Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Aw, my little baby, you’re such a sweet one? Aren’t you, Antinous? Ah, yes you are, yes you are. The prettiest prince there could ever be. Ahah, so soft and precious. The most handsome of all of the little birdies, with your fluffy chest and downy feathers, I could kiss every one of them and–”

“Mama? What are you doing?”

“Oh, Anti! You startled me, darling. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Papa told me I stomp too much so now I walk on my tiptoes.”

“He did, did he?”

“Are you talking to Antinous again?”

“Ahah, but of course, what’s wrong with that?”

“He’s a goose.”

“Crane, darling, and it’s alright to talk to birds.”

“They don’t talk back.”

“Not with words, but they speak in other ways.”

“Like what?”

“Well, oh do you need help climbing up– no, you don’t, do you? You’re a big boy now, huh honey? Ah, right, Antinous can speak with his eyes.”

“His eyes? Eyes don’t have mouths.”

“Pff, no, my little angel, but he does show what he’s thinking just with his eyes.”

“How?”

“Look at his face, sweetie, what do you see?”

“He’s glaring at me.”

“Not, glaring– looking.”

“He looks like he’s glaring.”

“You’re a bit of a smart-ass, aren’t you, Anti?”

“What’s that?”

“Ah, nothing, Mama is being silly. Now you see, Antinous doesn’t have the same vocal chords that we do and–”

“What’s a vocal chord?”

“Uh, let me try again… Antinous can make sounds that only other cranes can understand. Like a– like a different language.”

“Oh, like that old man at the dock?”

“Exactly! Antinous speaks another language with his beak so we must understand him by other means.”

“His eyes?”

“Yes, his eyes. And not only that, but his body language.”

“His body can speak but not his mouth?”

“No, no, darling I mean– uh… huh. Let me try again. Look at his eyes for me, and really look. What is he saying?”

“Uh… he’s looking at me…”

“Yes, what else?”

“He’s blinking slowly… is he sleepy?”

“Is he?”

“Uhh… hmm.. He’s … he’s looking at me like you do, Mama?”

“And how is that?”

“Like when you’re putting me to bed and it’s dark and you think my eyes are closed but they’re really not.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty good at faking it. You look at me like that. Like– like… I dunno, like that.”

“Oh… my darling…”

“Hey, mama, why are you sad? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“No, no, I’m not sad, Anti. I’m touched. You’re my sweetest joy.”

“Mama! Quit hugging me so tight! You’re gonna crush me!”

“Oh yes I am, Mama’s going to strangle you with her love!”

“Hey– ew! No kissies, mama. That’s for babies and I’m not a baby!”

“Well, you’re my baby.”

“I’m seven and a half, I’m basically a grown up.”

“Hmm, you’ll always be my baby.”

“Someday I’ll be big and strong and crush you in a hug.”

“I can’t wait. Watch you grow up and– uh… oh…”

“Mama? Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, darling. I’m fine. Mama’s just been feeling a little sick.”

“Again? Weren’t you sick a few months ago?”

“Yes, it’s– it comes and it goes… huah… Anti, could you be a dear and make Mama her special tea? With the yellow flowers.”

“Aw, but I wanna snuggle more…”

“How about I read you a story if you make me tea?”

“Okay!”

“Thank you, Anti.”

“Anything for you, Mama.”

“Careful not to trip on the– steps…”

“I’m okay! I meant to do that. Be right back.”

“Huh… oh, Antinous, I wish we could fly away from here like you. Why do you always come back, hmm? Speak to me? Ah, maybe you are and I’m just not hearing it. Don’t give me that look, I’m trying, I– I’m really trying but I– I don’t know how much longer I can last but… but I’ll do it for him. I can do this… I will do this. For him…”

“Mama, I got it!”

“Aw, thank you, darling. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“Can you blow on it for Mama? My big, strong boy.”

“Of course, Mama. Anything for you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Antipatros.”

—

“Tighter.”

Telemachus–”

“ Tighter . Please.”

Penelope sighs. “You need to be able to breathe, darling.”

“Well, I can't,” Telemachus snaps. “Haven’t been able to for three years. How is this any different?”

A low blow, especially when he really shouldn’t be directing it towards the very person who is affected by the parasites just as much as he is. Probably even a little bit more. 

Telemachus tastes the regret on his tongue but it stays behind his teeth. Coward that he is. His skin itches to move, to shift on the balls of his feet but he remains as he is. Standing as stiff and straight as a board. Refusing to meet his own eyes in the mirror, he knows that will only break whatever resolve that he has. 

The wrappings tighten somewhat, not to the point that he’d like but he decides not to push his luck. They’ve been growing tense like this. Each day that passes only seems to get longer, the wind drier, sun hotter, and hope lesser. They don’t voice it, to do so would mean the start of a defeat, and neither would be able to handle it. 

He feels the calluses on his mothers’ fingertips as she fastens his wrappings, so fine and only noticeable to him and him alone. She moves quickly, with ease, a person who has done this enough times to be able to do it in her sleep. 

Sometimes he thinks she is. Sleepwalking through life. Waiting. As if it’s not really worth living without his father. 

The thought settles uncomfortably in his stomach, like bile. Isn’t he enough? Can’t his mother live enough for him?

And like the coward that he is, he keeps those thoughts. Both to himself and to him. He should let them go, they’re nothing but petty, childish pouting. A darkness that isn’t fitting of him. 

Perhaps he’s simply a child playing an adult. A boy playing man. 

Not even that—

He clenches his hands so tightly that his nails dig crescents into his palms. 

She catches on, she always does, and her hands go to his shoulders, squeezing tightly. He meets her gaze in the mirror and he’s not sure which is worse; the pity in her eyes, or the discomfort festering over his skin. He’d prefer neither. But instead feels both.

“Thank you,” he rasps, because perhaps he can distract his thoughts by voicing his gratitude. He is– grateful. More than that, so much more that he’s sure his mother won’t be able to comprehend. 

A kiss to the back of his head, his mothers’ height dwarfing him. “Anything for you, my darling.”

At least the discomfort with his body is no match for his mothers’ unconditional love, strained as it might be. He only wishes it were strong enough to wash it away. It sticks to him like tar in his teeth, bitter on his tongue and bloating his stomach and–

Actually, he’d rather not think about it. He doesn’t want his dead to be any more glum than it already will be. Then it already is. 

A soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” he says, this time his voice deeper. It’s become easier over the years, not easy but easier. Practice helps. The fear of being found out is a good motivator. And his own self loathing an even sharper nudge. 

Eurycleia appearing isn’t a surprise, he knows her knocks, the sounds of her feet, the way she breathes. Telemachus has taught himself to pick up on the little details. Of everyone. It’s easier with these two, he spends the most time with them. He’s sure that he could pick them out in a crowd blindfolded. They are a part of him almost more than he himself is.

He doesn’t hunch when she lays eyes on him but he does focus his gaze on the fabrics in her hand. He squares his shoulders, shrugging off the hands of his mother. He should feel bad but he doesn’t have the mental capacity to on top of all the other emotions rolling under his skin. Apprehension, determination, hope, dread– they fight for his attention. Roaring inside of him.

No words are exchanged as Eurycliea dresses him, pinning his chiton in place. His laurel atop his head like a crown, the one that belongs to him but stays just out of his reach, always. His sandals fastened carefully, arm bands even more so. The jewelry clinking and fabric swishing the only sounds in the silent room.

