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Odysseus sat half-sprawled on his wide-legged chair, mulling over what carvings he might decorate the narrow ceiling beams of his hut with. Eyes piercing the flickering gloom of firelight with ease to measure the lengths of wood, weighing a simple repeated motif against more complex designs, all the while waiting for his hands to stop shaking so he could mix himself wine. Or, he might just pour and drink it raw and unwatered. He hadn't decided yet. He could definitely use the burn of alcohol on his tongue and the way it forcibly slowed down his racing thoughts to something manageable, after the events of the past few days.
Surely he deserved that much? Peace, quiet, woodcarving, and wine.
Maybe a long nap.
He'd been prepared for the idea of dying by a foreign spear or sword long before he'd set foot on the Troad — in theory at least — even if he didn't really think it would happen, that the favour of his goddess could really amount to so little. He'd grown more prepared still with every battle on the way across the sea regardless, and those fought since their initial landfall. What he hadn't been prepared for was having his killing advocated — and in unsettlingly compelling words, too — in a foreign court, for the crime of trying to avert more battles. For daring to conduct diplomacy. For having been appointed as a spokesperson to address the Trojans on behalf of the Achaean forces sieging them.
He sighed, closing his eyes briefly to ease the tension that had built behind them.
Gods bless Menelaus for not losing his temper through the duration of this embassy of theirs, despite the way some of the Trojan councilmen — and princes — had spoken to him, one even deciding to suggest putting the pair of envoys to death. For living up to his reputation of temperance despite the disrespect shown to them having only grown since the first embassy.
Gods also bless Antenor among the Trojan elders, for safeguarding their right to xenia and ensuring they were able to leave the city in the same state they'd arrived. And... gods bless Menelaus twice over for having seen through Odysseus’ collected mask and suggesting he could head to the Ithacan camp directly instead of joining him to relay the results of their negotiations to Agamemnon.
Even if it did mean that the chill of winter still lingered in his hut when he arrived.
He wouldn't blame Eurybates for only lighting the one fire, for the man had had every reason to think the singular tripod-brazier would have more time to do its work. He was a good herald, a good friend , and had likely had the fire lit as soon as word arrived of the envoys having been sighted leaving the confines of the city's divinely-built walls. Not to mention that he’d understood from just one gesture to keep any curious soldiers away until their king had had the time to... pull himself back together.
Odysseus let out a slow, drawn-out exhale. His hands were still shaking, his mouth dry. His stomach no longer churned with nausea, at least, and the tension of muscles poised to react in the blink of an eye to anything with the barest semblance to danger was slowly ebbing.
Being able to force his own bodily reactions under control was a boon, but not one he could keep up forever.
The negotiations had failed. He'd failed. Bless Menelaus thrice over for letting him avoid Agamemnon’s questions on it, to put off the inevitable explanation until his entire being was no longer a hair's breadth from leaping to violence in defence of itself without his own conscious input.
It was fine. They'd lived. No weapons had even been drawn. The Trojans weren't willing to part with Helen or the stolen treasures from Sparta, but no blood had been spilled under xenia, nor would he need to explain to Agamemnon any injury inflicted on the brother he cherished so dearly. The killing would be saved to the battlefield.
There promised to be a lot of it.
Odysseus grimaced in the gloom that matched his mood so well. It was too bad that Antimachus, that wretched Trojan councillor who'd advocated for breaking xenia, was old and unlikely to take to battle himself. Odysseus wouldn't mind watching the man’s blood and innards mix into the mud of the Scamandrian plain — seeing to it himself, if given the opportunity. Though, even without getting the chance to do that specifically, he had a feeling any blood-thirst he might feel and more besides would be long sated before he could finally turn the prows of his ships toward home. Likely, he’d be sick with it. The king of Ithaca wasn't known to be someone who enjoyed the butchery of war, much preferring negotiations and sparring with words.
The Trojans were no Taphian pirate-kings or Messenian sheep-stealers to be talked into corners and made to dance to his tune, however. Unfortunately. The sons of Priam were too many and too united in their support of each other for their loyalties to be shaken.
For now, at least.
There was a faint rustle beyond the hide-hung entryway of the inner room. Odysseus froze, a knife flicking to his hand from where it'd been strapped to his upper thigh under the folds of his fine purple himation. His fingers poised just so for a perfect throw, eyes fixated on the arch of the doorway. He held perfectly still, barely breathing, and listened.
A muffled thud. A faint curse at the lacking light muttered by a voice he could recognise. What was Menelaus doing in the Ithacan camp? Hadn’t he promised to cover for him?
How much time had passed since they parted ways?
The hide curtain moved, a mane of copper-gleaming curls appearing as their owner leaned in to peer into the room, his attention clearly drawn to the undisturbed layers of bedding on the empty cot. The man paused as if surprised to find the bed without occupant, a perfect target to line up a knife throw. Odysseus felt what the movement of his arm would be like to send the blade flying just so, could almost hear the quiet thud of bronze piercing soft flesh.
He stayed his hand as Menelaus slowly turned, eyes sweeping across the room until they met his own. The king of Sparta jumped with a yelp, spitting curses.
"By gods, Laertiades! Why do you sit in the dark like some brooding shade? For a moment I thought I'd come faced with some bright-eyed beast!"
"Can't a man sit and contemplate in the privacy of his rooms, Atreides?" Odysseus retorted wryly, carefully setting aside his knife. His hands were no longer shaking. Good. "There's light enough here for my liking, though I'm sure one measly tripod seems poor in comparison to the splendour of your own hut."
Menelaus shook his head with an incredulous huff, even as he stepped fully inside and let the hide curtain fall to block the winter chill from seeping in from the antechamber. "Only you could think this murk enough to live by. You and wolves and owls, and other creatures of night."
Odysseus shrugged and stood, carefully testing his balance. He was tired from the day, though there were still hours of sunlight left as best he knew, but waiting for knives in the dark or arrows to the back wore on a man. "You place me in good company. Now, I'd offer you a seat and wine right away like a good host, but I haven't mixed any of the latter yet, and the former might be a pointless gesture if you're here at the behest of your brother. Does Agamemnon want my take on how things turned out, after all?"
