple, are his anchor. He does not like having to think for himself— or he does? Maybe he just doesn’t remember how to. Gods, what has he become? 

He nods slowly and his father gives him enough space to pad inside, just as he hears the panicked footsteps of his guards. They slow down and Telemachus catches wind of the four men whispering to one another before the door shuts softly. 

Alone in the room again. No. He’s not alone, he has his father with him. 

Odysseus. His father. It still makes him giddy, if still paired with those uncomfortable emotions. He wonders if his father feels the same. 

He watches his father out of the corner of his eyes, Odysseus padding over and sitting on the floor. He doesn’t pat the spot next to him. He waits. Knowing. 

Telemachus has to look around the room first, he always does. And not necessarily just this room, every room he enters he has to scan, just to make sure— Make sure of what? The shadows that lurk in his peripheral and only that because whenever he goes to look, they disappear? The room is… about as disheveled as Odysseus, but that’s nothing new. Not since his father returned. 

His father has… episodes, as they all like to call. Telemachus at least understands that. He has his own episodes too. 

Sometimes Odysseus… isn’t himself. Or he’s too much of himself. He becomes… scared. Angry. Mournful. It depends. Sometimes Telemachus watches as his father tears the room apart, screaming with an absurd rage while other times he’s cowering in a corner, begging for her to stop. 

Telemachus and Odysseus understand one another, more than anyone else. It’s fitting, in a way, that father and son can connect through their trauma. Perhaps their relationship is borderline unhealthy— codependent. 

But it’s not like they were to have a normal relationship even if Telemachus hadn’t allowed the rape and his father fallen prone to it. 

They have— argued. About it . Both of them. It never ends well. 

His mind crackles so Telemachus distracts himself by looking around the room, taking stock of it all. Apart from looking like his father went on a rampage, it’s not bad. He’s seen worse. 

Telemachus blinks. He’s sitting down. Huh. He can hear the even breathing of Odysseus and glances to his right. His fathers’ beard is unkempt. He’ll need to get one of the serving women to trim and style it, especially for the upcoming celebration. He shivers at that. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Odysseus asks. 

“Not really.” Truthful and not at all. He does want to talk about it but what more can he say? Aside from the parts that will get his father more… emotional. The tears they’ve already shed could fill an ocean. Instead they remain inside. “Do you want to talk about it?” The room is distraught for a reason. 

A small huff, “Not really.” 

The mint and lavender are absent tonight. Telemachus wonders if that was the cause of it. His mother doesn’t always stay around, sometimes she’s gone or too faint. Other times Telemachus feels a headache coming on from how strong her aura is. 

He asked Athena to explain it once and after the goddess used seven words that he didn’t even know existed in a row, Telemachus gave up. Sometimes not understanding is better. At least she’s still here in a way. 

But she’s not really here . She’s not real . Because of him—

He brings his knees up to his chest and burrows his face in them. He smells like sweat. He needs a bath soon. He hasn’t had one for days now. 

That’s another part of him that he loathes. Baths. Or, his aversion to them. When he was whoring himself out, they were one of the main things he could count on that brought him a moment of peace, or something akin to it. But now— now. Even the thought of cleaning himself, of submerging in water, naked makes him shake. 

It’s not fair. Why can’t he find relief in the things that did before? Why does he have to find comfort in the very thing that’s broken him? 

He hates this. He hates —

“You got stuck in a well.”

Telemachus stills. The words don’t carry any meaning for a second, just noise muddled in his mind before it does. He slowly lifts his head up and stares at his father. “Ex-excuse me?”

Odysseus smiles, the kind of smile where it’s just the corner of one side, wry and nostalgic. “It was just a few months after your birth, when the celebrations had died down and P-Penelope and I were still new to… parenting.” His voice strains at her name but Telemachus doesn’t comment on it. Odysseus carries on. “Truth be told, it was my fault. I should have been paying attention, but–well, you see–” Odysseus huffs again. “Honestly, you were quite the handful.”

Telemachus feels another pang of guilt. “Sorry.” It’s almost automatic at this point.

“Oh, no, no!” Odysseus is quick to say. “I didn’t mean… I just– huah, I misspoke. You were… a good handful. Like a golden apple. Sweet.” 

Against his better judgment, Telemachus’ eyes flick up to his father’s eyes. They’re looking at him and for a moment, they’re both able to hold that gaze. There’s love in  them, unconditional and true in those multi-coloured eyes. Telemachus feels his heart burn from it. All too quickly, Odysseus looks away and Telemachus is quick to follow. Perhaps one day they won’t shy away from something as simple as one another’s eyes. 

The itchiness is soothed a little, slowly being replaced with a warm, fuzzy feeling. 

“How did I get stuck in a well?” he asks shyly. His mother would often tell stories about Odysseus but very rarely did she tell stories about, well, him. He thinks probably because he was always right in front of her, already making new memories. His father… his father only remembers him as a babe. He’s barely begun to learn who Telemachus really is.

(Who is Telemachus? Even he doesn’t know the answer to that…)

A soft chuckle and Odysseus’ mouth reveals his teeth, a gap in between his top two. “We had stolen away from the palace, a reckless choice but Penelope and I wanted some alone time with our precious boy. So we ran to a clearing overlooking the island. The view is beautiful, I should–I should like to take you there one day…” Odysseus’ lip quivers slightly. “The picnic was nice. Just the three of us. You loved it, the grass, the leaves, the butterflies… they made you giggle.” Odysseus cuts off abruptly.

Telemachus can’t remember the last time he heard himself giggle, like actually giggle. Without the insanity behind it. His stomach twists in knots. 

“Your mother fell asleep eventually, bless her heart. She– “ A dry swallow. “She always did so much, all the time. Overworked herself. And I wanted to have her wake up to a fresh jug of water, so I went to the well nearby. I took you with me, couldn’t leave you alone to crawl off to who-knows-where. You always did like to wander off– adventuring.”

The crescents dig further into Telemachus’ skin.

If he takes notice, Odysseus doesn’t mention it. “I think it may mostly be attributed to sleep deprivation. Parenting is no walk in the garden. It’s rewarding but… an earned reward. Perhaps one day you will understand.”