The chlamys weighs heavy on his shoulders but he refuses to let them droop. He will remain tall, strong. The man of the house.

Penelope’s eyes fill with tears when he stands before her, Eurycleia still fluttering around him, making last minute touches. He feels a blush spread over his face and resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest– a habit he often does when feeling self conscious. Too often. 

“You look like him,” she whispers.

The two emotions well up in him at the same time, almost hard enough to knock him over.

Pride. Looking like the lost king, the man that is of legends. Telemachus can feel the corners of his mouth tug at him as a smile fights to cover his features. And he knows that his mother doesn’t just mean by appearance, she means in his soul, that he carries the heart of a king, power in his blood. The way that her eyes carry no lies, no deception or sugar coating to her words, almost makes Telemachus start to tear up like her.

Anxiety. Having to replace such a legendary man, who left an entire kingdom in his stead. His eye twitches and the smile doesn’t make, lips still drawn in a thin line. Living up to that expectation, one that he knows he will never be able to, sends his heart into the balls of his feet. Heavy and ugly and perhaps he will start crying for a different reason.

Those feelings battle themselves out, neither truly winning or losing. Telemachus wishes they would. He wishes that he didn’t have to constantly live on the precipice, that his mind could make up its– well, mind , and he could either be happy or miserable. Such turmoil just leaves him tired. So unbelievably tired . 

But sleep eludes him too, just like his wants. And that desperation for stability drifts further and further away with every passing day. Every passing day without a king, with strangers in the halls, and tension in the air.

There’s not much more of this they can take. Telemachus and Penelope, and their people.

Which is why–

“Are you ready?”

Telemachus snorts at the absurdity. “No.” Truthful and it earns him a wry smile from his mother. He smiles back, genuine. It’s nice to see her smile. He doesn’t get to very often anymore.

She used to, back then. Back when times were simpler and her biggest worries were when Odysseus was returning, not if . No, no, that isn’t fair. His mother is steadfast on his return, more sure than anything. Telemachus wishes he could feel the same. 

Sometimes he does. Sometimes it feels as if his hope for his fathers’ return is as strong as golden string. He feels it deep within his bones, like his father is just on the horizon. Coming back with his fleet, gold and richest beyond his wildest imagination and enough stories to tell that it takes him ten years to get through a quarter of them.

But that’s becoming less and less frequent. Nowadays, Telemachus is lucky if he sees one of the portraits of his father without getting a sour face. That he doesn’t stay up late into the night devising and scrapping plan after plan of what they will do since– since… since he’s not coming back.

He doesn’t voice these thoughts. Not to Eurycleia, or the staff, and especially not his mother. He needs to remain strong for her. Just like she’s remaining strong for him.

Pretty lies they tell each other. 

He knows she’s getting tired. The lines on her face are more pronounced, and that’s not only because of age. The guilt gnaws at him like a starving rat.

His father was king well before the age he is now, why isn’t he?

Pathetic.  

“You don’t have to,” Penelope says quietly.

Telemachus is already shaking his head before she’s even finished her sentence. “Yes, I do.”

A beat of silence. 

He tests out the weight of his garments, like testing out the weight of the world. It really is on his shoulders, huh?

The hug is a surprise and Telemachus lets out an indignant squawk. His arms flail and he nearly falls over. Her perfume encases him and despite the anxiety building in his gut, he calms a little. The scent of her always doing that.

“When did you get so grown up?” she sniffles. Telemachus awkwardly returns the hug. He doesn’t mention that he stopped being a child the moment those dogs traipsed through the palace doors as if they owned the place. Penelope squeezes him tighter.

“The council is waiting,” Eurycleia interrupts.

Penelope huffs. She doesn’t let go and Telemachus is pretty sure he can’t breathe. “Let them wait. What have they ever done for us but waste our time anyway?”

“Mother, they are your council.”

“A room full of men with their heads so far shoved up their asses isn't a council,” she responds snidely. 

Telemachus lets out a bark of laughter. And to think his mother wonders where he got his potty mouth. It’s her own fault after all. Try as she might to blame the staff or the fact that all he does is read every scroll and book he can get his hands on, it’s his mother who has raised him to be a menace. 

She should be proud of that. 

“Would you like me to tell them that before or after I ask them for respect?”

Penelope cuffs him on the back of his head. He furiously goes to fix his hair, patting it down and rearranging it so he doesn’t look like he got into a fight with an owl. And lost.

He already loses enough fights. 

“Wish I could come with you.”

Telemachus swallows thickly. “Aye, m-me too. But they won’t listen to their prince if he has his mother for ‘moral support’.” They don’t even listen to him as it is. But they will this time. They have to. This is one of his and his mothers’ last resorts. The other is–

He pushes that out of his mind, placing it up high like the impossible bow– out of reach. Taking a deep breath, he stands straight again and raises his chin.  

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, he turns and heads for the door. His mother and Eurycleia stay behind, it wouldn’t do to have two women trailing behind him. As much as he would really like to. The ridiculousness of the nature of society makes him want to tear his heart out. It’s simply not fair. But when has life ever cared about fairness? If it did then he wouldn’t be–

Head held high as he passess guards and servants alike. At least they have the decency to bow their heads to him, unlike some loiterers in these halls. Or perhaps they’re simply better at pretending to respect him.

Doesn’t everyone lie to one another?  

Focusing on the sound of his sandals hitting the floor, he keeps his breathing in time with them. Maybe then he won’t start to hyperventilate. Maybe then he won’t feel inadequate. Maybe then he can delusion himself into feeling like he has any sense of power.

The double doors to the council room stand before him too soon, much too soon. Telemachus gulps, dryly. It gets stuck in his throat and he resists the urge to cough. A few deep breaths and he’ll open the door. Easy as pie. Just speak with the council, get them to hear his side, the side of their crown, and all will be well in the end. Just–

“Panting like a dog already? Why young prince, I thought you were more human than canine.”

Of all the people to interrupt him mid panic attack.

Telemachus doesn’t flinch, to which he is proud of. But he does stiffen and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Antinous chuckles behind him and comes to stand near him. Too near. How a man with such… mass such as Antinous is able to sneak up on him is beyond him. 

At least he’s not stupid enough to stoop to the fiend’s level. His hands twitch and his mouth itches but he keeps his palms open and a polite smile on his lips. “Lord Antinous. What a pleasure to run into you. I had expected you to already be in the meeting room. What could be so important that kept you from joining the meeting that has been planned out for weeks?”

He phrases it like a genuine question but laced with venom. Does Antinous really care so little for the very house he’s invading that he can’t even show up for a meeting on time? 

Antinous slaps his back, hard, and Telemachus nearly stumbles forward from the force. Nearly. He keeps his footing. “Ah, fret not, young prince. Merely duties that are below your rank. You needn’t wrought yourself with them. And anyway, I could ask the same for you.” He leans down so he’s level with Telemachus. Telemachus refuses to side eye him, staring straight ahead even as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “You called this meeting yourself and yet you can’t even be bothered to show up? Not very responsible of you, can you even call yourself a prince ?”

How does he always know how to strike his nerve? Telemachus spins on his heel, finger pointed at Antinous’ chest threateningly. “How dare–”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because at that moment, the double set of doors opens. Telemachus and Antinous stand in the doorway for all to see. Telemachus looking like he’s two seconds away from lunging at the man and Antinous standing casually. 