"No, you're off the hook for the rest of the day, my friend." The fiery-haired Spartan waved his hand dismissively. "I told him the main points, and he plans on calling the commanders' council together tomorrow morning to hear the full account from us both."
"Ah, so you are here for something else then," Odysseus hummed as he picked up the chair one-handed to move it closer to the fire where the air was significantly balmier, and made his way to the wine and water amphorae resting against one wall to mix the two of them something to drink. “Forgive me for assuming you'd have had enough of me for a while after sharing my company for three days and a night."
And to think he'd all but decided to take his wine raw... a pity. It wouldn’t do for the king of Ithaca to do that in company — even with a friend — and if this was going to be one of their longer talks, there would be a lot of drinking besides.
"A night?" Menelaus snorted. "I'd hardly even count it shared. We had the perfect excuse to enjoy a proper, large bed together with no one the wiser, yet you opted to spend the entire night on a chair blocking the door."
"I wasn't going to cuddle with you in the middle of an enemy citadel."
"No one would have known. We were already sharing the room for security."
What that a pout gracing his lips, or a trick of shadows? The tone certainly suggested it. Odysseus sighed. "Because our host wasn't sure if he could safeguard us separately against the faction that wanted us dead to send a message."
"I know, I know." The carved chair creaked as Menelaus sat heavily on it, a weary chuckle escaping him. "Agamemnon is under the impression that you stayed awake the whole night, standing guard over me in case the Trojans decided the best way to end things before they get worse was to make Helen a widow."
"Why?" Odysseus handed him a glazed rhyton and watched the Spartan king chug the lightly diluted wine he’d poured like water with a slight grimace.
"Because returning the favour was an easy excuse to make for coming here. For maybe spending all evening here."
"Ah."
He'd been marvelling at just how well Menelaus was holding himself together the whole time, but looking at his fiery-haired friend more closely now, Odysseus could see the cracks in his façade. The two of them were alike in this way too, it seemed — inclined to forcibly hold their own thoughts and reactions under lock and key until there was a safe place to let them loose.
But while solitude had been enough for Odysseus to let go, Menelaus was still holding on to his.
Odysseus ran a hand through his hair to brush it off his face and sat down on the edge of his cot, taking a swig of his wine. "You do realise all those things they said were nothing but a bunch of lies, right?"
"How can you be so sure?" The younger king frowned at the rhyton in his hands, avoiding raising his eyes. The amber in them glistened in the firelight, nearly hidden beneath dark lashes, looking shrouded and wet. An undercurrent of misery and loss bubbling to the surface. "They claimed Helen asked to stay."
"Does that really sound like her?"
"No. I don't know. I want it not to. But Hector was the one who said it, and he has a reputation for being courteous even to his enemies, as much as he can."
"Even the most noble and thoughtful prince will lie and cheat if it means he might preserve his family from being torn apart by war." Odysseus swirled his drink. "You know the breadth of my imagination, so let me tell you this, Atreides. I can't imagine a world where after choosing you specifically from among all the kings and princes that vied for her hand when given the ability to do so, Helen could have changed her mind so easily and completely."
"Really?" The look Menelaus gave him, so open and hopeful and vulnerable, made Odysseus' breath catch and pushed him to elaborate beyond what he usually would.
"Think about it — the oath gave her freedom to choose without repercussion, and she didn't hesitate in the slightest before picking you. Yes, lots were drawn, but we all know that was a polite pretence to ward off hard feelings." He took a deep drink of his wine and gestured with it. "Considering how little some of the Trojans cared about our guest-rights under xenia, there's a good chance she was threatened with your safety into saying the words, if the entire claim wasn't fabricated from the start."
"You... really think so?"
"Would I lie to you?"
He absolutely would, and they both knew it, but not about something like this. Not when it was so important. Maybe he was presenting the theory as far more solid and sure than it really was, but the last thing Menelaus needed right now was more uncertainty.
As expected, the king of Sparta offered a relieved, watery smile before standing up and setting his empty rhyton on the chair instead, a slight flush rising to his sun-kissed cheeks as he fixed his eyes on Odysseus. "Would you indulge me with something, Laertiades, even if you may be tired from spending last night on a chair?"
"I hadn't intended to, but it was a comfortable chair," he responded, mind ticking away. It was far from night-time yet, the camp awake instead of safely unaware in the hands of Hypnos. But the walls of his hut were sturdy enough, and Eurybates had forbidden all from bothering him. Menelaus had come to him openly but under a believable pretext, and it was unlikely either of them would be sought out until morning.
These were all things to consider, regardless of the details of what the Atreides actually wanted, if it was something that made him flustered to ask even after a cup of strong wine.
"In fact, it was certainly comfortable enough a seat that I have the energy to spend time and attention on you, my friend. What do you have in mind?"
"O philtate... Just sit there." The sheer warmth and quiet joy in Menelaus' voice disarmed Odysseus’ mixed feelings about the endearment to a few fleeting thoughts. The Spartan king stepped up to him and took the near-emptied rhyton from his hands only to tilt the last of the wine in it into his own mouth. Standing over him, he tossed the now-empty ceramic vessel aside with little care other than to aim at a soft fleece, and bent down to kiss him, one hand tilting his head up for better access. The other intercepted Odysseus’ own as he raised it, keeping him from returning the gesture. The kiss was slow and languid as they passed the wine back and forth, an intoxicatingly intimate way of sharing the drink. Tasting it and each other.
"—'laus..." His voice had gone rough by the time they parted, airy from shortness of breath. What he was planning to say fled his mind however, as Menelaus knelt down at his feet on the plentiful furs and fleeces set beside the cot, and rested his head in Odysseus' lap as if his thighs were a pair of firm pillows.
He guided the hand in his hold to rest on fiery curls, and Odysseus blinked. The king of Sparta, at his feet and in his lap, seeking comfort like a child from their parent. Or, actually — the taste of body-warmed wine lingered on his tongue — not that at all, but like a young man might from their lover... or an older one from their beloved.
Best not dwell on the specifics too deeply. What lay between them was already unconventional enough.
"Peerless tactician and a great teller of tales as you are, philtate... " Menelaus murmured, face half-buried against the loose folds of Odysseus' fine clothes, "weave me an explanation of why they'd want Helen this badly, to the point of insisting on still keeping her with all of us united against them. Pick apart their scheming with your sharp mind, even if just to put mine at ease."