The mere thought of touching another person makes Telemachus want to tear his hair out, even as his traitorous stomach twinges with interest. He hates his body. All the time. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have put the bucket on the ground, it was the perfect size for a babe to crawl into and well,” Odysseus chuckles, “I didn’t notice the added weight I suppose. I simply lowered the bucket back into the well and took the jug back to the clearing. I didn’t realize you were missing until your mother asked about it when you woke up.”

Telemachus stares dumbfoundead at his father, a brightness bubbling in his chest. “H-how did I not drown?”

Odysseus shrugs. “I think the gods were watching over you. The bucket didn’t sink into the water. Your mother was… upset to say the least.” A grimace. “She pulled you from the well without using the lever, just by grabbing the rope, she’s strong.” A reverence and admiration in his tone. “Needless to say, I was not permitted to collect water from the well for weeks. Unsupervised, that is.”

Telemachus gapes at his father, then that brightness spills over his lips and he snorts. “I don’t— how… heh.” He can’t quite seem to brush the grin off of his face, Odysseus returning one of his own, if however hesitant. “I was in the bucket ?”

His father laughs too now, dry and strained, like he’s still holding a part of him back. Careful? Telemachus hasn’t been able to see his father without the guard that he always has up, but then again, neither has his father seen him without his. 

“I didn’t mean to leave you! I just— forgot…” Odysseus tries to defend himself. “Listen, I had one goal in mind; to get water for your mother. I paid the price for it, Penelope didn’t let either of us out of her sight for weeks!”

Bashful. The king of Ithaca is bashful and Telemachus feels his heart grow warmer. He’s shifting before he even realizes it and pressing his shoulder against Odysseus’. It’s not quite a hug, he doesn’t feel that he can do that right now, but the connection he craves all the same. This will just have to do for now. 

Odysseus leans against him too, body vibrating with soft chuckles. The air isn’t so tense anymore. It’s still… not calm, but tepid. Telemachus will accept that. 

The night drags on and his father recounts to him the time he and Eurylochus got lost in the woods and spent a great deal of time trying (and failing) to climb the highest tree to figure out which direction to go to get back home. 

It turns out they only needed to walk a quarter of a mile back the way they had come. 

Telemachus isn’t sure how, but he’s blinking one moment, Helios already starting to drive his chariot. He flicks his eyes up and sees that his father is asleep still, head resting on top of his. Even though the position is cramped and Telemachus can’t imagine how it will feel for his father’s aging joints, he doesn’t rouse him. 

They stay like that for a few more hours, until the sun awakens Odysseus and Telemachus pretends to wake up as well. 

He thinks maybe his father hadn’t actually fallen asleep at all, but neither comment on it. Their smiles make up for the bags under their eyes. 

—

It’s pandemonium. Suitors rushing to and fro, mouths leering and tongues swiping over their jaws. They stalk through the halls as if they own the place, hands gripping the pillars with possession. They watch him with unblinking eyes, judging, shaming him. They know what he is, what he’s done— enjoyed. Just waiting for their turn—

Telemachus blinks. And the suitors are gone. It’s servants instead, bustling around the halls in a joyous panic. Giddy in a way. Telemachus loathes it. He knows he shouldn’t. He should be happy . 

After all, it’s a time for celebration. 

But all he feels is dread. 

He’s known this was put off for as long as possible and he’s grateful to his father for doing so. Even still, he wishes it didn’t have to happen at all. But there’s no stopping this. 

Odysseus didn’t seem to want it either, the crowds of the council already stressed him like a plague. Telemachus can’t imagine what the guests arriving will do. 

Sometimes he wishes he and his father could set sail on a raft and just never return. But wishful thinking is childish, so he keeps those thoughts to himself. 

He watches a servant struggle under the weight of a potted plant, the apple in his own hand more so something to occupy his senses than to actually eat. He feels too sick to even try anyway. 

A celebration for the old king returning. The palace has never felt more alive. Servants and townspeople alike race across the floor, bump into one another in the halls. Chatting, smiling, laughing. It grates Telemachus’ nerves. He’s being ungrateful. Ithaca is trying to celebrate and all he can do is mope. Typical. Even when the island is healing, he still finds a way to find the withering inside. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if the celebration was to only last a week. Or even a month he could deal with. But no, Odysseus told him, with a grimace, that most likely it would be longer than four months. Four months of unknown guests entering their house and eating their food and stealing the crown and raping him—

Telemachus almost drops the apple but catches it just in time. That wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t want to give away his hiding spot. Up high in the rafters, his legs dangling, he feels safe. He finds now that he likes to view, and doesn’t like being viewed. He’d rather be a fly on the wall, so to speak. He never wants to be the center of attention again. Just people even glancing at him makes an uncomfortable crawling under his skin. Like a prickling sensation almost akin to paranoia. 

So he opts to hide in the shadows. Of his own palace. Watching and listening but never taking part. 

It’s to happen in a week's time, the celebration. And already ships have started to arrive in the harbour. Telemachus knows that they are friends of his father, or neighboring kingdoms, or men Odysseus went to war with, or noblemen or whatever . But he still can’t shake the feeling that they’re here to hurt Odysseus and him. 

He needs to get a grip. Because if he’s already acting this way with the few families he’s been forced to meet, there’s no chance he’ll be able to keep it together for months— months . 

He’s technically supposed to be being tutored right now. On how to speak and greet the guests when they come. But Telemachus is avoiding it. He’s been avoiding a lot lately. It doesn’t make sense. He wants his mind to be distracted, so he doesn't have to be left alone with his own thoughts. But even being left alone in a room with an unknown man makes him sweat. 

His father will undoubtedly come looking for him in a few hours, like Telemachus is an unruly child. And maybe he is. What adult would act out this way? He’s a grown prince for the gods sake, and yet here he is, kicking his legs like he’s throwing a tantrum. Or pouting. Which is even worse. 

His self loathing doesn’t spur him to move though. He sits and he watches. 

At least Athena doesn’t say anything. Probably because she’s in her owl form, perched beside him. Her gaze is just on him but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, her stare is a comfort. She always did that, even before— before . When she’d train him, she’d just watch him, unblinking. So the fact that she hasn’t really changed the way she’s treated him is nice.

The thoughts in his head are too loud. 

“Do you eat mice?” Maybe he shouldn’t have asked because when he glances over at her, she has the most offended look that an owl could possibly have. Him and his big mouth. “Sorry. Forget I asked.”