Telemachus immediately regulates himself, switching so fast from the angry man to the respectable prince, or at least, what he hopes anyway.

Politics is power, and Telemachus intends on keeping it.

He doesn’t push Antinous out of his way, per say, but if he nudges the large man’s body a little– just a little– who’s going to judge him? He walks into the council room, aware of all of the eyes on him. He can already feel his garments dampening from the cold sweat that he breaks into and his hands shake. A deep breath, squaring of his shoulders, and one foot in front of the other.

He can do this.

Because he has to.

For his kingdom. For his people. For his mother. For him.

He. Can. Fucking. Do. This. 

It’s a godsend that he doesn’t trip and eat the tiles, making his way to his seat with what he hopes looks like poise and power. The eyes burn holes into his body but he doesn’t let his discomfort show on his face. He’s better than that. He’s better than them.

For he wouldn’t have allowed such men to invade the home of his crown and leech off of them. He wouldn’t have allowed it at all. 

And Telemachus is going to put an end to it. Once and for all. 

“Lord Antinous, Prince Telemachus,” a councilman says. “Now that you have arrived, we shall begin.”

And already they are testing his patience, proving to Telemachus that they do not respect him. Titling Antinous before they title him. He’s a fucking laughing stock to them, nothing more than a boy playing dress up in his fathers’ clothes and–

No.

Telemachus juts out his chin. They want for him to spiral, for him to hunch his shoulders and appear small. Another tactic they have. For years they’ve belittled him, and his mother. Not seeing a woman able to bear the weight of the crown and not seeing him fit to rule. 

But what they think doesn’t matter, shouldn’t, not when it comes to their prince. And he will demand their respect, it is his right .

“Please, Telemachus, speak what you–”

“Prince,” Telemachus interrupts.

The man blinks slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Prince Telemachus,” Telemachus repeats himself just as slowly. “I am your prince and you will address me as such.”

A snort poorly disguised as a cough. Telemachus doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Antinous. A shame that nearly half of the councilmen are suitors. The nagging in the back of his mind grows stronger with every passing minute, getting harder and harder to ignore. 

The man’s eyes flash but Telemachus doesn’t back down. He can’t. Now that he’s issued his own title as a challenge, he needs to keep his spine. Relenting is the first step of defeat and Telemachus intends to keep his feet still. 

“A thousand apologies, Prince Telemachus,” the man spits out. Telemachus relishes in the dust of pink on his cheeks. “A simple mistake on my part. It won’t happen again.”

Telemachus throws him a well-practiced smile. “Carry on.”

The air is thick with tension, too thick to slice with a single knife. Perhaps he should have been more lenient with these men, after all, they are holding his fate in their hands. But Telemachus has grown sick of swallowing his pride for them. 

“Prince Telemachus, to what do we owe the pleasure of a council? Surely all is well in Ithaca?”

A trick question. If Telemachus is to say no, then he risks insulting their ability to take care of it. If he says yes, then they will disband the meeting and he’ll be back at square one. It was already near impossible to get this one meeting. He had had to fight tooth and nail to be able to stand before them while they barely even had to get off of their asses. 

It takes everything in him not to glower at them. Instead, he lets his words weave like a tapestry. 

“Esteemed councilmen of Ithaca, suitors of Penelope,” he nearly vomits at addressing the dogs with anything more than the scum from the bottom of his sandal. But he’ll reel in his animosity just long enough to get his speech out. “Hospitality is something my house and I hold very dear.”

It’s easy to start with something so vague, to lull these men into false senses of security before he lets the proverbial ball drop. Already he can see a couple of eye rolls and one or two men whispering to one another, probably discussing what they’ll be having for lunch. 

Bottomless pits. Their stomachs and hearts alike.

He doesn’t let his anger consume him, although he’s aware of his fathers’ wrath building up inside of him. His mother likes to say that he has his anger and her patience, two things that can only be at a standstill for so long until he bursts. 

“Xenia is of the utmost importance to us, and to the rest of you, I’m sure.” He makes sure to meet every one of the men’s eyes. At least the men who acknowledge him. Less than half. 

Eurymachus is missing, but his appearance is often a fifty-fifty chance. The man graces a room with his presence when he deems fit, or he’s too busy getting his dick wet. For a man who likes to parade his wit around, he sure does think with the head between his legs rather than atop his shoulders. 

It’s irksome to feel jealousy over the fact, but Telemachus does. He can’t afford such leisure’s. He barely has the energy to help himself some nights, usually too tired to relieve his stressors. While these dogs can get themselves off whenever and however often they like. 

He takes deep breaths. Calm. He must be as still as the bottom of the sea. Even when a storm is above, it shows no turmoil below. He will be like that. He has to be.

“Which is why–” He takes a deep breath. “I cannot allow the men vying for my mothers’ hand to remain any longer.”

And that gets their attention. The men stop whispering, turn to stare at him, at the little prince who dares to say the quiet part at loud. Because in all the three years having to put up with the dogs, neither Penelope nor Telemachus outright refused them. To do so would not only be disrespectful, but could risk the wrath of Zeus.

And angering a god is a fate worse than death. 

Telemachus feels the burn worsen as they pin him with their stares. But he doesn’t hunch. If he can’t physically expel these men like his father would, then he’ll do so verbally. His father carried wit upon his silver tongue, perhaps it will be the one thing Telemachus has inherited. 

“And why,” a councilman calls out. Bold of him. “Is that?”

Telemachus has steeled himself for this moment. He’s repeated it over and over in his mirror, so that he could say the words without stumbling.

He refuses to feel shame. He’s doing the right thing, the only thing that can spare his mother. He’s doing this for her more than himself or his kingdom.

“The suitors have broken the sacred law.”

As expected; uproar.

Chairs tip over when some of the men stand up too fast, chlamys get tangled up in one another, and their voices screech against each other. Telemachus stays still, standing as straight as his spine will allow. The ache of the wraps is small in the back of his mind, it always lingers, but right now it’s not as important as keeping his composure.

It takes the slam of a hefty book on a table to quiet the noises, the suitors jumping a little at the sudden noise. Telemachus doesn’t, which surprises him. Maybe he actually is growing stronger. Not just his body, although he supposes the training with Athena helps. 

But maybe, just maybe, he’s gaining confidence. 

A small smile ghosts his lips. He allows it for a few seconds more.

“Prince Telemachus,” the councilman says, grabbing his attention. As well as the attention of the rest of the room. “What could have happened that could possibly make you think these fine men deserve to be expelled from a house they wish nothing but prosperity for?”

A single inhale through his nose. No shame, there is no shame in this. He will still be a man, he is still a man. A man does what’s best for those he loves most.

He exhales. “They attacked me.”

—

Antinous is surprised, and perhaps a little impressed. He never knew the little wolf had it in him. Even now, seeing the boy standing straight and eyes bright, he can see him shaking. His fists twitch at his sides but he doesn’t clench them. Another surprise. Antinous has to hand it to him, he’s more cunning than he had first thought.  

Of course, it’s ruined with the flaming of his cheeks as several of the suitors and councilmen burst into loud snorts and eye rolls. 