Odysseus shifted slightly, adjusting to better accommodate both the head on his lap and the slight pull on his himation — it was getting warm enough inside that he didn't need to worry about keeping as thoroughly covered anymore — and let out a considering hum, running his fingers through rich copper curls. "Aren't we all aware of it to some extent? Over fifty men gathered to court her, and more besides cursed their luck for not being able to. As much is well known. Your story of winning her is a popular tale of romance for bards to recite, especially in lands beyond those directly involved with it."
Menelaus snorted, tension slowly leeching from his form. "I’ve heard in Egypt they call us by completely different names. And that every telling has a different trick to explain how the choice was resolved."
"Obviously." Odysseus ran his free hand down the side of the Spartan king's head, down to his beard, and marvelled how the man angled into the touch like an affectionate cat. "The oath was for those to know who were there, not for others to find ways to exploit. But fate is fickle, and Helen's reputation was enough to make her a symbol. And yet, still, a woman. A trophy."
"That's stupid."
"It's how most people think. You have a tendency for it too, when it's not about her."
Menelaus grumbled, nuzzling his face against Odysseus' thighs, forcing him to shift further to give him space between them. "Keep talking."
The Ithacan king cleared his throat, fingers twitching in the other man's hair, leaving the fiery beard alone despite the amusing reactions scratching it had garnered in favour of giving himself a free arm to prop himself up with. "They sent someone easily underestimated to test the waters. Someone you wouldn't be too worried leaving without heavy oversight as a guest in your palace. And... whether it was by trickery or by force, they took Helen for a reason. What little information trickles from the east speaks of unrest, an empire fed with war instead of farms, and Troy is little different. Helen is — so I think — their claim of power above ours."
He leaned his head back, eyes drifting to the shaded ceiling-lattice again, though without truly seeing it. Piecing instead together all the little snippets he knew or had heard concerning Ilios, its people, its neighbours and allies, and what little he'd managed to observe himself during their time within the city's god-raised walls. Resting his hand in Menelaus' hair more than petting it, as he lost himself to his own thoughts.
"There's no reason they'd have expected all the Achaean kingdoms and more to mobilise at your call, to organise as neatly as we have under your brother's leadership. No other woman, in neither myth nor legend nor history, has been so valued by so many. And now that we hold the nearest islands and the coastline, they have no reason to believe we'd simply leave, should they relinquish her and the stolen riches to us. The army is too large for that, the nations it represents too numerous. And so they refuse to return her, and sit beyond their impenetrable walls, waiting. Praying for a sign from the gods, or a word from their most powerful allies in the east, or— ah! Menelaus!"
Odysseus yelped, hand fisting in the Spartan king's fiery locks and wresting the man's smug face away from his thigh, where somehow he'd managed to find his way past layers of himation and chiton both to leave a red mark on untouched skin.
"I didn't say to stop." Menelaus had the gall to actually pout at him, eyes twinkling amber-gold behind his lashes as he ran one of his hands up Odysseus' leg to rub a thumb over the spot.
"We agreed on no marks," the Ithacan groaned in frustration, though the sound fell short from the level of annoyance he aimed to convey. "I'm pretty sure that's a mark."
Menelaus hummed noncommittally, raising a hand — the one not occupied with Odysseus' thigh — to pry the hold in his hair loose, and immediately going back to mouthing at the sensitive flesh. "Maybe, but this definitely isn't your neck, and I'd love to see what outfit you worry wouldn't cover it up."
"Oh fuck you, Menelaus."
"Maybe you will, philtate. We'll see. We've got plenty of time tonight." The feeling of teeth gently grazing the skin of his inner thigh sent sparks through Odysseus and had him utter half a curse under his breath, eyes fluttering shut and hand closing in the Spartan king's hair again, this time just holding on.
"’laus..."
"You didn't finish picking apart the Trojans' plans, Laertiades. Talk." The words were spoken practically into Odysseus' flesh and he let out a quiet groan, feeling his body respond all too readily to the attention it was being given, to the warm breath and still warmer mouth caressing the inside of one thigh while a hand calloused from handling instruments of war massaged the other. How Menelaus could pivot from desperate melancholy to lust with such abruptness, he might well never understand.
"You really want me to—" He cut himself off with a faint hiss at the feeling of teeth slowly and deliberately worrying at the sensitive skin at the very edge of his loincloth. "Fine, fi— gods, 'laus, give me a beat to think."
Where had he even got to, before the interruption? Something about the Trojans having few options until they heard from their allies? Playing for time?
Whatever. It didn’t have to be a coherent narrative.
"They... they have reason to think they could outlast us. The walls of Ilios were built by— by gods, and we don't have the means to topple them." Odysseus focused on controlling his thoughts, on ignoring — futilely, anyone who'd claim Menelaus’ mouth less skilled than any of his peers was a filthy liar — the cloud of arousal threatening to muddle his mind from the man's ministrations. "They have easy access to fresh water. They have the means to feed themselves, if sparingly. They — Menelaus I swear if you leave my legs bitten purple I will end you — they hold on to Helen above all, because as long as she's in the city, people like you will keep people like me from taking drastic action."
"What kind of action?" The other king murmured from his lap in a tone that suggested he was barely paying attention, steady hands working to slowly, casually, divest Odysseus of his himation. The Ithacan shivered, resisting the urge to stop whatever game it was Menelaus was playing and redirect the attention laved on his thighs to his straining loins instead. Incredibly tempting though it was.
"Strategies used to end sieges. Poisoning the water supply. Burning their food stores. Sending in people or animals with diseases. Effective but dishonourable things tha— ah! — that would regardless end this war quickly." He took a few deep breaths, faintly freckled skin rising to goose-flesh all over from the contrast between cool air and the warmth radiating from the man at his feet. From the heat slowly coiling in the pit of his stomach. "Taking Helen was to show they could. Keeping her... keeping her is to stay our hand from things that bypass their walls. The more we raid the surrounding lands, the further, the more allies Troy will gain. That's why they're doing what they're doing, explanation done now get here!"