Athena ruffles her feathers and squints at him. Sometimes she doesn’t appear as a god, which is fine by him. He suspects that it has something to do with how she’s tense too. Usually after she comes back from Olympus. Or when she is in her godlike form and keeps touching the lightning scar on her face. 

Telemachus has never asked her about it. He’s too scared of the answer.  He thinks maybe his father has— the two of them have had many conversations since his return—

An aggressive hoot brings Telemachus back to his mentor. She’s outright glaring at him which Telemachus can’t help but find a little rude, the question wasn't that invasive. Athena ducks her head down below and Telemachus finally gets it after a few moments. 

“I don’t want to… go down there,” he whispers. 

Athena coos softly but her face is still stern. She’s not taking no for an answer. Neither did Antinous, especially when he took great pleasure in Telemachus’—

Another hoot and Athena actually bats him with her wing. Telemachus jolts and the apple falls from his hands and lands onto the floor before he can catch it this time. The sound is small but the apple crumples all the same and the man whose head it almost landed on looks up. 

The man’s eyes light up at the same time that Telemachus’ heart drops. 

“Ah, young prince. There you are. I had almost feared you were going to miss your lesson,” the tutor says. A couple of servants look up and either wave or give Telemachus a small bow before returning to their tasks. 

There goes his brilliant hiding spot. Telemachus shoots Athena a glare but she’s coincidentally preening her feathers. If he could get away with calling a goddess an ass, he would. 

“Come down from there. We have a lot to cover in such a short amount of time.”

There’s no use in staying up here any longer, not when Telemachus knows the man is going to stand there until he dies. Or goes to grab his father. And Telemachus can’t put more stress on him. 

After throwing another glare at his mentor, Telemachus finds the beam with the notches in it and climbs down. 

In all honesty, he had intended to follow the tutor back to the study. But the moment his feet touched the ground and the servants started brushing past him, and their voices rung in his ear, and everyone could see him— 

The resounding ‘hey’ from his tutor is drowned out by the slap of his sandals as he runs away. It seems he’s always doing that; running away. Like a coward. 

Athena doesn’t follow him but he can feel her eyes tracking him until he turns the corner. 

Telemachus dashes through the halls like a man possessed. He doesn’t know where he’s going. Again. Whenever he runs his mind never follows. It’s just the adrenaline and him. 

He swerves past the bustling bodies, not even bothering to let out half hearted apologies, and makes his way… he doesn’t know where. It doesn’t matter. All he wants to do is to get away . He knows these halls like the back of his hands, knows them well enough that he’s back-handed many times against the walls. After or before he’s been fucked. Raped. 

He stumbles but keeps his footing. Somehow. He presses onward. Maybe he should just hide in his room, lock himself away until dinner time when his father comes to ask him to join. Or until Antinous wants to flaunt him to his dogs, show off the prize he’s won. The man he’s turned into his wife and fucks senseless night after night . 

Telemachus lets out an oof when he collides with a sturdy body, falling over and landing right on his ass. It jars him enough that the thoughts flee his mind, bringing him back to his body, unfortunately. He blinks up at the hand outstretched, then, to the nervous smile. 

“Sorry, bu— Sire . Didn’t see you there. Need a hand?”

A bucket of ice douses him and Telemachus slaps the hand away, scrambling to his feet on his own. He brushes off invisible dirt from his chiton, trying and failing to look anywhere but at the man shifting on his feet in front of him. Figures, just his luck. 

Daemon smiles warmly at him and it just turns Telemachus’ stomach more. He grimaces, then remembers that Daemon is still Daemon , despite everything, and tries to smile politely. He’s sure that it’s a miserable grin. 

“Where are you off to in such a rush?” Daemon’s trying to be… cordial. More than that, friendly. He’s still the same old Daemon that Telemachus trusted… even loved in a way. As his mother did—

“It doesn’t concern you,” Telemachus snaps, stepping back from him. He warily glances behind him, ears bracing for the sound of his tutor coming to chastise him. If only he were like Athena, turn into an animal and flee. 

Sometimes he thinks life would be so much simpler if he was a god. 

Daemon sighs, purses his lips and glances down, hand fiddling with the sword at his side. “Sorry, Sire. I wasn’t trying to— it’s just— I hardly ever see you anymore. I’ve missed… you.”

The rawness to his honesty is almost enough for the bile to swim up his throat. Telemachus swallows thickly. Anger, hot and uncomfortable, swims up instead. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, Daemon. It turns out that when you don’t have to roam the halls looking for the next man to rape you, you tend to have other duties to uphold.”

He knows he’s not being fair, but it’s hard to control this feeling when it surges through him. Anger, he hates it. He hates being angry. Fear and guilt and sadness is easy. Anger is not. It makes him feel like—

Daemon’s face falls even more and Telemachus feels a twinge of satisfaction. Then feels guilty about it. Then is angry at himself for feeling the guilt. Then— actually, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore. 

“Telemachus, I—”

But Telemachus is already stalking away, putting distance between the guard and him. It hurts. It always does when he sees him. Because there’s always going to be a part of him that wants to trust Daemon with his whole heart, even though he knows he can’t. The secrets that Daemon— that both of them— kept from him are too heavy. 

Perhaps he’s being childish. It would be easier to just forgive and forget. But Telemachus can’t forget. And he sure as hell doesn’t know how to forgive even himself, let alone anyone else. 

Wait twenty years, then he’ll see. 

Daemon lets him go. Even though he could just as easily grab him and force him to talk. Force him to—

Telemachus is running again. His lungs and legs beg for a break but he ignores them. Thinking is harder, running is easier. 

The stitch in his side calls him to stop, to rest. But his mind hasn’t felt a moment of peace since— after . So why should his body? He presses on. 

The people in the halls start to dwindle and it isn’t until he’s pushing through the double set of doors that he realizes where he ended up, panting and blinking away the sweat that lands in his lashes. It’s odd that the kitchen is quiet, even in the mid afternoon, when most of the servants are hustling and bustling for the evening meal, the suitors are ravenous. Eating them out of house. Already they demand their finest goats and cattle and swine. Drinking wine that is not theirs. How is it so quiet in here when the suitors needs ought to be met otherwise they’ll–

The suitors are dead. 