He almost joins them, but holds back. It’s odd, now, that the prince is even accusing them of such things. Especially when he doesn’t remember doing anything of the sort. It sends something possessive curdling in his stomach. If the men dared to touch the brat without his permission, he’ll have to make a demonstration of them. 

The boy lets out a long breath of air, indiscernible to everyone but Antinous it seems. 

Something is off here, Antinous narrows his eyes. Why now? Why has the prince and his holed away mother decided to publicly renounce their hospitality? 

He doesn’t like how abrupt it is either, the queen and her brat never once let on that they were growing sick enough of the suitors’ presence to actually voice it. 

Antinous is no fool, he knows better than to not look over his shoulder. He’s been doing it for over ten years. Call him paranoid but at least it’s kept him alive, has kept him Antinous , and the notion that this spoiled brat could take that away from him makes his own hands start to shake with rage. 

But he’s smarter than the boy. And perhaps a little more vindictive. 

A smile stretches over his face, sharp and unkind. “Gentlemen, gentlemen.” 

His voice doesn’t boom across the room but it is strong enough to get their attention. He always commands a room, takes great pride in it. It wasn’t always like this, but he’s gone to great lengths, has crawled his way to standing before these men like a king, and he will use every drop of power he has so long as it gets him what's his right. 

“Let the boy speak.” He gestures to Telemachus, doesn’t miss the way the boy’s eyes flash with barely constrained rage at being referred to so callously. “He went to all this trouble for us to hear him, we could at least show him our respect in such. He is the crowned prince after all, and we are but his humble subjects.” Until one of them stakes the claim to the throne and slits his throat. “It is his right to share his thoughts, after all.”

Antinous nods in Telemachus’ direction, giving him the go ahead to speak. He knows from the darker flush of the boy’s cheeks that he’s absolutely fuming. 

They won’t listen to him but they’ll easily listen to Antinous, a man who’s very sole mission is to steal the crown from under him. The irony amuses Antinous and angers the boy. Good. 

The boy is just full of surprises though, for instead of lunging for Antinous with his fangs out, like Antinous can see him fantasizing, he rolls his shoulders and sucks in a fortifying breath. 

Perhaps he really is more wise than he gives him credit for. 

“It happened four moons ago,” the boy says. His voice carries strong, nasally, but strong. The wry thought of the prince having to repeat it over and over in the mirror makes him almost endearing. Almost. “In the grand hall.”

The prince sweeps his gaze over the crowd, making sure to make eye contact with anyone that dares to. Antinous hasn’t once yet looked away from him and when their eyes meet again, Antinous sees a burning fire in them. It’s impressive. But insubordinate. 

“Antinous attacked me.”

Antinous raises an eyebrow.

“In my own home, breaking the laws of hospitality.”

Ah, so this is what he means by attacked , Antinous has to commend him, even he is not so delusional to think that that moment in the hall is anything of note. He supposes the little wolf must have been thinking about it for quite a while. Antinous has barely given it any thought. Save for a few smug moments in his room late at night. And perhaps teasing remarks to the boy every once in a while. And whenever the claws of anxiety threaten to cut him. And—

“Attacked?” Antinous distracts himself by speaking, drawing the rapt attention of the entire room. He cocks his head to the side in false confusion. “However do you mean, young prince? What have I done that could make you think I attacked the son of the woman who I wish nothing but love and care for?”

Getting under the princes’ skin is laughably easy, just a comment about his mother gets him all bothered. Any young man would want to, to protect his mother from men like him —

The boy juts his chin out further, haughty for a pup who can’t even walk without his tail between his legs. “You remember, do not pretend ignorance, Lord Antinous. You talk of it often. I would assume you dream of it.”

“Oh,” Antinous makes a show of ‘coming to the conclusion’ and looks aghast. “Are you referring to the scuffle we had? That was so long ago, Prince. I hardly remember it at all. But, if I do recall, you did attack me unprovoked.”

“Unprovoked!” The boy all but shouts. It’s getting harder for him to compose itself. “You insulted my house and threatened the livelihood of my mother. How are my actions unprovoked?”

Antinous has this situation in the palm of his hand. It’s almost unfair. Well, it is unfair, but not enough for him to give it to the boy. He will not have what he’s clawed for be torn away from him so easily. Not by this brat. He’s worked too hard to get where he is now. 

“Gentlemen, it seems the poor lad is misinformed. We cannot blame him, after all, a boy who grows up without a father is subject to the faults of his own hostility.”

Murmurs from the men as they agree with him, even though they don’t know where he’s going with this. Just that their admiration for Antinous pairs well with their disdain for the prince. Something Antinous always uses to his advantage. 

“You—”

The prince is easy to speak over, not like anyone is listening to his whining anyway. Antinous stands now, bringing himself up to his full mass and height, towering above even most of the other men here. He’s a showman, always has been. He smiles like a politician, speaks with the patience of a king. “You see, the boy and I were merely scrapping. A few jokes between men. You understand how it is, jests that don’t really mean much.”

Councilmen and suitors alike nod and verbalize agreements. So easy, like leading a pack of dogs. 

The boy’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t lunge for Antinous like he thought he would. His composure is slipping however. His chest rising and falling and eyes pinpricks of hate. 

A wolf pup in a den of dogs, staring down a lion. 

“If anything, I was merely doing the boy a favour. Some tough love, if you will. After all,” Antinous licks his bottom lick while staring at the brat. “The boy needs a daddy to teach him all the things he’s so clearly lacking.”

The boy makes it two feet before he stops himself, eyes widening as he realizes he was only a few seconds away from assaulting Antinous in such a sacred room. Doing so would not only break the code of xenia that he’s oh so pathetically trying to appeal to, but lose whatever modicum of respect he still has left, pitiful as it is. 

The air has changed to much more tense, the councilmen eyeing Telemachus for the feral mutt that he is. They’re waiting, just waiting for a chance to pounce on him. Antinous could very well let them have it. It would be so easy too. Just to shift the tide a little more in his favour and make the boy even more of a laughing stock. More than he already is. 

But while Antinous is cruel, he’s not stupid. Humiliating the prince more than a hit to his ego or a few bruises would get him nowhere. It’s already impossible to woo the conniving bitch of a queen, stripping her son of his title would only make her turn her approval elsewhere— if she were to choose a man at all, it’s still highly likely that she’ll sooner slit her wrists than choose a proper king. 

That or her favour will fall to Amphinomus, kiss-ass that he is. Antinous wouldn't put it past the queen to choose the weakest of the men, just to spite them. Amphinomus may have the build of a bear but he’s about as harmful as a fly. 

“Hold no contempt against him, brothers.” Antinous doesn’t miss the way the boy’s eyes twitch at the casualness to which he addresses these men. Something he doesn’t and won’t ever have. “For he’s grieving. Losing a father is something any son would mourn for years.” Not that he can relate but Antinous pushes those thoughts from his mind. “It’s only understandable that he lashes out like a child, or doesn’t see the comradery of a good tussle between men as anything but violent. It’s not his fault for his volatile attitude. We must show him compassion.”

And oh does the prince really look like he’s about to ignite. His face bright red and eyes blazing with a fury that Antinous will be thinking about later tonight. 

Antinous knows how much the prince loathes his condescension, so he makes sure his tone drips with it. “As any man would.”

