Chapter Text
For someone in the midst of his own personal trials and tribulations, it does seem the Fates have quite a hand in ensuring that Prince Zagreus’ arms are full of others’ conflicts as well. So it is that in addition to his own familial missives, he’s also been running back and forth between the miserable Orpheus and the willful Eurydice, exchanging song and sympathy alike. Even now, the music that plays throughout the House of Hades is Eurydice’s, though it is Orpheus’ mourning tones that lilt the words. They’ve not yet met face-to-face, but the hot-footed prince likes to think that any moment now, Orpheus may rise to the occasion and ask him to fetch Eurydice from her lava-moated abode.
In fact, Zagreus also expects a similar request from Achilles soon, surely — he’s dragged himself out of the Pool of Styx at least a half-dozen times since Achilles begged a little discretion from him regarding Patroclus, and yet Achilles hasn’t once asked Zagreus to send word to him, spilling his affection and apology. Not a letter. Not even a single question to impart upon his long-lost Patroclus…! Though Zagreus supposes that Patroclus is not exactly in a rush to go anywhere, or to do much of anything at all.
With ears half-full of the Styx and half-full of Orpheus’ sorrow sung to the heavens (though whether his song will reach them is very dubious), Zagreus pulls himself from the pool and kicks red droplets from his feet, shaking out his hair with laurels drifting off through the air. Some wayward, curious droplets are somehow, inexplicably flicked far enough to even awaken Hypnos from his slumber, garnering a yelp.
“Sorry, sorry,” Zagreus tells Hypnos swiftly, giving him a politely wide berth as he slides past.
“Now, now, if you get so much water on this parchment that the ink runs and I can’t keep up with all the shades waiting for their turn, well, I just can’t do my job now, can I?” Hypnos asks, not despairing in the least.
Zagreus nods along as he departs towards the lounge. “That would be just terrible, Hypnos, really, can’t have that. I’ll try extra hard not to drip my hair all over everything the next time my corpse-or-what-have-you is dragged downriver.”
“Uh-huh, try extra extra hard!”
Zagreus heads to the broker first, exchanging a bit of currency for other bits of currency, then heads out towards the West Hall, a nectar bottle gripped loosely in one of his hands. There’s a distinct absence of critical commentary as he passes his father’s desk, likely due to the lack of his father’s presence at all, which he can’t say he minds overmuch. Cerberus is dozing, all three heads snoozing separately, though the middle one seems cuddled up with the third, nose tucked beneath that one’s ear. Tempted to pet — but not so much that he wants to disturb the most hard-working and lovable member of his father’s House — Zagreus continues past.
He has only one goal in the House this time, and Achilles is, thankfully, present to help it along.
“Achilles!” Zagreus calls, approaching him with the nectar bottle raised. Achilles glances his way, then smiles, the mortal age of his face smoothing, though not completely. “How are things in the House?”
“Oh, nothing has changed here, lad.” Achilles settles his weight on his heels, his spear treated as little more than a sturdy stick to lean on. “Your father’s been in and out more often than usual. Keeping him busy, are you?”
While it delights Zagreus’ very thick rebellious streak to know his father can barely sit down without being disrupted by some havoc he’s wreaking in the realm, it doesn’t change that his father has been some of the previously stated havoc. “You know,” Zagreus starts, “if you were to somehow distract him for, oh, say, ten seconds the next time he tried to start heading up after me, it would just be the best.”
Achilles shakes his head, a palm held up in the way he used to stall Zagreus’ harsh responses in his younger days. Quelled, Zagreus puffs out a weighted breath and sighs, “Yes, yes, I know. Anyway. Join me for a spell, would you?” He hands over the nectar, a smile falling onto his face in lopsided whimsy.
“Oh, you…” Taking the nectar slowly, Achilles seems to pinken the slightest bit — or, more likely, Zagreus is imagining things after having his head dunked into the Styx one too many times. “Lad, you know you don’t need to bother with things like this. If you want to talk, you need only ask.”
“It’s nothing, really, haven’t I said?” Zagreus nods at the nectar, then looks up at Achilles’ face once more. “Actually, I thought you looked as if you could use the talk.”
“Is that so?” There’s lingering indulgence in Achilles’ voice, the same way he used to sound when Zagreus begged another sparring match out of him at the end of their training.
“Yes,” replies Zagreus. He pauses, as if carefully measuring the words, and then continues, “Forgive me if I’m out of line, sir, and forget I said anything at all — but I can’t help but be curious about yourself and…him. And I know it must be on your mind too, judging by how you spoke of him.”