The suitors are dead.

The. Suitors. Are. Dead . 

So why does he keep thinking they’re alive?

“You keep gripping your hands in your hair like that, you’ll be bald before you’re thirty.”

Truth be told, Telemachus wasn’t even aware that he was yanking at the strands in the first place. It’s starting to happen more often, his body doing things that he didn’t permit. Like running away from his duties on a constant basis or laughing at inappropriate moments. Or fucking himself on his fingers while he thinks of men and a woman assaulting him. 

He huffs, glancing over at Eurycleia before casting his gaze back to her mouth. It’s drawn in a thin line, but not nearly as tense as it used to be. Maybe the muscles in her face are starting to grow weak. That happens with age. 

Her mouth moves and it takes Telemachus a few moments for his brain to make sense of the words. “Hiding from Protus again?”

Telemachus glances down to the basket in her arms. Ointments and– no, it’s not, it’s fruits and cheeses. Small bits leftover from breakfast. He doesn’t need… those anymore. “I am not– hiding.” A lie? “I am avoiding.”

A soft hum. “He’s only trying to prepare you for–”

“I don’t think I need any more preparing , thanks. I got enough of that already,” Telemachus cuts in. He strains his ears, he’s always doing that too. Bracing himself for those footsteps that will come through the door at any moment and see him with a cock in his mouth. 

Eurycleia lets out a steady breath, whispering something to herself that sounds a lot like she’s counting. She takes a step forward then halts immediately when Telemachus recedes. What lies beyond the door is far better than what he knows is in this room. Just another reminder of his recent past. “Forgive me, child. I didn't mean to speak so harshly. You are capable of making your own decisions. What I think about it doesn’t matter. You are the prince.”

Why is it that everyone is asking Telemachus to forgive them? Why does he always have to be the one to cease the suffering of others, why does he owe that to them? “Old habits die hard?” Telemachus has never been dealt a fair hand so why should he treat others the opposite of what the world has? Perhaps he’s just a jackass. 

“Child–”

That uncomfortableness is back, that anger. He wants to snuff it out. Telemachus clenches his hands into fists and he sees Eurycleia tense at that. And then that grim satisfaction is back too. Perhaps she is remembering the time that he nearly lost it on her before Daemon came and intervened. And before they revealed to him the secret that they held. Telemachus is. He remembers it all . “If you plan on lulling me into believing your wiles, Eurycleia, I suggest doing a better job at shrouding your distaste for my choices. It’s unbecoming of you.” 

He doesn’t wait to see her response, he turns on his heel and flees.

Protus is none too pleased that Telemachus missed out on half the day of lessons but Telemachus tunes him out like he does the rest of the lecture. Learning about the do’s and don'ts of interactions between noblemen and women isn’t a new feat for Telemachus.

He knows and understands how to act in order to pleasure the minds and bodies alike. Formalities are for show.

—

His chiton is too itchy, the sandals are not tight enough, and the chlamys weighs heavily on his shoulders. Everything is too loud but it does nothing to overshadow the thoughts in his head. Telemachus shifts on feet, then stills, then shifts again. 

That panicky feeling is prickling at the edges of his nerves. He’s not trying to pay attention to it, hoping that by ignoring it, it won’t be able to sink further in. He doesn’t think it’s working, that anxiety rising with every passing moment. 

It should be a time for celebration, he should be ecstatic that all of these people are here to celebrate his father’s return. And he is. He truly is, Telemachus has never been prouder and more glad that his father’s return has garnered such happiness. 

But does the happiness have to show itself in the faces of so many people?

The banquet hall can’t even hold the majority of those gathered, and Odysseus said there’s even more to come still. 

The celebration has only just begun tonight and Telemachus is already sick of it. And he feels horrid for it, absolutely wretched and ungrateful. But he cannot help it, not when the people remind him of— the suitors. They’re roaming his halls, lurking for him, to touch him and ravish him and, and, and—

“Odysseus of Ithaca!”

Telemachus snaps out of his thoughts and blinks at the man standing in front of him. He doesn’t recognize him— most people he doesn’t recognize— but his father must because Odysseus exclaims just as jovially and claps him on the shoulder, exchanging words that sound too much like non communal grunts. Telemachus stands awkwardly to the side and watches their mouths move. 

It’s been like this ever since the festivities started. It feels like days ago but in reality it probably hasn’t even been four hours, the stars have only just now decided to come out. 

It isn’t so bad, Telemachus tries to tell himself. Seeing so many people overjoyed to see and hug his father is nice, and he knows that Odysseus is grateful too. But he just wishes they would have sent their best regards in a short letter instead. Not invaded his home for months on end. If Telemachus is already struggling to keep it together for a few hours, he doesn’t know how he’ll manage the next few months. 

And to make matters worse, the only people he’d be even remotely comfortable seeing aren't even coming, which he can’t fault his aunt and grandfather for. They’d already come and gone from Ithaca, had the moment news was brought of their family’s return. 

Laertes didn’t even wait for the ships to dock before he was jumping off of the boat and swimming through the habour. He may have been old, the years not treating him well, but at that moment, it was as if the gods granted him his youth back so he could swim to his son. He had wept and kissed Odysseus, cradling him in his arms as if he were no older than a few months. His eyes were dull with the years weighing on him, but for just a little while, they brightened again.

Ctimene’s reaction to her brother was even more confusing than Telemachus’. She hugged Odysseus, weeped for his return for days, treated him as if she were his older sister instead of the younger one. Then, like a switch had been flipped, screamed at his father, anger and hurt so evident in her soul. And Odysseus had taken it. Telemachus had tried to intervene but his father had told him that this was between him and her. So Telemachus had to just sit back with his grandfather as his aunt blamed his father for the loss of her husband. 

But just as suddenly, Ctimene apologized profusely and cradled them both as they sobbed again. It did not make any sense, how could someone go from loving someone to hating them the next moment? 

When he asked Athena about it, she gave him a wry smile and told him that sometimes that’s just the way siblings were. Telemachus wouldn't know. He’s never (and now never will) have siblings. He barely even has friends. 