With little effort he pulled Menelaus' head up from his lap by the hair, tilting the man's face while bending down to meet him in a forceful, feverish kiss, completely different from their earlier one. He could still taste the wine in their mingling breaths regardless, chasing it deep, delving and conquering and claiming even as the soft-lipped, clever-tongued Spartan returned almost as much fervour as he was served. Eventually they were forced to part for breath, and Odysseus couldn't help but grumble.
"If this was what you wanted, you could have just asked."
"And miss out on hearing you struggle to keep the flow of your words together while your brilliant mind is at work? I couldn't possibly."
He narrowed his eyes, tightening his hold on those coppery curls a fraction to hear the younger king let out a low moan and watch his lashes flutter over his bright amber-gold eyes. "Watch yourself, my passionate friend," he murmured, marvelling at the responsiveness. "You look to enjoy kneeling at my feet enough that I'm tempted to have you demonstrate the full extent of what you can do with your mouth down there."
Menelaus' pupils dilated to consume most of his irises, his eyes like circles of deep ink ringed by shining embers. Oh. Odysseus could get used to this kind of power.
"Mmhm... plenty of time tonight." The Spartan's voice was light and airy, near-devoid of its usual rumbling undertone, as he repeated his earlier words and leant into Odysseus' hold while both his hands caressed the Ithacan's thighs beneath his chiton, thumbs just barely dipping under the snug fabric of his loincloth. So damnably close to aching flesh but never actually touching. The urge to act on his own desires was immense, but Odysseus reminded himself he'd started this... whatever they should call it... for Menelaus' benefit just as much as his own if not more.
More, if he was honest, but he’d grown to need their dalliances just as much.
The man had come to him and not the other way around this time — had been the one to initiate in every way — so clearly he was looking for something specific. Odysseus could wait at least a few breaths longer. He was good at that, had had plenty of practice from the games his darling minx of a wife so adored roping him into . There was its own pleasure in forcing stillness onto himself even when he wanted nothing so much than to take and use like a rutting beast.
"Then what is it you want? Use your words, or I won't be able to consider giving it to you." He’d slowly been loosening his hold on the flame-red curls, the tight pull transforming to a slow massage of Menelaus’ scalp, the man in question leaning into the touch with his eyes fluttering shut.
"You wouldn't share the bed with me in the house of Antenor in Troy," came the response in a low, near-dreamy breath with just a hint of reproach, "so I hoped that with your mind centred, with some warming up... you'd be amenable now, here, to hold me."
Ah. Of course. Three days of being maddeningly close to Helen yet being denied so much as a glimpse of her, of being told she didn't even want to return to him — as ludicrous as that was — must have been torment. And Odysseus himself had been so tense and fixated on their survival that he'd missed the signs of his friend and fellow king seeking out more subtle forms of comfort. So now, as soon as there was a chance for privacy, this is what it had come to.
"That 'maybe' earlier was a lie, wasn't it? I ignored you last night when you needed reassurance, so now you want me to make up for it by embracing and comforting you, taking you apart inside and out. Is that it?"
"Not trusting our safety to the Trojan guards was the right choice."
"Yes, but it still deprived you." Odysseus’ hand wandered from the kneeling king's hair to caress his face, fingertips stroking along where smooth skin shifted to the strangely soft silken coils of his beard. "So, spell it out to me. What do you want me to do?"
Menelaus opened his eyes with a groan, and oh was he a sight in the flickering firelight. Pupils blown with desire, a faint redness on his cheeks refusing to fade for being made to properly voice what they both knew well he wanted, the amber-gold remaining visible in his eyes blazing with heat. His head a mane of flaming reds laced with golden light, cast to disarray by fingers combing through it without care as well as harsher holds. "Damn you, Odysseus, I want you to fuck me."
There it was. Unfortunately...
"No."
Odysseus couldn't help but flash a wry little grin before apologetically shushing Menelaus’ wordless sound of hurt betrayal with fingers lightly pressed to the man's lips. “Not yet, at least, not tonight—" not before he'd had time to thoroughly mull over all the implications of the vows he'd sworn with Penelope in the hazy pre-dawn of the day he'd left Ithaca, to fully examine his own feelings about what he considered a betrayal of her, even regarding things he well knew she would not "—but if you can tolerate being denied that, I can take care of you in so many other ways."
A few beats' worth of silence, filled only by the quiet crackling of the fire. And then, his eyes sharpened by determination, Menelaus took hold of Odysseus' wrist to place an open-mouthed kiss to his palm. The Ithacan king's breath caught, idly wondering whether his own simmering desire was as easily read on his face as the Spartan's, and rose to pull Menelaus up to his feet as well. "In that case, we're both still rather overdressed. Make yourself comfortable on the cot, dear friend, while I see to what we'll need."
"Your cot seems rather cosy for two, Laertiades," came the wry reply. "What's wrong with the floor?"
"Though Ithacan fleece is superior to others, it's certainly not layered so thickly here as in your hut, o king of luxurious Sparta." Odysseus laughed, easily setting his already-undone himation to the side before moving to check that the fire would keep burning warm for a long while and disrobe himself, before moving an assortment of... useful things closer to his cot. "The air has warmed, but down on the floors we'll quickly find discomfort from a creeping chill."
"If you say so."
"I know so." Odysseus turned back from where he'd mixed more wine to bring within easy reach — still strong but slightly less so — and paused to stare. The sight... Menelaus settled onto his cot, divested of not only his himation and chiton but also loincloth, sprawled effortless and majestic, and seemingly without shame in his nakedness, like a king artfully draped across a throne. Fiery hair spread out to a lion's mane against the pillows and skin lightly glistening in the warm light. Muscled thighs open and inviting, and a heavy member resting half-mast against one of them from a nest of deep reddish curls. Like a pale bronze statue of some spirit of hedonistic temptation.
He hadn't had the chance to take in the king of Sparta in all his glory like this before, despite their budding... arrangement. But maybe that was a good thing. He was starting to see why Helen had been so adamant from the start — to those she knew wouldn't take it the wrong way at least — that she wanted Menelaus specifically. If Odysseus had held any interest in physical beauty back then, when the god-born princess' suitors had passed time with races and wrestling and comparing physiques, he might have actually been charmed himself.
...Penelope was never going to let him live this down once he told her, was she.