Achilles appears struck for a moment, his eyes going a touch wider, lips parting in silent surprise before his face falls altogether. “You…wouldn’t be wrong, truthfully.”
“I remember what you said before, when we spoke last of the matter. But I’ve run into him a good handful of times since we spoke, and—”
“Zagreus,” says Achilles, and Zagreus shuts his mouth with a snap, no matter how softly Achilles speaks his name. “I…thank you. Yes, I’ll join you, but if we’ll be discussing this…”
“Not the lounge,” Zagreus agrees. “Come with me.”
It might have been a mistake to bring Achilles here, in hindsight. Not that the man hasn’t seen Zagreus’ untidy ways before now, but that his room suddenly seems so much more untidy than usual. The strewn clothes. The unmade bed. Even water from the scrying pool seems to be trying to escape the unkempt mess of its surroundings! And is that a still-beating Centaur Heart he forgot under his pillow, oh, for the love of—
“You’ve commissioned quite a few things,” Achilles notes absently, walking a semicircle patrol of the room, and all Zagreus can do is, with strange paranoia, accept his fate.
“Once, I saw my life flash before my eyes because I tripped over all the gemstones I was carrying,” Zagreus tells him, discreetly kicking a pile of unworn chitons beneath his bed. They all look the same as this one anyway, what’s the point of having so many if they’re all identical? Did he somehow inherit a need for an endless supply of entirely homogeneous clothing? Doesn’t his father have all those capes? There might be something to this theory.
Achilles sounds as if he might be doubting all the training he gave him as he prompts, “But you didn’t die by tripping, certainly?”
Zagreus coughs a laugh. “No, no, of course not, I died by…actually, it’s a long story. Look at that, I have a couch now!”
“And wall art,” Achilles adds, sitting down on the couch with his head craning back to peek again at — oh, he’s looking at his own poster. The poster of Achilles that Zagreus commissioned to put in his room. That’s not mortifying or anything.
“Oh, you know, just seeking to spice it up a bit since it seems that I’m going to be constantly running for the briefest of moments through here on my way to terrorizing all the Underworld,” Zagreus says. He’s come closer to the couch as well, and seats himself at the other edge of it, turning further to face Achilles.
Achilles aims a little smile at Zagreus. “And you’re alright with that?”
“I’m…working on it.” Unwilling to breach the topic once more for fear of upsetting Achilles again, but well-aware that he must, Zagreus continues, with care, “As for yourself…you said there was a pact. That’s why you’re here, working, and Patroclus is…?”
“There, yes,” Achilles murmurs, obviously pained. “I care for him. I’ve never stopped caring for him. Despite that…surely, you’ve seen it, the way emotion can carry a god away, cause such vindictive measures to be taken against you?”
Zagreus rubs his side with miserable memory. “Quite a lot, in fact.”
“Mortals are no different, lad.”
Zagreus rolls that idea around in his head, then says, “Neither are sons of gods, I think.” Considering the mess he’s gotten the Underworld and all its denizens into, Zagreus expects that if he tried to count the times he’s been swept up in his own emotion, he wouldn’t be able to recall them all. But that, judging by what Achilles has said, isn’t unique to him. “But I’m more interested in the now.”
“The now,” echoes Achilles. Finally, he seems to remember the nectar bottle he’s been holding, and opens it up. Excellent timing, for Zagreus was just beginning to think that a conversation so heavy should be held with something lighter between them.
“A moment,” Zagreus says, rising from the couch. He approaches a nearby cabinet across from his bed. Inside reside countless skull themed decorations and accoutrements. It is, after all, something the nonmodern prince has dubbed his skull drawer.
Well out of Achilles’ earshot, Zagreus mutters, “I dubbed it no such thing,” as he takes two goblets from the cabinet, revealing upturned skulls functioning as the reservoir. Bringing the macabre goblets back to Achilles, he extends both for a generous helping of nectar. “The now,” Zagreus prompts, handing one over to Achilles.
“Thank you, lad,” he says, and takes a sip. “Ah. That is good. But…as you were saying…”
“I may not know everything that’s happened, but I think I can make some educated guesses,” begins Zagreus, sitting once more on the opposite side of the couch.
“By all means.”
Zagreus takes a sip from his goblet’s replica parietal bone — of course it isn't a real parietal bone, he wouldn’t drink from a goblet of an actual skull, who would do something so horrid? His authentic skulls are for display only — before speaking. “It seems to me that the both of you remember the past vividly. But surely there was a time before whatever you two had got all rotten, right? There must have been some good back then.”
Achilles’ gaze is distant, his voice faraway, as he murmurs, “Yes. There was. Very much of it was good, in fact. Better than I deserved.”