His aunt and grandfather stayed for two weeks and in that time Telemachus learned so many embarrassing stories from both of them of his father that his stomach hurt from laughing and cringing. He didn’t… he didn’t tell them what happened to him. Not really. He tried to but the words got stuck in his throat. All he said was that he killed his mother and took the throne, keeping Telemachus under lock and key. His father didn’t call him out on his lie. Telemachus supposed it was a repayal for him not telling them what really happened to him on her island. 

Some things are better left for later. 

Telemachus would gladly exchange telling his family of his rape if that meant he could skip the celebration. He can feel his ears ringing already. 

A glance to his father shows that Odysseus is getting tired too. But they both have a duty to uphold. In a way, Telemachus misses being a child. At least then he could be sent to his room when the night got too old. Now, he has to stay up and interact with people like a well adjusted prince. And he is anything but that. 

Odysseus puts his hand gently on Telemachus’ shoulder and talks with a fondness that lets Telemachus know he’s referring to him. Even though his mind doesn’t understand a word of it, he still feels himself flush a little. A father’s love isn’t something that he’s used to, but he… he likes it. It fills him with a warmth that encompasses his whole being. He loves his father. He doesn’t think he says that enough. 

The other man speaks and then looks at Telemachus expectantly. He flounders and settles with nodding. Both men chuckle so Telemachus hopes that his response was good enough. Someone calls the man away and after a shared bow, he leaves. 

Telemachus lets out a slow breath. He feels a little dizzy. 

“Are you alright, son?” Odysseus asks. 

Son. Son . Even that makes his heart soar. Such a simple word and yet Telemachus does feel a real smile grace his lips. He nods and tries to keep his face pleasant. “Aye, it’s just… a lot.”

Odysseus nods and gives him an only half fake chuckle. “Yes. These grand meetings are not… for me. Your mother usually took the reins.” That pant of grief hits harder and Telemachus purses his lips. “But it’s… not all bad. Seeing the men I went to war with, alive and well, friends I didn’t think I’d ever see again…” Odysseus trails off and Telemachus feels a wave of guilt join his guilt. Why is he throwing himself a pity party when his father is the one more at risk here? He can’t even imagine how stressful it must be for him. Seeing all these people and having to not only take care of his kingdom and himself all on his lonesome, but his son too. It’s not fair to him. “I do wish tonight was the only night though, I do not do well with large crowds— at least, not anymore.”

Sometimes Telemachus can meet people’s gazes and as he looks into his father’s eyes, he doesn’t see a king or a father. He sees a man who’s been through so much and still finds a way to press on. If there ever was a man that Telemachus would aspire to be, it’s his father. He hopes one day he’ll be able to be a quarter of the man his father is. 

“Me either,” Telemachus whispers. From the far side of the hall, people cheer and clap loudly at the man standing on his hands with cups of wine between his toes. 

“What helps me,” Odysseus says. “Is knowing that most people feel the same.”

“Are you sure? It seems perhaps everyone else is normal,” Telemachus says glumly without thinking. He immediately wishes he could take it back. 

His father doesn’t seem too offended by his comment. “I’m sure. Or else half of them wouldn't even be here. Most are here because they have to. Politics and all that nonsense.”

Telemachus side-eyes his father, cheeky smile on his face. “Are you one of them?”

Odysseus shrugs. “If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re the king ,” Telemachus snickers. The man in the corner falls over and the glass cups shatter. He laughs it off and calls a servant to clean it up. 

“Ah but I’d much rather spend my days with the company I want rather than the company I must. Like spending time with you.”

Telemachus blinks away the tears that spring to his eyes, his chest giddy again. The yearning to embrace his father grows strong, almost enough for him to forget himself and hug his father like a child, bury his face in his chest and hide away from the rest of the world. 

The handful of people approaching him doesn’t let him. 

The man is all smiles, skin wrinkling at the corners of his eyes as he crinkles them. He’s around the same age as his father and the woman on his side must be his wife. Her smiles are just as bright as his and Telemachus finds his own smile tentatively joining them, infectious as a yawn. 

His mind flickers with recognition but he can’t quite place them. He knows these people but it’s as if in a far off memory, or a dream within a dream. 

“Ody!” the man exclaims and, instead of greeting Odysseus with a bow or handshake, pulls him in for a strong embrace. 

It surprises Telemachus but not Odysseus who doesn’t pull back from the hug— although he does flinch a little which goes unnoticed by everyone but Telemachus— and reciprocates it. It’s a long hug and Telemachus isn’t sure if he should be watching such a display of platonic intimacy, the history between these two men enough to write poetry about. 

When his father eventually pulls away and after he kisses the man on both cheeks, Telemachus can see his eyes shine with tears. “Nestor, how I’ve missed you. Beloved friend.” There’s only truth to Odysseus’ words, no formalities or politics to be found. Odysseus is truly happy to see this man. 

It’s only when Odysseus greets his wife, Eurydice, that Telemachus suddenly realizes where he recognizes their faces from. He jolts where he stands. Oh. But if this is Nestor and Eurydice, then that means that the young man standing just behind them, who looks like the spitting image of the both of them combined, and has been staring in wonder at Telemachus is—

“And Peisistratus! My, how you've grown. It seems that only yesterday I was bouncing you on my knee,” Odysseus chuckles and pulls Peisistratus in for a hug as well. 

Peisistratus is forced to break his stare at Telemachus to reciprocate the hug, smiling into the king’s arms. That smile lights up his whole face, as honest and true as Odysseus’. Telemachus blinks. As if he’ll suddenly wake up from this dream. 

Odysseus actually looks excited as he steps back and smiles warmly at the family. Telemachus can’t seem to stop his eyes from straying back to Peisistratus, his once dearest friend. He’s sure that he probably doesn’t even remember him—

“Telemachus,” Peisistratus says warmly, something soft in the way he says his name. “It’s been so long.”

Telemachus’ heart jolts for some reason. He didn’t think he was that memorable, certainly to not someone as kind as Peisistratus was. Of course, his mother and Eurydice were close friends and conversed often with each other. And when she came to visit, she always brought Peisist with her. And of course Telemachus enjoyed the boy’s time, not having many people his age to play with. Of course Telemachus remembers Peisistratus . He just didn’t think Peisistratus would remember him . 

He wonders— worries— what else the young man remembers. If it’s the same thing that tingles Telemachus’ lips. He licks them, then purses when Peisistratus' eyes wander. Uncomfortableness bubbles inside of him again. It seems he’s fated to have it linger in his skin. 