"Gods, Menelaus. You are a sight." He finished the necessary preparations quickly, glad to finally shed his remaining layers of fine cloth and free his own arousal, no longer straining against its containment but still very much at attention, before stalking to the foot end of the bed and laying hands on the red-haired king's thighs, one each, in echo of what the man had done to him earlier. Weighing with his eyes the heft of the man's length. Considering.
There was something he'd thought of that first time, something that would’ve been unwise to try then. Too early, too, for something considered so unconventional. Tonight, though... He ran his hands up and down Menelaus' thighs, giving him an appraising look. Open curiosity and desire warred on the Spartan king's face, and Odysseus let the fluttery anticipation he felt paint a lazy grin on his own. "You know, 'laus... since you covered for me, no one knows how hoarse I may have talked myself in the negotiations."
"Oh?"
The shaft his hands kept wandering near — without touching — twitched, and he grinned wider, settling halfway onto the sturdy cot so he could bow down to press his lips just below the Spartan king's navel, where a trail of copper-red fuzz began. "Yes. Let me show you just how well I can comfort you without taking you like I might a woman."
"So you plan to take me in a different way... Fuck, maybe we should find you an excuse to shave if this is what you prefer, philtate." The words should have sounded like an insult, but Menelaus spoke them teasingly and without derision or malice. Fondly. There was nothing in his voice or the way his eyes were fixed unblinking on him, blown with desire, except awe and burning, all-consuming want.
Odysseus chuckled easily in return, trailing lips and tongue along pale skin in unhurried meanders. One hand still caressing a shapely thigh, the other sneakily digging a small, corked container of oil out from its hiding place among the bedding, where he liked to keep it at hand.
"Not always." He let out a thoughtful, mischievous little hum as he pressed his lips against the bump of Menelaus' hip bone, less than a hand's width from the man's heavy, stiffened sex, and glanced up at him. "If you think I should go bare-faced, dear friend, we might as well shave you too, for what you've asked from me and how much you seemed to enjoy just the suggestion of being made to service me the same way."
"And yet, it would defeat the point of secrecy."
"It would."
"So bearded we both must remain..."
Odysseus disrupted the Spartan king's near-wistful sigh with a lightly slicked hand on his length — a slow stroke from tip to base and back — drawing from the man a breathy moan instead. The oil wasn't a necessity for what he was planning, but it both smelled and tasted pleasant, and would so serve to make things more enjoyable for them both. "We do. None of this is conventional in the slightest anyway."
There was little point in drawing things out further, though he did still take his time regardless, working Menelaus' cock with slow, methodical strokes. Adding some of the little twists and squeezes he'd mastered for pleasing himself and had found the younger king to also enjoy, to draw forth a continuous chain of pants and pleased hums while he took the opportunity to think back and recall what pleasuring another man with his mouth fully entailed. It had been a while — since before Penelope — but at least for this he did have past experience, scant though it was.
When it was starting to look like Menelaus was growing a hair more frustrated at the unhurried pace than he was enjoying it, his sex firm and flushed in Odysseus' hands, the Ithacan finally got properly started, trailing a wet path along the underside of the shaft with his tongue before closing his lips around the tip and gently suckling as if the beading clear liquid was akin to finest nectar. Luxuriating in the way the man's entire body shuddered, drunk on the feeling of power from witnessing the king of Sparta slowly grow desperate and incoherent under his ministrations and cry out.
"O... Odyss—"
"Hush. The walls are sturdy, but there are still people awake and aware beyond them." He made a few more strokes to smear better around the combination of oil, precum and saliva, more firmly than before, shifting when Menelaus bucked his hips to push at least one side of them down with his body weight, before wrapping his lips back around the heated flesh to start a slow but steady rhythm. Focusing on taking the man a fraction deeper with each bobbing movement, licking and sucking a little more, a little harder, every time the Spartan's hips twitched against his hold in halted thrusts.
Even restrained as they were from the man trying to force himself to be quiet, Menelaus' stream of low moans and curses was like music, Odysseus himself silenced by necessity and as such more than eager to wring what sounds he could — and dared — from the other king. With only one of his arms occupied in pinning down the Spartan's hip, his other hand was free to roam and caress heated skin, to seek the man's velvety sack and roll it in his palm, drawing out a muffled cry.
A hurried death-grip appearing in his hair and a glance upwards told him Menelaus was close. What fingers weren’t tugging at his curls, holding his head down and near-trembling from trying to not push, the Spartan had pressed over his own mouth to muffle any too-loud noises escaping him. His red-fuzzed chest was heaving with panting breaths and glistening with sweat, his head thrown back. Odysseus pulled back with a smooth movement, the spit-slick length leaving his mouth with a quiet pop. Menelaus shuddered under him. He grinned.
"Eyes on me, Atreides."
As if by divine command, Menelaus' gaze snapped to Odysseus, equal parts wrecked and ravenous, the heat in it like a physical weight. Similar to their first time, but not quite. There was something different... well, he'd just have to put in the work to draw it out in the open. Maintaining eye contact and a wicked grin for as long as he could, he swallowed the larger king back down, this time not stopping until his nose met wiry, rust-red curls and his eyes started to water from the effort of controlling the spasms of his throat.
"Fuck, Odysseu— gods, please—!"
There was danger in how powerful reducing the king of Sparta to begging made him feel. Peerless. Invincible. God-like. It was heady like undiluted wine. Addicting. And he wasn't nearly done yet.
Odysseus' hand wandered downward, first to the alabastron swaddled among the bedding to gain a fresh coating of oil, then back to gently massage the sensitive flesh below Menelaus' sack while he worked, half-lidded eyes still focused on watching the Spartan's face for his reactions, on swallowing him as deep as he comfortably could over and over. His fingers trailed lower still, to the tight furl between the man's round cheeks, spreading the oil, rubbing it around with purpose. The muffled, sonorous moans hitched, and the king of Ithaca hummed with heady satisfaction around his mouthful, the tip of one of his fingers nudging its way in, just barely breaching the tight ring of muscle.
Menelaus let out a choked, breathless cry, and suddenly both his hands were grabbing fistfuls of Odysseus' hair, pushing him down while his hips bucked up into him like a wild bull, the Ithacan's nose pressing against his pelvis as he was forced to accommodate the entirety of the Spartan king's pulsing, spasming length in his throat. A faint bitterness bloomed on the back of his tongue as he swallowed down the man's release as best he could, the moment stretching for what felt so very long to his air-deprived and lust-addled senses.