“And you tried to make it right for him by ensuring he could stay in Elysium?”
“Even such glory as Elysium isn’t enough for him.” Achilles sounds so awfully sorry that for a moment, Zagreus’ heart aches along with his.
“Well, I don’t think that he likes it there very much,” Zagreus says, sipping nectar, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment.
A long pause overtakes them for a moment and Zagreus allows it, pulling one leg up onto the couch with the rest of him, his other burning foot tapping lightly across his suitably flame-resistant rug. He sips and he sits and he looks at Achilles to convey his care, not only to admire his features…though they are very nice features.
“Tell me everything,” Achilles says eventually, raw, and Zagreus does.
There is no real way to tell proper time in the Underworld, but Zagreus speaks about his interactions with Patroclus for long enough that they drain the nectar completely and Zagreus brings out a second bottle, and then a third. It isn’t that he spends an awful lot of time with Patroclus, not truly — but it is the light that dances in Achilles’ eyes that keeps him talking even about the smallest of details: the way the ethereal shine of the Lethe illuminates Patroclus’ profile, how he drapes himself upon Elysium’s perfectly dew-wet grass with such tired resolve, the graciousness he displays when gifting Zagreus things that aid him, always.
Everything, Achilles did say. So Zagreus tells him everything, and time passes.
“...And, anyway, Achilles.” Zagreus’ knee bumps supportively into Achilles’. “It’s just a hunch, but I’m fairly certain he still has feelings for you. If that’s any comfort.”
Achilles’ face blossoms a warmer shade. “It…it is. Thank you.”
“I’ve already promised him that I would try to figure something out, if I can. So consider this my promise to you, too.” Zagreus isn’t so sure how easy that promise will be to fulfill, but he’ll certainly give it his best shot. Or die trying. Which isn’t such a terrible alternative, as it turns out.
“I can’t ask anything more of you, Zagreus,” Achilles says, quiet. “You’ve enough weight on your shoulders. I couldn’t forgive myself if I added to it.”
“If it’s for you, Achilles, I would do nearly anything,” Zagreus says, sincere. “You’ve…been there for me, even at the worst of times. Helping you, helping Patroclus, any of it — it’s not that I’m paying you back. I just want to — what? What’s wrong?”
There’s a complicated sort of frown on Achilles’ mouth. “It isn’t anything you’re doing. I promise. You’re really too, too kind.”
“I’m certain I take after my mother in that respect,” Zagreus says wryly.
Achilles laughs, then reaches out gently to light his touch upon Zagreus’ hand. “I won’t disagree. Ah… Forgive me then, if I do ask one more thing of you.” Hesitation once more settles over him like a cloud as Zagreus waits, and then Achilles adds, “Please, decline to answer if you feel the need.”
“...Alright,” Zagreus says, brow furrowing, nerves firing.
“I don’t believe I’m mistaken when I ask you this.” Achilles’ touch disappears again, and Zagreus’ fingers twitch to chase for a half-second. “But you aren’t helping because of...any feelings you hold for me, are you?”
“Feelings, feelings? Like…” Zagreus stops, then rushes on: “Oh, no-no-no, nono. Nothing like that, Achilles, I — well, it isn’t exactly untrue, I do feel…a certain way towards you, but it isn’t because of that that I want to aid you, I swear it.” Zagreus very solemnly, very hastily adds, “And in fact I would swear on my father’s name that I’m helping you out of my own altruistic reasons, so —”
“You don’t have to do that,” Achilles interrupts, quick.
Zagreus huffs out a sharp breath. “Good, because I really didn’t want to.” He keeps his goblet held in both of his hands to avoid any terrible impulses that crave any ill-begotten things. “You’ve made your thoughts on that front perfectly clear, anyway. I’ve no hard feelings. And you know how I am about things like that, anyway.”
“Matters of the heart sway you deeply,” Achilles says gently, and this time he rests his hand on Zagreus’ bare shoulder. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
“I know.” He glances up at Achilles’ face, meeting his eyes. “But I’m speaking truly when I say, nothing I’m doing for the two of you is because of anything selfish, or…ulterior.”
Achilles squeezes his shoulder. “Well, I’m glad to know it. I didn’t want you to feel obligated, that’s all. That, and…no, never mind it.”
Achilles begins to take his hand from Zagreus’ shoulder, but Zagreus suddenly reaches up to grab his wrist, holding on. “Tell me,” Zagreus says, intent. He doesn’t back down even as Achilles snaps his gaze onto Zagreus’ face, even as they remain much closer as before to each other. Achilles appears unsettled; Zagreus stands firm. It is with all the certainty in the Underworld that the usually-callous prince can muster when he says, “You could never ask too much of me, Achilles.”