The boy will burn himself alive if he keeps this up. A shame. Antinous bows his head in mock reverence and dismisses the case as quickly as it came. He turns from staring at the sight of the fuming brat to his fellow men. He’s about to suggest moving to the courtyard, perhaps sparring or enjoying the lazy afternoon, but a shrill voice stops him. 

“No.”

Antinous almost rolls his eyes. The prince is persistent, he will give him that. 

All eyes are on the prince again, annoyance bordering on anger now. He’s spoiling their day, keeping them from lazing about the palace. 

The prince rights his spine, hands lax at his sides and tilts his chin up, looking down the bridge of his nose. “It was not a simple scrap .” He spits the word out. “It was an assault on my honour, my house, and my person. Antinous initiated it by goading me on, appealing to my devotion to my mother— something he seems to lack— and attacked me. His behaviour is sordid at best and treasonous at worst.” The prince takes a step forward, breathing more evenly. “I cannot allow him, nor the rest of the men who stood and watched— encouraged— the altercation. Doing so just proves that they do not hold Ithaca’s best wishes, and only desire to fill their bellies and egos. They cannot be welcomed here.”

A blatant accusation with a demand, Antinous is growing more and more surprised by this brat with every passing moment. It seems perhaps his spine isn’t just filled with silk after all. 

The prince narrows his eyes when they meet Antinous’. “They are not welcomed here.” He flashes his canines, sharp.

Antinous licks his lips, savouring. “Dearest prince, most esteemed heir to the throne, have you no gratitude?”

The blue eyes almost disappear with how much they squint further. “Excuse me?”

Walking like a feline, a lion towards a sniveling wolf, and the prince all but folds his ears in defensiveness. “We’ve offered you nothing but understanding. And here you are, throwing that all away by throwing a childish temper tantrum.”

“I am not—”

“We’ve dined in your halls, yes. Slept in your beds and shared space with your staff. But have you forgotten as to why? Do you understand that our honour far outweighs whatever you think we side most?”

“You don’t—”

“It would be cruel, outright disrespectful of us to do anything but wait. Here, within these very halls, we are nothing if not respectful. Some men might demand the hand of your mother, force her to choose one of us to sit atop the throne…” Antinous pauses for dramatic effect, sweeping his gaze around the room again before landing back on the prince. “But we are not those kinds of men. For we are honourable, waiting for her to make the decision, for when she ultimately does, we will be there to accept it with an open heart.”

“An open mouth is more like it. You are vile , wicked liars, the lot of you.” The prince is frothing at the mouth. He ought to be careful, dogs with rabies are to be put down. “You do not care for the crown, you do not care for Ithaca. You care only for yourselves!” The boy doesn’t let his stare leave Antinous’. “You are dogs without masters. This is no home of yours. You will never find a home.”

Home. Home . The words strike a chord deep within Antinous, reverberating against his ribs and his heart stutters.

The feelings are back, the pain, the blood pouring over his eye and dripping down his chin. His mouth is tainted with iron. His own hands stained with the invisible crimson over what he’s done, what he can never undo. Her eyes are closed and he can’t convince himself that she’s sleeping, not this time—

“Careful, boy ,” he growls. His voice low in the back of his throat. 

Telemachus doesn’t back down, a small victory gleaming in his eyes as he sees some sort of reaction in Antinous’. “Is that a threat, Lord Antinous?”

Antinous takes a step towards him. “Do you want it to be?”

The barest flinch but not retreating. He’s grown bolder. “Yes.”

Another step, still catlike but no longer taking it leisurely. Stalking And another. Antinous feels his own blood boiling. Who does this little bastard think he is, bitching and whining like a child and expecting to be treated like an adult. He’s nothing but a sniveling boy. 

Antinous looms over him, his own breath steady as his heart races. The boy’s chest is heaving but his eyes remain bright. Energy cackles between them, volatile and lethal. 

Snuff out the fire in his soul, burn him so hot that he melts, ablaze in the glory of a fire—

“And what would you do if it was? All you ever do is waggle that tongue of yours.”

“I’d bite.”

“Would you?”

“Aye.”

“And break xenia?”

“It wouldn’t be breaking it if you caused it to snap.”

“But Telemachus—” And oh how Antinous relishes the full body flinch that the prince gives him when he says his name— no title, no respect. He should do it more often. Or not, if doing so infrequently means that the pup’s reaction is better. “It would be. Come now, a man such as yourself should understand the laws of his own house. Or— perhaps not.” He grins and leans in close, lips brushing his ear so only they can hear. “You’re not even a man, are you?”

It happens so fast that Antinous is sure that even the prince himself doesn’t realize he lunged at him, a pathetic excuse of a battle cry, before he’s being pulled off of him. He’s kicking his feet, snarling like a feral wolf. 

Antinous is stunned enough that he doesn’t register the pain, that is until he feels wetness on his neck. He brings a couple of fingers to his neck and when he pulls away, they’re dripping with crimson. 

Telemachus grunts and when Antinous looks back up to meet his gaze, he’s licking his lips. 

“ Young prince !” The councilman pushes himself between Antinous and Telemachus, his back to Antinous so he can’t see his face but the offense is evident enough in his voice. “Have you no shame? No respect for your fellow man?”

The two men holding the prince are being a bit too rough but no one mentions it. He writhes in their grasps, seeming to come to himself now. Realization paints his face with a pretty horror and he stills his movements. 

Antinous holds the wet fingers for a beat too long, lingering just a little too much, before—

His laughter comes as a surprise to everyone in the room, even him. But it’s boisterous and there’s no swallowing it. He basks in it, lets it consume him, a distraction. From how the prince had jarred him just moments ago. He’ll shake it off and by nightfall, he won’t even remember it. 

He will remember this look in the wolf pup’s eyes though, that’s something that he won’t ever be able to forget. That fire, despite the boy having the coldest blue eyes— tinted with grey— they burn hot, oh so hot, into his very soul. 

“You heard him,” the prince all but whispers. His voice is dry, raspy, like he’s inhaled a fires full of smoke. “He means to dismiss me, in my own palace. I will not have it. He’s making a mockery of—”

“You’ve done quite a good enough job of doing that I think,” Antinous croons. He ignores the quiver in his throat, the strain goes unnoticed anyway. He’s ever the calm and unperturbed suitor. His act has been carefully crafted for years, it won’t be unraveled by a simple bite . “Look at yourself, you cannot even stand amongst the men of Ithaca without losing your temper like a wench.”

The boy growls and lunges again, forgetting himself again. The men hold him back, but it’s a struggle. Worrisome but Antinous doesn’t show it. How has this son of a tramp been able to stealthily hide the fact that he’s been training. From his writhing, his chlamys has slipped off a shoulder and he can see the development of muscle. How? And when? Who?

“Calm yourself, boy, or we will have to teach you some manners.”

“ That . That’s a threat.”  High pitched, whiny. A haughty bitch. 

“It is advice. And offering a lesson.” Antinous is in his personal space bubble again, just to watch his eyes narrow. He can smell the loathing and it’s never been more delectable. “You’d best take it, actually. How else will you ever be able to live up to the ghost of your fathers’ legacy without a proper man to guide you?”

“Besmirchment!”

Antinous shrugs, falling back onto his heels to give them some space. “Call it what you like, little prince. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re as ill equipped to discern between a threat and a helping hand.” He adjusts the chlamys for the boy. “I did not attack you, it was a scuffle. I handed you your ass, yes, but a boy needs to learn how to fight before he can call himself a man. Land more than a lucky shot and perhaps you can play with the big boys.” 