Eventually he was released, able to pull himself off the softening member to gasp and cough. Panting, Menelaus sat up to better face him, touching his face with sated warmth but also a clear sheepishness. "Sorry, I didn't expect—"
Odysseus cut him off with a deep kiss, giving the man a thorough taste of the remnants of his own spend, and followed with a reproachful rasp that sounded more wrecked than he’d expected, once they parted. "Warn me next time. There was more I was planning to do."
The Spartan's amber-golden eyes practically lit up with joy at the implication there would be a next time. Odysseus twitched and let out a sharp hiss as the man's other hand, warm and lightly calloused, closed gently around his weeping, near-painfully hard and neglected length.
"What was it you planned to do, if not open me up for this?" Menelaus' voice was rough and husky, to the point Odysseus would have forgiven anyone for thinking he had been the one who'd just been choking on another man's cock. He whined at the touch, curling forward over himself from just how sensitive he'd become for it, and the Spartan had the gall to pull his chin back up to murmur against his lips.
"Eyes on me, philtate."
"Bastard." He wrenched his eyes open as told, regardless, breathing in little puffs of air against Menelaus' mouth from just the sensation of having his neglected flesh touched at all. "I meant to... take you apart with my hands and mouth until you were soft and open... pliant, spent and gentled... and then take my own pleasure from between your thighs."
"Would that really have been enough for you?"
"Yes. It may have been a comfortable chair, but it was still a chair I spent last night on."
Menelaus hummed in thought, squeezing him lightly — barely at all, really — and it took all Odysseus' willpower to not let out a sob at how badly he needed something more, or just start thrusting up into the loose grip, desperate for stimulation. With the way he was leaking, there wouldn't even be need for oil to ease the friction. The man was just holding him in his hand, doing nothing! There was no movement at all, barely anything to feel, and then with a slight twitch of one of his muscles, an involuntary flex, it was all too much. He shuddered, torn to inaction by conflicting wants. His body and mind at odds on how to proceed.
He was better than some mindlessly rutting hound, damn it. He'd had plans, and they didn't involve fucking himself to completion in Menelaus' hand when he had the man's entire finely-sculpted body — save the one part he'd denied himself — at his disposal. The man’s soft mouth, the shapely thighs he'd initially planned for, the thick pectorals he was fairly sure would form a deep valley in between if pressed together...
They'd got into the habit of him taking the more — supposedly — feminine role in their trysts since the first time, and Odysseus had liked the idea of changing the script. Variety was the spice of life, and getting complacent in each other would defeat the purpose of their arrangement. Maybe he shouldn't have refused Menelaus' offer after all, even if he wasn't yet sure how comfortable he was with it... Or how honest or thought-through it had been, right at the heels of what could be taken as Helen's rejection of her husband.
Maybe this was better. There was always next time, after he could take the time to decide if he was willing to actually fuck someone other than Penelope, even with her consent.
"You could still do all that, if you have the will." Menelaus grinned lazily, unaware of the thoughts racing through Odysseus' mind, leaning back a little to give himself space to explore the Ithacan's torso with the hand not cradling his aching manhood, to massage and grope at handfuls of supple muscle with heated touches. Either deliberately prolonging his torment or waiting for him to act, to choose how they'd proceed. "We don't do this nearly often enough for me to be so easily sated."
Theoretically, he probably could do it. But gods... a quick glance down was all he needed to know that in practice he could not. His flesh was hard and straining in the Spartan's hold, flushed an angry red and weeping, while Menelaus' own length was similarly wet and flushed, but barely half-hard if that, still a long way from fully recovering from his release.
Odysseus enjoyed self-control , not pain, and if he wanted to take Menelaus apart before attending to his own needs, it would go far beyond pain. He shook his head.
"My limit is creeping up. We both know your stamina in this is greater than mine, and—" he let out a breathy hiss as Menelaus' fingers raked through his chest hair to scratch the edges of blunt nails against one of his nipples, shooting an electrifying jolt straight to his loins "—and you're not helping. What happened to agreeing to let me take care of you?"
"You did take care of me." The Spartan hummed contentedly. "You swallowed me almost like you've been doing it all your life, philtate. The way you looked with your lips stretched around my cock... sweet gods. "
The breathy rasp of Menelaus' voice told Odysseus the fiery-maned king was all but done recovering enough for another round, and he let out a low, drawn-out groan of desperate frustration, hips twitching as he barely kept from thrusting into the loose hand. "You... you could return the favour. It wouldn't take much to get me over the edge, at this point."
The Spartan chuckled airily, his eyes bright like embers. He released his hold on Odysseus' arousal, and the Ithacan hurried to squeeze on it himself, trying to get the desperate burning in his loins under some modicum of control. The younger, more composed king nuzzled the side of his head, teeth grazing his earlobe. His voice almost apologetic in tone. "Not today, I think. Unlike you, I've no experience in such acts, and will need your full dedication to thoroughly teach me."
"Gods, 'laus..." Odysseus groaned. What was wrong with them, both of them, for their dirty talk to consist of planning for next time while still in the middle of this one? "Your thighs, then. Now."
He could feel Menelaus grin. "Desperate enough to lose all that famed eloquence... How many get the privilege of witnessing your honesty, erasmios?"
"Menelaus."
"So sweet and caring too. As if you couldn't just wrestle me down and take what you wanted. I saw what you did to Philomelides, back on Lesbos." The Spartan king fell back onto the bedding and pillows, fiery curls spreading in a cloud-like mane and hands behind his head, eyes half-lidded yet gleaming bright with lust. Odysseus let out a guttural, lingering sound, taking in the younger man's expression, the heavy rise and fall of his muscled chest, gleaming with beaded sweat, and the flush to his pale-bronze skin. The proudly erect shaft all but demanding attention in the apex of shapely legs, more than ready for a second round before he’d even finished his first.
Without looking away from the pale, freckled flesh spread before him, he found the alabastron hiding within the bedding and shifted to straddle Menelaus' legs, coaxing the younger man to press them together and caging them firmly between his knees before unceremoniously emptying the little container from all it still held over the Spartan's thighs and crotch. Menelaus gasped, twitching.