Whatever rigid boundary still remained in Achilles dissipates in a sigh, and the shade squeezes Zagreus’ shoulder in acquiescence. “You may change your mind,” Achilles warns.
“I won’t.”
“Spoiling me,” Achilles mutters beneath his breath, then shakes his head fondly. As he shifts his posture a bit, getting comfortable on the couch, Zagreus settles once more, his grip sliding from Achilles’ wrist. Their legs press against one another, and Zagreus makes no move to draw back. “I wanted you to take something to Patroclus for me.”
“Of course,” Zagreus says in an instant. “What is it?” Gemstones? Ambrosia, ooh, that would go over well. Perhaps his spear, ah, wouldn’t that be romantic — and telling.
“Ah, well,” Achilles continues, a strange note to his tone. “He and I, I think we’re long past writing. Letters are not our strong suit, so…”
“I beg to differ, your codex is brilliantly penned,” Zagreus says defensively, as if the codex may, in fact, find itself offended.
Achilles’ laugh is soft, barely-there. “I do appreciate that. But a codex is different than some lengthy overtures about…love, and loss. At this point, I don’t think words will do any good now. To be certain…you said you feel sure that even if Patroclus has not forgiven me, he hasn’t forgotten me, either…?”
It is without any doubt that Zagreus assures, “Not for a moment. The Lethe flows at his back. He’s been there a long time. I expect if he’d wanted to drink…”
“He would have done it long ago,” Achilles finishes for him, something tender in his voice. “I suppose that settles it, then.”
Zagreus looks at Achilles curiously, then asks, “What would you like me to give to him?”
Achilles, however, glances away a moment before looking back at him. “A kiss.”
Zagreus blinks. Despite himself, his attention darts to Achilles’ mouth, and then up again. “A kiss?”
“Remember what I said.” Achilles taps at Zagreus’ chest once, the same way he used to do after a good training session, all the while cautioning Zagreus about the consequences of pushing himself too hard. “You’ve no obligation, lad. If it's out of your means…”
“It isn't.” Zagreus clears his throat, straightening. Achilles’ hand back on his shoulder feels too warm. “I did say anything, Achilles.”
Achilles looks at him as if he's considering that this might be quite the ask even for a god. For a mortal, it's nigh unthinkable in its strange logic. Yet Achilles is no mere mortal: he is a brilliant, favored shade existing amongst the highest of the Underworld. And so, it seems that the oddest facets of immortality have rubbed off on him...just a little bit. Zagreus doesn't take his promise back, either, which must be enough to convince the great Achilles of his resolve.
“Alright,” Achilles finally says, nodding once like his mind is made up, and then he tilts his body towards Zagreus. Achilles draws one leg higher onto the couch, the floor visible through the half-transparent gradient of his fading body.
Zagreus rests his hand atop Achilles’ knee. “For Patroclus,” Zagreus murmurs, and thrills as Achilles wets his lips.
“For Patroclus.”
Achilles leans in, but it’s Zagreus who presses forward to close the final distance, bracing his hand on Achilles’ knee to remain balanced. Their lips meet gently at first, a brush and a nudging kiss, not out of an absence of confidence, oh no — but rather, for Zagreus, it is an outpouring of confidence, and an uncertainty as to where to spill it all out. Achilles takes a sharp breath then, and Zagreus takes care as he shifts his angle. His lips, instead, touch down upon the corner of Achilles’ mouth.
Zagreus’ quick-tempoed heart is beating so quickly, so quickly; Achilles has spent so much time telling him he doesn’t have to do this, and yet it isn’t Zagreus who needed the reassurance. “Relax,” Zagreus murmurs, his thumb sliding in a half-circle on the inside bend of Achilles’ leg.
He will draw back, pretend this hasn’t happened at all, if Achilles desires that. Even if it will disappoint Zagreus greatly, even if he will dwell on this moment, wishing there was another turnout. But if it’s what Achilles desires of him, to never speak a word of this again, he will do it.
Their lips remain a mere breath apart. And then — the tension falls from Achilles’ form, and Zagreus stills as he feels a hand come up to hold fast at his nape.