He gives a short nod to the two men holding him back. They hesitate for but a moment before letting him go, albeit a bit rough. The boy steps away from them, rubbing his arms and shoots them a glare. Not very princely or tactically political of him at all. He really should get a lesson or two. 

“We’re done here.” Antinous turns and starts to leave, already planning what type of flavoured oil he will dip his bread in. 

“No, we are not.”

The men brush past the boy and Antinous spares him one last smirk before he, as with the rest of the men, leave for affairs that are worth their time. Leaving the boy to call after them, voice raising in pitch and desperate anger. 

—

“Dear, how did it g—”

Telemachus screams and throws his chlamys on the floor. The dull thump isn’t nearly as satisfying as he needs it to be. 

Hot. Scorching. Incinerating heat that tears its claws through his skin, ripping it off and into shreds. His hands shake as he clenches them, brings them up to his head and yanks at his hair. 

Penelope stands from where she was seated on his bed and makes her way swiftly to him. Quick and sufficient steps and she’s upon him before he knows it. Her hands are gentle atop his and gives a gentle pull. “Sweetheart, please don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

A wet laugh bubbles up and dribbles out of his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters.”

She sighs and holds his hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs over the backs of his hands. “I take it they did not listen?”

“Do they ever?” Telemachus snaps, then immediately feels bad. His mother isn’t who he wants to be shouting at, never her. The suitors, himself, his father— but never his mother. “M’sorry.”

“No, no, it is alright.”

“But it’s not!” And he stomps his foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “They didn’t even fucking believe me! They said it was nothing but a scuffle, a scuffle! As if Antinous beating me within an inch of my life if a fucking scuffle .”

The sharp intake of breath. He never really told her how bad it was, that moment in the hall. When Antinous used his fists instead of only his words. Sure, he’d cuffed or shoved Telemachus before, but nothing to the extent of that. If it hadn’t been for Athena, Telemachus is sure that his mother would still be in mourning of him. 

“And they listened to him. Of course they fucking did.” It’s actually funny how Telemachus thought he stood even a chance.”

Penelope squeezes her hands. “I’m sorry, dearest. You put yourself through that, only for…” Nothing “Them to discredit it. I should have known. I shouldn’t have made you throw away your pride like that.”

He’s already shaking his head. “No, no, Mother. It was my idea. My choice. I-” He gulps. “I should have been more…” Manly . “Assertive. It’s no one’s fault but mine.”

Her arms tighten around him and he does melt into the embrace. Her mint and lavender envelop him, calming him somewhat. But that anger and disappointment for himself remains. 

“Nonsense.” She says it with such authority that Telemachus can’t help but believe her for a few seconds. If only he could be as strong. “It was foolish of us to assume that dogs could understand human speech. They do not know words, only actions.” She exhales regretfully. “So we must use the language they speak.”

His heart catches and he pulls away from the hug just enough to meet her gaze. “You don’t mean…”

“I must initiate the challenge.”

“No.” He cares not for how harsh he sounds. Pushing away from her to glare. “You cannot.” He can’t stand to look at her, so he starts to disrobe. Swiftly pulling off the offending garments. They’re ironic, he doesn’t feel like a prince, the man of the house. 

She cannot—

“We must.”

“No. I already said that’s out of the question.”

“And I said that we would try your route first. I allowed it, Telemachus. Even though I was hesitant to it. I can’t stand to have you against them. Alone with them. They’ll eat your face sooner than respect it.”

“Wow, thanks. I’m grateful for the confidence you have in me.” He pulls on a plain chiton, old and a bit torn. It offers him comfort for some odd reason. Makes him feel a little less uncomfortable with his body. It’s odd, it’s just fabric, but the specific way that it falls over his body hides the curves and fat he’d rather do without. 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Penelope says. Flat. She’s tired. But so is he. “Those men do not respect you, I don’t think they respect anyone that isn’t themselves. It is not because of… your uniqueness. They do not know , my dearest.”

Telemachus sucks on his teeth. “You don’t know for sure.”

“If they knew, they would try to court you instead.” Bluntness runs in the family. 

He whirls around. She meets his gaze and doesn’t look away. He’s not proud of how he does first, but he’s never won a single fight in his life, he’s not about to start now. “Would— would that be better?”

“Telemachus—”

“Perhaps I should.” Disgust and absolute nausea. “If it would mean you are still loyal to Father. And you could keep the crown. Away from their grubby hands.”

“Absolutely not!” She rarely ever raises her voice. “You will not.” She immediately softens. “Darling, they would not treat you… as you are on the inside. Only the outside.”

Of course, his outside . His appearance. No one ever looks past it. Should they? Is he ever going to be anything more than a reminder of what he isn’t ? 

“But we cannot give them the challenge! Mother, they— they will grow angry when they cannot complete it. And lash out! Or—” Or they would somehow manage to complete the challenge and then Penelope would be forced to marry a man she does not love, who only wants the crown and her body. He tastes bile on his tongue. 

“We have no other choice, dearest.” 

“There’s always another choice, another option, another something—Mother, you cannot.”

“I must.” She stands tall, lips drawn into a thin line and back straight. “I promised Odysseus that I would choose another man when you came of age. And you, my son, are a man now.”

He’s already shaking his head. “No, no. Please, Mother, listen to me. We can think of another option.”

She smiles wetly and cups the side of his face. “Think of what? There’s only so long I can keep up the illusion of the eternal shroud before even they start to second guess my lie. There is no other option we have, I cannot go another moment watching you waste away while they grow stronger. I have to be a mother, not just a wife and queen.”

Telemachus slaps her hand away, taking a step back. And oh how the anger is back tenfold. Ice old in his veins. “I will not support you.”

She grimaces. “I do not need you to. You are not the man of the house, Telemachus.” His heart twists. “You are my son before anything else and I must do what is best for you.”

“And I don’t get a say in this?”

“You do not.”

“Fuck you,” it comes out too fast for him to stop it but it feels good to say. The words that he can’t ever utter to those that really deserve it but his mother is hurting him. She’s not listening to him. They can think their way out of this. They have before and they can do it again. He just needs her to trust him.  

Penelope’s eyes narrow. “Young man, you will not speak to me that way. I am your mother.”

“Some mother,” he spits, the anger coiling so tight that it’s nearly choking him. “A true mother would listen to her son.”

Hurt in her eyes, genuine hurt. “Well then… I guess I’m not your mother.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I guess you’re not.”

And he turns and flees. 

—

Eurymachus is exactly how Antinous thought he would be when he came back to their shared room; lounging casually in bed and completely nude. The man doesn’t have a lick of shame and Antinous couldn’t care less. “You were absent from the meeting.”

The ginger– Antinous refuses to call him a redhead– bares his teeth in a vile smile. “You mean the daycare the prince begged us to babysit him at? Yeah, I was busy.”

“Clearly,” Antinous remarks. The smell of sex is evident. Not that he’s bothered by it, if anything, he enjoys the show they’ll sometimes give him at night, gods know he himself will fuck whatever crawls into his bed even when Eurymachus is watching.

It only takes him a few moments to find his cloak, throwing it over his shoulder. 