He suddenly realizes that he’s been staring, not saying a single thing and everyone’s eyes are on him— expectant. Oh. He’s not used to social situations where he has to… speak. Most of the time Antinous demanded that he keep his mouth shut. 

He opens it. Closes. Then tries again. “P-Peisistratus, it’s— it’s good to see you too.” He hopes Peisistratus isn’t offended that he can’t meet his gaze. His lips are upturned in a smile so he thinks he’s not hurt. Or angry. He hates it when people are angry with him. 

There’s silence and Telemachus panics. Did he say the wrong thing? Is he expected to say more? That alone was hard enough, gods, he wishes the ground would just swallow him whole. 

Peisistratus’ face breaks open in a wide grin and he lunges forward. Telemachus’ body does a full on flinch and Odysseus’ reaction is too slow to stop the young man. His arms wrap around Telemachus and he squeezes tightly. Telemachus’ brain malfunctions and he doesn’t move to hug him back. 

The hug itself is quick but it leaves Telemachus feeling oddly more dizzy, something wriggling in his chest. Peisistratus pulls back, his grin not fading in the slightest. A presence at his left, his father, who seems tense again. Telemachus did that. He stressed his father. Again. He needs to stop doing that, such selfishness is unbecoming of him. 

Nestor either understands the need to steer the attention from Telemachus or the man is just genuinely excited to finally speak with his friend again. He holds onto one of Odysseus’ hands and just… holds it. Like he’s too afraid to let go. “Odysseus, have you gotten shorter, my friend? I fear the years have taken more than just your age, haha!” He chuckles at his own joke, eyes twinkling like stars as he does. 

Odysseus snorts and grasps Nestor’s forearm with his other hand. “I’m sure the gods have felt the need to knock me down a peg or so. But I must say, Nestor, I think I remember with quite a great deal more hair on your head. Tell me, was it the stress or your stupidity that chased it away?” The words flow easily from Odysseus’ mouth, as if he’s had this conversation too many times to count. 

“I fear it’s the latter,” Eurydice says, bumping her shoulder against her husband’s. 

“Hey now,” Nestor says in mock hurt. “I resent that insinuation.”

“Oh, it wasn't an insinuation, Dearest. It was a fact.” Eurydice has a teasing gleam to her eyes, her smile making her seem even more warm. 

Nestor makes an over exaggerated gesture and gasp to accompany it.  “How could you? After everything I’ve been through?”

“Oh pish-posh, Dearest. Don’t be so overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic? I am the epitome of reserved! Why, this is just like the time when you refused to believe me about the mice.”

Eurydice rolls her eyes. “Ah, right. And you were a drama queen then too. Making up lies to cover up that you were eating away your own surprise dessert.”

“But it was the mice,” Nestor exclaims and glances back at Odysseus. “See, my friend, my wife had decided to surprise my fiftieth celebration with an extravagant festivity and—” Nestor then proceeds to go on the most utterly descriptive story that Telemachus has ever heard. It isn’t until he’s sure that ten minutes have passed that he realizes that the man is simply giving the backstory for the story itself, and that he hasn’t even gotten started. 

He shifts on his feet and Odysseus glances over at him, the twinkle in his eyes returning to concern. Ever the intelligent man (or maybe Telemachus is simply just bad at hiding his true thoughts) his father gives him a look of understanding. Telemachus is starting to feel even more agitated and although the five of them are standing in the far end of the room, he can still feel the eyes of every other guest on them. They’re being polite, waiting for their turn to greet Odysseus and his son, but Telemachus knows that the moment Nestor takes even a pause for a breath of air, they’ll pounce like lions. 

Odysseus glances between Peisistratus and Telemachus, a knowing gleam in his eyes. So quietly that he doesn’t speak over Nestor, he says, “Telemachus. How about you show your friend around the palace? I’m sure it’s changed in the years since he’s been here. And I know you young folks don’t care much for talks of old.”

The relief of being allowed to leave is accompanied by the anxiety of having to hold an interaction with Peisistratus. Which is utterly ridiculous and honestly rude of him. He chastises himself. He’s being impolite, and worse than that, a poor host. Peisistratus has already shown him nothing but friendliness and Telemachus is already daydreaming about being left alone. He really is ungrateful. 

But leaving the crowd would mean leaving the crowd and Telemachus can feel an episode lurking under his nerves so he nods. “S-sure. I mean yes. Of course.”

Peisistratus beams and gives Odysseus a short but respectful bow. “Thank you, Sir. I have missed being here. And spending time with my friend.”

Telemachus’ heart wriggles again at being called that, along with the guilt. He hasn’t been a very good friend as of recently. He can’t even remember the last time he’s spoken to Peisistratus. 

Nestor is still talking over them, droning on about the shades of brown the mice were. Telemachus doesn’t understand how that’s remotely important to his story. But he doesn’t get to dwell on it because Peisistratus is grabbing his hand and leading him away. Odysseus gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before returning his attention to his friend, a bittersweet smile on his lips. Telemachus’ guilt grows. 

Of course his father would want to spend time with his old friends without having to worry about babysitting his broken son. He deserves to enjoy himself. 

He shakes the negative thoughts aside, needing to focus on not tripping over his feet as Peisistratus leads him out of the hall. They nearly bump into several guests and Telemachus mutters half-hearted apologies. Which he’s certain goes unnoticed. Everyone’s eyes are more so on his father than him. He’s grateful for it. He can’t stand it when they’re on him. 

“Come on,” Peisistratus throws a grin over his shoulder. “I want to sneak in the passageways again.”

Telemachus’ feet sink to the ground like heavy boulders and he comes to a full stop. Peisistratus stumbles forward when Telemachus’ body becomes an immovable object. He half turns, still holding Telemachus’ hand but no longer tugging it along. 

Telemachus’ heart stutters and it’s taking everything in him not to wrench his hand free and sprint away. The adrenaline in his blood calling him to. 

Not… not the passageways. Not that. His heart stutters again and he worries for a split second if it will falter entirely and he’d collapse onto the floor. He hasn’t been back in those secret halls since—

“Hey, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Peisistratus asks. 