It is Achilles bringing him in, reeling him closer, and Zagreus goes eagerly like he’s been caught with but a touch. For the scarcest of seconds before their lips meet, Zagreus sees the fall of Achilles’ lashes, the knit of his brow going lax — and then they’re kissing, and it’s soft, sweet, even. Considerate, Zagreus thinks, their lips remaining politely closed until he chances something more with the slightest parting of his mouth, warm breaths exchanged when Achilles part his in turn. Zagreus brings his other hand up to grip at Achilles’ shoulder, urging him on, thrilled in no uncertain terms by this turnout, and Achilles allows it, even pushes forward an incremental amount that it’s Zagreus who must hold on to keep himself from losing the contact of their mouths.
Zagreus, ever vulnerable to being swept up in the heat of a moment, allows a trace of tongue to slide along the curve of Achilles’ lower lip, hardly the most daring of feats. The rhythm changes. There is a bare moment that seems precarious, as Achilles sucks in a sharper breath, as Zagreus’ mind catches up to him, but then Achilles’ mouth meets his again with more fervor, kissing with such breathtaking yearning that it’s all Zagreus can do but press fingers in a tighter grip around his shoulder. Achilles’ hold on his nape tightens as well, bringing him closer, and then it’s Zagreus leading once more, as if Achilles has back-stepped and given him the room to decide.
And decide he does. A sound shudders out of Zagreus, encouraging, and as if well-practiced (or well-fantasized), he’s adjusting. Soon, he’s pressed Achilles down onto the plush of the couch, his own body forming over his, legs spread on either side of his lap, chests flush as he keeps their lips sealed together with strokes of tongue, with slick kisses. Achilles allows it, lets Zagreus act on every little whim, his body under Zagreus’ rising and falling with fast breaths, his arm around Zagreus’ back.
It’s only when Zagreus brings them both totally flush with each other that Achilles makes such a rivetingly new sound that Zagreus thinks somewhat desperately, even over the surge of need, Wait.
Zagreus leans upright, his hand spread against the couch to keep himself steady. “Achilles,” he says helplessly, voice raw, rough.
“Oh,” Achilles says, breathing quickly, his light hair spread around his head not like a halo, but like he’s one heartbeat from being ravished here, spilled out on Zagreus’ couch.
Zagreus’ chest thunders with it. It’s now that he can think back on the way that Achilles has touched him, has kissed him, has so enthusiastically allowed him what he desires, that he wonders if Achilles hasn’t been imagining him as another. It isn’t exactly heartbreaking. He’d gone into this knowing, after all.
His attention is captured again simply by the sliding touch of Achilles’ calloused fingers against the side of his neck, thumb briefly glancing across his jaw. Zagreus leans his face into it, ever willing.
“Perhaps,” Achilles manages, gently, “not all of that was for Patroclus.”
Zagreus looks down at him, a heat to his gaze. “Is that so?”
“Perhaps,” Achilles breathes again, but still, he makes little move to continue, or do much of anything at all. He lays there beneath Zagreus, his hand now resting on his cheek, Zagreus peering down upon him with unquenchable warmth.
And then, with a final, sweet kiss upon Achilles’ palm, Zagreus draws back. He slides from Achilles’ lap and takes his weight off of him, standing alongside the couch as he rights his clothing, as he clears his throat.
“I’ve a delivery to make, don’t I?” he says, smiling a little.
Achilles coughs a surprised noise, appearing to gather his composure once more. “You do, indeed.”
Unable to help himself, Zagreus asks, “Would you like it to be given…exactly like that?”
Achilles’ face is pinkened, his lips kiss-red and still wet. Zagreus is, admittedly, having a hard time looking away. “…Yes. Exactly like that,” Achilles confirms after a delayed moment.
Their eyes meet. Zagreus is happy to admire. Achilles seems fondly exasperated by whatever he sees in Zagreus’ expression, finally sitting up only to gesture him over. Zagreus comes, standing between Achilles’ knees with hopeful interest. Achilles takes Zagreus’ face in his hands, pulling him down, and it is the softest kiss of all that he gifts him now, completely grateful in the way his lips touch Zagreus’ with such honest, open affection.
But it is not the way that he kissed Zagreus moments ago. This, Zagreus knows, is not the strange, desperate, tumultuous mix of emotion that Achilles bestowed upon him for Patroclus. No matter how much of that became for Zagreus, this kiss — with Achilles’ hands on his cheeks, his lips soft on his — this is for Zagreus, alone.
His heart swells as Achilles’ hands fall away.
“Go on, then,” Achilles tells him, laced with the fondness he’s just given Zagreus to taste. “Good luck.”
“I’ll be back,” Zagreus says in return, and with wry amusement, adds, “What are the odds that he gives me something for you?”
Achilles’ speechless pause is more than enough to answer that. Zagreus goes, light-footed and still half-melted from the memory of Achilles’ lips against his own.