Eurymachus doesn’t even need to ask, chuckling snidely. “Again? You’re wasting your money, friend.” As if they’re anything of the sort. They’re competitors at best. “You’ll have just as good luck fucking one of the maids in these very halls. Or guards.”

Antinous shrugs. “Sure, a woman hasn’t even touched herself and a man who’d just as easily slit my throat.”

“You’d like that, Nous, don’t lie to yourself. Or maybe something in between, hmm? The prince clearly hasn’t had his way with a maiden yet and he so clearly would love to kill you. Probably gets off to it.”

It’s not hard to join in the soft laughter. The fantasy is nice, he’s jacked off enough times imagining the prince below him, taking his ass and making him lose his voice, pleasure would be a sweeter sound on the brat than his whining. But the fantasy is all it will ever be, a fantasy. Because beating his ass is one thing, fucking it will bring him nothing but probelms. “Naw, I already have him bitching and whining about scuffing him, I don’t need to hear him complain about taking his virginity.”

“So that’s  what the so-called meeting was about? Eheh, glad I missed it. Melantho already moans better than the prince does. Prettier too.”

Antinous would beg to disagree but he doesn’t see the use in arguing with a man who’s smitten with a maid of all things. “Nothing came from it, we were quick to ridicule his frivolously. He’ll go about with his tail tucked between his legs for a while longer again.” Antinous huffs mostly to himself. “Until he finds something else that will set him off.”

The prince is resilient in a way. Hot-headed in a way that might have been endearing if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one thing standing between him and the hom– crown Antinous deserved. If it weren’t for him, Penelope would be forced to choose a suitor, and he is the obvious choice.

Whatever, he needs to clear his head of the headache that is forming. Getting his dick sucked will help. Or at least take the edge off. 

He bids Eurymachus the ado that he deserves (which is barely more than  a few words) and heads out.

If he sees the shadow of a crane soaring above him as he leaves the grounds of the palace, he ignores it. 

An annoyance that the brothel is on the far end of the island, practically the other side. He supposes that it’s for privacy reasons and rolls his eyes as he makes his way– on foot– down the familiar path. Really, there was nothing so scandalous about sex, it’s just sex. The Ithacans really were in dire need of proper leadership if the concept of paying for pleasure was this taboo. 

It’s dark now, Selene is making her journey proudly across the sky and casting Antinous with a generous beam of light. He lets the calm night bask over him. It’s nice. What he deserves for putting up with the brat. 

His head throbs.

The prince really is a nuisance, a pathetic excuse of a man that is causing more harm than good. Can’t he see that? Doesn’t he know how much better it would be for him if he just stepped back and allowed his mother to be wed?

Sure, whoever does end up taking up the throne will have to dispose of him, slit his pretty throat so that it won’t be his blood on the throne, but still. It’s like putting a dying animal out of its misery.

Not that Antinous would have minded putting him in his place. Preferably by fucking his tight ass. It would do the prince some good, probably earn his absolute submission too. And Antinous would be nice about it, stroke his little cock maybe once or twice and give him an orgasm.

He can just imagine it already, Antinous huffs as some blood starts to flow between his legs.

The prince on his back– or, better yet, on his hands and knees. Antinous driving into him like a god and making the prince say his name like a prayer. The prince is all bark and all bite and Antinous would very much like to muzzle him, tame him.

Force him to see Antinous as the king that he is. The boy on his knees, sucking his cock. On his back, moaning like a whore. 

Running past him, crying like a baby–

What?  

Antinous blinks, watching the disappearing figure as it races down the hill and towards the east beach. It’s the prince, there’s no doubt about that. He’s not dressed to the nines but Antinous knows the prince when he sees him, he’s had to look at his sorry excuse for an ass for three years. 

It’s odd, of course, nothing about the prince is sensical. He’ll be whining one moment and all of a sudden get a spurt of confidence the next. Like that time in the hall… how on earth did he actually manage to land a punch?

He doesn’t really have the time to mull it over now, not when he’s watching the prince disappear in the undergrowth and make his way noisily to the beach. He looks down the path again. Only a few more minutes and he’d reach the brothel, find a man or woman to keep him company, maybe both, and enjoy himself.

But something nags at the back of his mind. No, that’s not it, something pulls him in the other direction.

Call it cruel or wicked, but the feeling that Antinous felt in the hall is still fresh, his ego still sore. The prince had no right to say he didn’t have a home here, he did. He does. And it’s his right to take.

The anger bubbles and overflows. How dare that brat even insinuate that he’d never find a home. He starts to walk after the trail the prince left, turns into a lumber. If the prince thought the scuffle in the hall was humiliating, he’d show him true humiliation. Beat him so black and blue that his mother won’t even be able to recognize him. Put him in his place once and for all. Consequences be damned.

His knuckles sing for a fight and his blood is swelling for a different reason now. Yeah, this is a far better way of taking the edge off. Sex is great but he’s been itching for a fight all day and there’s only so much roleplay he can do with a whore before it reminds him too much of–

Antinous turns his lumber into a run, quieting his roaring thoughts with the sound of his sandals thudding against the ground. 

—

Telemachus wishes that punching sand hurt a lot more than it does, but he can’t really stand right now and find a tree or a rock. He’s barely able to keep himself from passing out as it is, only sheer determination and spite keeping him conscious.

He has no fucking clue where he ran off to, all he knows is that one moment he was staring at the broken face of his mother and the next he was throwing his hand up to shield his face as he raced through the underbrush. He ran so fast that even Argos couldn't keep up with him, left somewhere in the courtyard, barking at him to come back. But Telemachus wouldn't. Couldn't. 

Not for twenty years because how could he face his mother after what he just said and, and— and how could she face him after what she just said?

It’s utter turmoil in his head, like a ball bouncing back and forth between guilt and anger. 

He is guilty, incredibly so. How could he yell at her like that? Did he hold no compassion for her? She is his mother, the only parent he has and— the only person he has. She’s trying, struggling to carry the weight of the crown and raising a child on her own. 

He’s not being fair. 

But, but— but how could she resort to that? To what he and her had been fighting for three years. They had promised each other that they would be there for one another and now she’s throwing that away because she thinks so little of him. 

Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Her not thinking him a man. Not a true man. 

If she did think that, then she would let him take lead of the house. He knows that she would. 

The sand dips beneath his knuckles, calling him pathetic too and he screams out into the horizon. It’s not fucking fair . Why must the gods punish him so? Why couldn't he have been born… him? Why did he have to have this body ?

It’s uncomfortable, it always is. Sometimes it lessens but still lingers in the back of his mind. Other times it roars. 

And it’s roaring now. His own screams can’t even come close to drowning it out. 

He gasps for the breath that refuses to come, panting like a dog that’s been running for miles. He blinks away the tears, not trusting his sand-soaked hands to bring to his face. 

The ship is odd. Unfamiliar flags but they are too far away to make out properly. And anyway, it dips around the bend of the island, behind the sea stacks cropping on the near horizon. 

Towards the docks, Telemachus presumes and stares back glumly at the sand. There was a time, when he was younger, when he’d race to the shore every time a ship docked, praying that it was his father returning. He was only ever disappointed and after a few years, he stopped. 

There wasn’t a point to it. If his father were to return, he’d come with the glory of his men, twelve fleets carrying their weight and then some in riches from Troy. 

If he were to return. A word that becomes more and more bitter with every passing day. 