Seeing ghosts is what he’s worried about if they go back there. He knows, logically, that their bodies have since been cleaned. This whole palace has been thoroughly cleansed of any evidence of the suitors’ remains. But to go back to the passages… Telemachus shudders to think of it. A whining fox and hissing serpent flash in his mind. 

“Not…. Not there. I don’t— want to go in th-there.” He can’t even look at Peisistratus’ mouth, staring at the space between his shoulder and neck. 

There’s a small pause, Peisistratus’ hand loosening its hold before it gives a slight squeeze. “Alright. We won’t. But I would like to get away from all these people. Just be me and you.”

Just me and you—?

Telemachus swallows, his spit getting lodged in his throat. “M’kay.” He’s not very good at holding even this conversation. “Uh… roof?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Peisistratus’ smile return and the young man give a shallow nod. “I’d like that. Lead the way?”

He blinks again, having to take a second for his brain to comprehend the words. He’s not sure if Peisistratus meant it to come out as a question so Telemachus chooses to believe that it was an order. That’s good. Orders he can follow. He’s good at that. A clipped nod from him and he takes a step forward. The servants and guest padding through the halls is making him nervous. What if they look at him?

He takes a few steps before he realizes that he’s still holding Peisistratus’ hand and quickly jerks it away. He’s not a child. He doesn’t need the comfort of someone holding onto him. He wipes the sweat on his chiton. “Sorry.”

“For… for what?” 

Telemachus doesn’t turn to look at Peisistratus. Not that he’d be able to meet his eyes anyways. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He chooses to start to walk more briskly, hearing Peisistratus chase after him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and Telemachus has to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down a bit. 

It’s Peisistratus. It’s okay. He’ll be fucking fine . 

He really is a terrible friend. 

He hastily makes his way to the tower, practically jogging up the stairs that lead to the roof. He can hear Peisistratus panting after him though he doesn’t pause or slow down to check on him. He wants to— or he doesn’t? He should, that’s the good host thing to do. But for some reason Telemachus just… doesn’t. It’s as if his mind can only do one thing, and that’s to make it to the roof. So he does. 

The doorknob is covered in dust and the hinges make a loud creaking noise when he pushes it open. He winces and has to throw his shoulder a bit at the resistance, but does eventually get the door to swing open. 

The cool night air kisses his skin and he breathes deeply, chest aching anew as he stares at the twinkling stars. 

“Pretty,” Peisistratus murmurs and Telemachus turns to look at him. The young man quickly turns his eyes to the stars. “The sky I mean, heh. Ugh.” He rests his hands on his knees and pants louder. “Damn, I must really be out of—  shape.” Another couple of gaps. “You don’t even— look like you've broken—  a sweat, heh.”

Telemachus is slightly out of breath, but not as much as Peisistratus. He blinks and glances over himself. He has to bite his tongue to keep the retort about building up stamina from slipping out. Peisistratus doesn’t know. And he doesn’t deserve his anger. 

Peisistratus glances up and smiles through his pants. Oh. Telemachus said nothing again. He really needs to learn how to speak properly. 

“This is the roof,” he decides to go with, then mentally kicks himself. No fucking shit, it is. Did he think Peisistratus was daft? 

He must be being polite. That’s the only reason Telemachus can think of when Peisistratus lets out a guffaw and straightens himself. “Heh, I forgot how funny you are.”

When did Telemachus make a joke? 

Another beat of silence, awkward, then Peisistratus lets out another long breath. “So… you wanna sit or just stand and look at each other. Can’t say I’d mind the view.”

Telemachus doesn’t get how Peisistratus is able to see the stars and island past him, he’s taking up quite a great deal of Peisistratus’ vision. His body is moving again before he gives it permission and he walks away from his old friend. Stiffly. He’s aware that he’s walking as if there’s a strip of wood tied along his spine but he can’t help it. His skin is prickling and his mind is buzzing. It’s both pleasant and unpleasant and he just doesn’t understand . 

He blinks again and his feet are dangling over the edge of the roof, a figure starting to sit down next to him. There must be something wrong with his brain, he decides. How else would he explain that there are just… parts of interactions that he's missing? It’s not everything but sometimes when he blinks or thinks for too long, conversations happen or he’s in a completely new location. He doesn’t get it. It’s as if his mind… goes away for a while while his body runs on autopilot. 

Peisistratus doesn’t sit right against him but close enough that Telemachus can feel his body heat radiating off of him. His subconscious longs to lean into it even as his mind screams at him to get away. 

Some servants and guests dither below them but it's dark enough and they’re up high enough that Telemachus is confident that they won’t be caught. He’s not sure why he feels nervous about that. It’s his palace. He’s allowed to go where he wants without feeling like he’s doing something wrong. 

“Hey… are you… alright?” Peisistratus suddenly asks. Telemachus jolts and has to turn his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the roof. “I mean, that’s a stupid question, of course you're not. I know that. You— it's just—I …what happened, Telemachus?”

The edge of the roof digs into his skin, almost breaking it. He says nothing. 

Peisistratus fiddles with the ends of his chiton, manicured hands twisting the fabric. “I know… I know it was something bad. And I’m sorry for prying but— it's just— that— Ithaca went dark. For months . One moment you were there and the next, just, nothing. It was as if someone snuffed out the light. So sudden.” 

A faint breeze rustles and somewhere far off Telemachus swears he hears an owl hoot. His mind feels blank, not even able to grasp a single thought. 

“Trade stopped completely. No other neighboring cities were able to go through to you. We thought— the worst. That a god was angered and you were swept up in a storm. Or plague or so many worries. I was— scared, Tele.” The nickname sends Telemachus back in time, to a simpler age of boyish giggles and blushing smiles. He misses those. “I know whatever it was, that’s why… that’s why the queen is— gone. And I’m not— I’m not trying to hurt you by bringing it up. But I— I care about you. And I— you— it’s only that— oh Telemachus.”

Telemachus doesn’t understand why Peisistratus is the one crying. He should be one. And he can feel the pain build up, an ocean welling in his eyes. He glances over at Peisistratus and briefly meets his gaze before flicking it down. 

“You’ve… changed,” Peisistratus says. 

Telemachus… Telemachus has changed. From the ways in which he breathes to how he thinks. He knows he’ll probably never return to the boy that he was. Even if he does heal as his father would call it, he’ll be different. 