"It's cold!"
"It'll warm." Odysseus grinned, vaguely feral, running his hands through the oil. Pushing them into the tight squeeze between firm muscles to slick the way, before dragging a slippery palm over Menelaus' sack and up the underside of his length, revelling in the breathy moan it drew from him. "Stay like this."
It was the easiest thing in the world to angle himself and push into the oil-slick gap between the Spartan king's plush thighs, to start rocking into the welcoming warmth beneath his sex in a gentle rhythm. Slow and careful. Himeros' arrows, he was not going to last long. He slid both his hands up Menelaus' torso, leaving gleaming trails of oil, and followed them with his mouth, barely resisting the urge to sink his teeth into the supple flesh of the man's chest as his hips picked up speed.
"Fuck, 'laus... You're perfect."
"O philtate..." the Spartan breathily rumbled, a firm hand — hot but grounding, like claim and trust and desire all entwined together — finding the nape of Odysseus' neck and pulling him in closer still. "O erasmios... touch me, please."
Odysseus groaned, pushing deep into the tight wet clutch of Menelaus' thighs, pressing their bodies together as closely as he could, with the younger king's hardness a blazing brand trapped in between. The tension within him was wound so tight, the fire so searing, that he could have teared up for the intensity of it, was panting from the intensity and mouthing at the soft muscle beneath him. Dextrous hands seeking out dusky nipples to pluck at, teeth grazing freckle-dusted skin as his hips kept up their feverish grind, chasing the peak he'd held back from reaching for more than long enough, his pelvis and stomach massaging Menelaus' rigid length as he moved.
Close. So close. Just a little more. Surely he could bite a little. Just a bit. Just once. Menelaus had. Odysseus wanted to. He wanted so much. Needed.
Menelaus moaned, low and ardent, and Odysseus could feel the man's hardness flex against his lower stomach. He couldn't hold it anymore. He wouldn't. He bit down, seeing stars as Menelaus' shuddering gasp and full-body jolt sent him over, ecstasy washing over him like a tidal wave, more intense than he'd experienced in months. Stretching out, consuming, then too much, too much, and he let out a stifled whine as pressure eased around his spent cock. Proper awareness returned in steps, with relief and bone-deep relaxation on its heels, and he was able to take stock of things.
Menelaus looked a mess, debauched like only he could get, with bite-swollen, glistening lips and glassy eyes burning a deep lust-gold, his rigid desire still pressing into Odysseus' stomach just below the navel. His legs parted now, splaying the Ithacan king's open as well, but more importantly giving him some relief from the intense squeeze of them. And — Odysseus felt his ears heat up from a flush of embarrassment at his lack of self-control — a deep red mark on the left side of his chest, next to a peaked, dusky nipple. The indentations left behind by teeth clear as day.
"Ah..."
"Fuck, Odis, I was—" Menelaus interrupted himself with a wordless groan of frustration and a buck of his hips, jostling Odysseus and driving his hardness to push and slip against the Ithacan's oiled stomach. "If you don't get me off right now, I'll find a way to make you pay."
Odysseus let out an airy, breathless chuckle and pushed himself up with some effort, momentarily straddling the younger man before slipping to sit between his spread legs. Admiring the utter mess of oil and cum coating the apex of Menelaus' thigs, from angrily swollen cock all the way down to the deep cleft beneath, between lightly flushed, full cheeks. The options were... following patterns of earlier encounters, Odysseus could ride him, with his insides or his thighs. But he hadn't been prepared, he was comfortably spent, and his legs were about as sturdy at the moment as wet clay, or beeswax in midsummer heat. He could use his mouth as he had before, but he did still need to talk the following morning — likely a lot — and he was already feeling hoarse. If he did, it would need to be in moderation. So then...
"Do you trust me, Menelaus?"
"No. But get on with it."
"As you wish." A little hurtful after all they'd been through, but the man did have a temper on him, buried in there somewhere behind his too-large and too-soft heart, and frankly, Odysseus felt pride at being able to dig it out to the open every once in a while. He rubbed his hands through the mess of oil and cooling fluids slowly and deliberately, one hand cupping Menelaus' balls before sliding up to take him in hand, the other questing down, pinpointing the still-tight furl of muscle hidden below. Gentle and slow.
The Spartan bucked up into his hand, hard, and he let go, causing the man to actually growl.
"Easy there. Try to keep yourself under some control, we have time."
"If you keep teasing," Menelaus huffed, the sound almost reminiscent of an angry boar, "I'll show Agamemnon my chest. We'll see who has time then."
"Fine, fine," Odysseus laughed before taking the man's straining cock in hand again, and making use of his distraction to sink a finger into him to the first knuckle. "Just remember we don't want to be overheard, my fiery friend."
A low, pleased groan his only answer, he let out a satisfied little hum and got to work. Giving Menelaus' shaft just enough pressure to not frustrate, he focused on coaxing the man's snug insides to open up and accept the intrusion of his slicked fingers, first the slow push and pull of one for a good while, then as soon as the Spartan grew restless, another. Menelaus reached down, and as soon as his hand got near enough, Odysseus stopped all movement and clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You're being so good, 'laus. Don't ruin it for yourself. Grab at me if you need to, but keep your hands off yourself."
"I should just..." the Spartan king groaned, the sound a mixture of near-angry frustration and desire, but redirected his hand to tangle in Odysseus' hair instead. "Gods, erasmios. I want to– to flip you over and bite your thighs all over. Mark you mine."
Fuck. The thought of the two of them entangled like that — each attending to the other, equal in the roles they played — paired with the tight pull at his scalp made Odysseus' cock twitch in interest despite the lethargy that had started to creep in. This could so easily turn into a deliciou— a dangerous feedback loop of constantly riling each other up in turns. Almost reluctantly he filed the idea away for later, throwing a lascivious smirk at Menelaus before crooking his fingers deep in the soft heat of the man's insides just so to find a specific spot, and leaning to mouth hungrily at the underside of his cock as his hand worked the head.
"Shi– fuck— Odis!" The reaction was instant and near-violent as the fiery-maned Spartan came hard, clenching down, bucking up, and pulling Odysseus' head this way and that against his sex as his seed painted not only his hand, but his face and even hair, urged by the pressure Odysseus maintained with his fingers in him throughout. Drawing out Menelaus' pleasure, the half-broken cry shifting to heaving curses before finally gentling to a near-sob, and his punishing grip in Odysseus' hair growing lax.
The Ithacan king gently pulled his hand free, pressing an impulsive kiss to the Spartan's hip before he propped himself up to reach for a cloth he'd luckily had the foresight to prepare earlier to wipe the fresh spend from his face and hair. Looking over what he'd made of the younger man with satisfaction as he let him be for a few breaths to recover. "I hope that makes up for your chest, dear friend."
"Fuck, philtate... That was... damn."
"Eloquent."
"How did you even... Is that what it feels like?"
Odysseus paused his cleaning of himself to give Menelaus a long, incredulous look. "Menelaus Atreides of Sparta. Are you telling me no one has ever done that to you before?" Either the man had had wretched lovers before he got married, or... "You... have lain with men before me, right?"
"Of course I have. I just haven't..."
"Haven't what? Aphrodite's ass, 'laus, are you telling me you've never been the one taken? You asked me to fuck you without mentioning that?"
A single amber eye peered at him from behind the arm Menelaus had resting over his forehead, the other hidden from view. Sheepish. "There's a first time for everything, erasmios... "
"How!? You spent most of your youth in Sparta!" Sure, Odysseus himself had known... very little touch other than that of Penelope before this whole arrangement, had been in a similar situation for their first tryst, but he hadn’t been the one asking then, either. Plus, he had unusual circumstances to excuse himself with and was from a remote island kingdom besides! Meanwhile, if even half the stories of how boys were raised in the inland regions were true, someone like Menelaus should have had men begging for his attention from his first growth spurt all the way to his wedding day. It boggled the mind.
The man gave a one-shouldered shrug "You try experimenting with others when you have Agamemnon fully devoted to defending you from anything and everything he deems either beneath your notice or undeserving of it."
Ah. Mind no longer boggled.
“Point taken.” It wasn't much of an exaggeration to say that this entire war was testament to how protective the older Atreides was over his little brother. Frankly, Odysseus was at least as concerned for his own safety from Agamemnon as he was over the cohesion of the Achaean forces, should any aspect of the dalliances between Menelaus and himself become public. Speaking of which...
He grimaced lightly, stifling a yawn as he set to work on cleaning the Spartan king of the mess they'd made as well, now that the man was no longer too tender for it. "About that... as keen as you are to make up for all those experiences you may have missed, and as flattered as I am to provoke your interest for it, you really should drop the endearments."
"Why?" Menelaus let an appreciative hum and canted his hips exactly the way that let Odysseus better access all the mess on him, and... damn. If he wasn't tired from barely sleeping for three nights...
"As much as we slipped today, this is all supposed to be clandestine." He looked meaningfully down at his thighs — he could count at least three extremely suggestive bruises with only a quick glance, though they were high enough any kind of clothing heavier than a loincloth would be more than enough to cover them — and then at the younger king's chest. "The occasional scrape or bruise we can probably explain away, but what happens if you get comfortable using those sweet words and one of them slips where it's not meant to?"
"I wouldn't!"
"Menelaus..."
"Odis."
Odysseus snorted. "You can call me that however much you want, if it makes you happier." I made him a little bit happy, if he was being honest to himself. Called to mind carefree times nearly a decade ago in Sparta, when each of them had courted their future wives and made mischief with a small group of friends. Him, Menelaus, Antilochus of Pylos, and Diomedes of the Epigoni. Sometimes, if they could manage, accompanied by one or more of the princesses. "Just, drop the erasmios, at least. If drink or delirium takes you and your tongue wags, that one even I won't be able to explain away."
"Do you ever not worry, Laertiades?"
"Sometimes I get too drunk to," Odysseus snickered, pulling with deft hands the still-soiled sheet from beneath his friend and bundling it up with the cleaning cloths before stashing them between the cot and the wall and rolling his shoulders. "That said, should I pour us wine? We could drink for a bit, and you could reclaim some of those cuddles I robbed you of in the city, up until Hypnos creeps in to claim me."
Menelaus rolled his eyes but adjusted how he lay on the rather-small-for-sharing bed to make space as best he could. Odysseus was pretty sure he'd still have to at the very least treat the other man as a pillow. Right now, he could live with that, especially once he had some more wine in his belly. Which he had — the man of incredible planning and foresight that he was — pre-mixed and moved close enough that he didn't even have to fully stand up to pour them both fresh drinks.
"A toast to getting a full night's sleep before the inevitable chaos of tomorrow." The Ithacan king handed Menelaus the other drink and raised his own.
"To you not cursing my whole bloodline when you'll inevitably wake as I get up to leave."
"Heh, good one. To making sure this war doesn't end in disaster, or... take as long as the seer claimed it will."
"To keeping each other sane while it lasts."
"May our enemies grow to regret the day they roused our ire."
"And may we both yet hold our queens in our arms..."
"...yes. May we."
As the oinochoe emptied, the rhytons were eventually set aside, and they settled in, with Odysseus, bleary-eyed, finally free from the tension and stress of his thoughts. Unaccustomed to resting with another warm body next to — under, around — him, but having missed it all the same. Having craved a presence to chase away the gnawing loneliness of sleeping alone. Maybe... this was what Penelope had wanted him to not deprive himself of, when she'd told him to find someone who could distract him from the realities of war. Someone to embrace him.
"...laus...?"
"Yes, philtate?"
"Next time... If you still want me to..." He yawned, blinking slowly and resting his head on the younger king's chest, the steady beat of the man's heart incredibly soothing. "...I'll fuck you."
Whether there was a response, he wouldn't know, drifting off in rare, nostalgic peace.
A good while later, Odysseus jostled half-awake, cursing at the absence of warmth in his bed and burying himself deeper into the layered blankets and furs. A quiet snicker sounded from the side and his hand reached out, found an abandoned, empty container — an alabastron — and tossed it in the voice’s direction as if throwing an unwieldy knife, to a satisfyingly alarmed yelp.
Menelaus should really know better than expect docility for waking him after letting him fully lull himself to sleep in his arms. Toast or not.