Peisistratus hasn’t changed much in the years they’ve spent apart. His hair has gotten longer, more curly to the point that it’s almost unruly. But it doesn’t look ugly, if anything it adds to his charm. He still has the same smile, the same excitement in his eyes. He carries himself with only a hint more of maturity, but still the same boy Telemachus held hands with all those years ago. 

“I know that… that it’s been years but… whatever happened, it— hurt you. And I want— I want to be here for you. You’re my friend .”

A hand creeps out and stops just shy of Telemachus’, not touching but asking permission. A new concept for Telemachus. He doesn’t permit nor deny so Peisistratus doesn’t move. Just waits. 

“I’m listening, Telemachus. I won’t judge, honest. Please, let me listen to you.”

 Peisistratus has no idea what happened, none. Telemachus stills at that. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have to be around yet another person who treats him like glass. He can lie, or stretch the truth somewhat. Just tell his friend that Ant— he killed his mother and took the throne. Perhaps just say that Telemachus was thrown in a cell for months until his father came and slaughtered the dogs. 

He can at least keep one person in his life that doesn’t know the truth. 

His mouth opens to say just that, but nothing comes out. 

What good would that do? He already knows that he’s a terrible liar, he was barely able to deceive the suitors, and they were as dense as stone. Even if he were to come up with a believable story— what then? Go on living a lie to Peisistratus, one of the few friends he has? 

It would be nice to have someone treat him like he’s used to, instead of like he’s a wild animal. But— but… it wouldn’t be him. Peisistratus wouldn’t be friends with the real Telemachus. Just the version of him that Telemachus allows. 

He’s done with lying to everyone. His heart can’t take it anymore. 

And besides, having an outside source, someone who isn’t connected to him, who wasn't there to see his unraveling… It might be nice to get a new perspective. 

He chooses to ignore this longing in his heart, something he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. Or at least, something he has but forgotten. 

“They came in the dead of night,” he starts. And he tells. 

Not everything, gods no. They would be on the roof for days if Telemachus included it all. He hasn’t even told his father everything that happened. 

( Least of all what he wanted to do to Melantho— )

He starts small, his voice wavers when he talks about his mother’s  last moments. His hands start to shake and when Peisistratus places his hand tentatively overtop of his own, he doesn’t pull away. He moves it so his palm is facing upwards so that Peisistratus can intertwine their fingers together. 

His father said he was brave, for enduring and for continuing to live. Telemachus didn’t think so. He thinks it would have been braver of him if he’d actually slaughtered the suitors before it got to that point. 

Nevertheless, as he tells Peisistratus of the months of torture he went through; the rape, the isolation, the betrayal,

He thinks that maybe he understands what his father meant. Because although his heart is pounding in his chest and he can’t even risk a glance at Peisistratus’ face, he does feel brave. 

Peisistratus doesn’t say a word— apart from a few knee-jerk reactions when Telemachus tells about how Melantho betrayed his mother or the first time he was raped. 

He just— sits there. Listening. 

It’s… comforting. Peaceful in a way. 

Telemachus sheds every single tear, he sheds them all. Sobs as he tells his tale. But Peisistratus was being honest with him for he feels no judgement from the other man. He doesn’t feel understanding, not like his father when he started telling him bits and princes. And Telemachus is glad for that. No one should have to have a firsthand experience of what he and his father went through. 

But Peisistratus doesn’t need that to show his support. He’s just… there for Telemachus. 

And that’s all Telemachus needs at this moment. 

He’s not done when the sun starts to peak over the horizon. But his throat is dry and his words are as raw as he feels. Peisistratus doesn’t press him for more. He simply lets Telemachus lean his head on his shoulder. And after a whispered approval for consent, holds him close and threads his hand through his hair. 

Telemachus and him stay like that until the sun is hot on their skin. They don’t say a word, just sitting in one another’s presence. 

Telemachus stares at the hand holding his and lets a small, tired but real smile grace his lips. 

—

It isn’t until Telemachus is alone in his bath the following afternoon that he realizes that he didn’t— touch himself that night. A first for him in the first time since it all began. 

But that hope quickly squashes when his body itches again and the heat pools in his core all the same. He doesn’t bother to try and resist it this time. He’s too tired for that. And he’s meeting more people for tea later. The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he can pretend that he’s not some broken man. 

He has to refill the bath water to clean himself of his shame. His hand is cramping and he does his best to ignore the way his cunt clenches pitifully around nothing. 

The guilt still rises well within him and the tears flow like poison dripping into a well. 

—

Their friendship blooms. It’s almost as if no time has passed at all for them, but it has. So much has changed in the years they’ve been absent from one another’s lives. 

Peisistratus snorts the same, he still talks endlessly about nothing. But he throws his hair over his shoulder now, mostly because it’s longer. And he flushes more — Telemachus doesn’t understand that. He seems more nervous sometimes. Odd. 

Telemachus still plays with his chiton, but now instead of only sometimes, he’s doing it on a constant basis. Or moving his hands in one way or another. 

In a way, he’s glad for the company. He’d been dreading having to speak and stand with so many new faces. Interact with people who probably don’t even remember his name, only that he is the son of a ghost returned. But with Peisistratus, the man so easily pulls him out of situations. Sometimes with an excuse and other times just pulls him along without apologizing to the crowd. 

If his father is upset by this, he doesn’t show it. Perhaps because he’s too busy playing host for the hundreds of guests in his halls. 

Telemachus still shudders at the word guest , xenia be damned because he needs to expel the suitors from his home—

Peisistratus doesn’t ever ask him to tell him more, waits for Telemachus to take the step. Waits for him. Telemachus tells him bits and pieces, never explicit, and always with his throat tight. 

But—

But it’s not impossible. And he feels lighter after he tells. His heart does, his shoulders still shake and there’s always this mold heavy in his stomach, but his heart isn’t blackened. 

Peisistratus never judges him. Telemachus doesn’t deserve his friendship but he’s too afraid to let go of it. 

He doesn’t understand it but there’s something about Peisistratus that draws him in, makes it easy to speak with him. Perhaps because they’ve always been friends and it’s easy. Or it’s something that Telemachus has yet to grasp. But whatever it is, he’s grateful that, for once, the gods have decided to show him pity.