His hands dig into the sand and he finds a shell, brings it up to his face for inspection. It’s ugly, clearly aged and unwanted by whatever crab happens to pass by it. 

Who would want it?

Telemachus chucks it as far as he can. It makes a disappointingly quiet splash before sinking into the water. Pathetic. 

“Well, I have to admit, I never guessed you would humiliate yourself with such conviction. Colour me impressed.”

Telemachus stands so fast that he nearly faceplants. But instead he whirls around and sends the most lethal glare he can. 

Of course it had to be Antinous. Of. Course . 

The man is grinning at him cockily, as if there’s any other way that he does. Arms crossed and head tilted to the side, leaning against a tree. His eyes glitter with cruel amusement and a single canine pokes out from between his full lips. The scars littering his body seem to glow in the full moonlight. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Telemachus stalks over to him, his breathing becoming uneven again. “You twist the council to not heed my words and now— what? Come to gloat about it? Are you that fucking bored you can’t stir up your own trouble that you have to cause some for me?”

Antinous huffs playfully, “You think so high and mighty of yourself, don’t you? There’s no trouble that I’m stirring up, little wolf. You’re doing plenty of that on your own. Quite well, I might add.” Another chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so eager to embarrass themselves before their own council.”

“You fucking ass.”

“Language, boy. What would your mother say if she heard you talking like that?”

Even though Telemachus is aware of what Antinous is doing, landing a low blow like that— his mother— just to get him to react. He really shouldn’t but with the argument with Penelope still fresh in his mind and the humiliation and anger from the council meeting stroking his heart still, Telemachus isn’t making very wise decisions right now. Athena would be displeased but she can go fuck herself unless she actually wants to help him instead of leaving him here to deal with the mess that she created. Really, she should have just let Antinous kill him. It would have been easier than dealing with all of this . 

“Keep her out of this,” he snarls, shoving the older man harshly. 

Either he’s stronger than he appears or the shove was so unexpected that it shocked Antinous, whatever it is Antinous actually stumbles back, arms cartwheeling behind him to keep balance. It’s too quick to actually be satisfying and it just makes Antinous’ grin deepen. “Oh? Why? Isn’t she the whole reason as to why you told the council I ‘attacked’ you?”

“You did!” Telemachus seethes. He forces himself not to stumble backwards when Antinous takes a catlike step forward, almost chest to chest (or chest to head, what do they feed Antinous to make him so large? ) with the man. “You called her a whore and then beat me. How is that so hard for you to grasp? Are you that dull-witted?”

The chuckling is starting to really irk him. 

“Oh ho, you’re such a little brat, aren’t you?”

“Ex-fucking-scuse me?”

Antinous’ tsk’s at the foul word again. “Are you really that dull-witted that you don’t know a charitable lesson when it’s given to you?”

“Charitable lesson.” Now it’s Telemachus’ turn to laugh. “You really are delusional, aren’t you? Don’t you see the problem with fighting a man half your age and size just to prove a point? What, can’t do it with your words alone? You have to assault someone in their own home?”

“The palace is as good as mine, young prince. It’s only a matter of time before—”

“Before what? ” Telemachus can feel the panic rise within him, knowing that Antinous is dead right. His mother is going to initiate the challenge soon, against his best wishes, against his pleas , and he has little doubt in his mind that it will go over well. They can’t string the bow, nobody can. And if they do, somehow, then it’ll be over for all of them. 

But more than likely they will grow ever more frustrated with their inadequacy and break down the gate, taking matters into their own bloodstained hands. Telemachus can’t have that. Can’t have either of those options. 

“Before you weasel your way onto a throne that’s not yours to take? Please, you've already been eating my food, sitting in my house, f-fucking my people.” He stutters over the word much to the delight of Antinous if his shit-eating grin is anything to go by. He pushes on though, the fear giving way to righteous anger. An anger that’s been building up for the better part of three years— no, twenty. “You should know by now that it’s only the laws of the ancients that are keeping me from expelling you from my home.”

“Ah, right, right. And if these laws weren’t in place you’d so easily hand me my ass, hmm? Because you’ve already proven how strong willed and quick-witted you are, right?” Antinous moves forward again and Telemachus isn’t proud of the couple of steps that he has to take backwards. “Like the time in the hall when you bested me in front of all the suitors or in the council room when you persuaded them to kick us out.”

“You piece of sh—”

“Or wait, that’s not what happened, is it?” Antinous puts a finger to his lips in mock thought. “No, no… actually, I think I distinctly remember the opposite happening… aye.” He gives Telemachus a truly smug look. “I think I may have hit your head a little too hard, pup. Guess you should know better than to test the patience of men.”

“I am a man. Of the house, actually.” Telemachus shoves Antinous again but the man must be better prepared for it because it does nothing. 

“Naw,” Antinous says. “You’re barely even a boy.”

And that does strike its chord way too deep inside of Telemachus and he slaps at the hand that ruffles his hair condescendingly. “Says the man who has no place to call home. Face it—” Two can play at this game, and Telemachus is itching for a fight. “You will never— ever— have a home.” 

Antinous thinks him so dumb, but Telemachus has been watching and listening to this man bitch and moan for three years. He knows how to push his buttons too. 

He’s played Antinous like a harp, too far, and his strings have snapped. 

With a roar, Antinous lunges for Telemachus. His powerful fist is raised, coming down to strike him in the face. Telemachus’ smaller stature brings him luck this time and he ducks just in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding getting his face bashed in. He feels the wind rush past him, his hair licking around his face from the movement. 

He jumps back when Antinous rights himself up, his own fists raised. 

“So it’s a fight you want?” Antinous growls. 

The low tone sends shivers down Telemachus’ spine but he doesn’t back down. “Bring it.”

He’s acting a fool, ever the brazen and oafish men that his mother warns him not to become. But she’s not here right now. Nobody is. Nobody except for Antinous who has been a constant thorn in his side, eating away at him and bringing him nothing but pain and discomfort. Telemachus has had enough. 

He doesn’t have a god to back him up this time but he doesn’t need her. He doesn’t need anyone. Nobody wants him but he will prove himself anyway. 

He is a man and he will best this sorry excuse for one. 

Maybe then someone with fucking listen to him. 

He dives forward, moving fast and nimble as he aims for Antinous’ side. A combination of the dark and surprise are on his side as he elbows Antinous hard in the ribs. A rough grunt is his reward. 

But it’s fleeting since the larger man recovers quicker than he can leap back and his hair is grabbed. Telemachus snarls and scratches at Antinous’ thick forearms. “You think you’re so tough, huh? Think yourself a man?” Antinous whispers, shaking him. “I’ll show you how a real man fights, kid.”

Telemachus is thrown onto the sand, the wind knocking out of him. He scrambles to get up, but is too slow, Antinous clamoring on top of him and straddling him. Easily pinning him down with his mass. 

A bark of a shout and Telemachus rises to punch Antinous in the face. A punch that bever lands because his hands are gripped and slammed about his head. “See? Didn’t even last a minute.”

Telemachus snarls and bucks his hips but it does nothing to throw Antinous off of him. 

“Admit it, little wolf,” Antinous says, leaning down and breathing hotly over his face. “You’re nothing.”

Icy-hot anger and Telemachus latches onto it, his eyes going to the mark on Antinous’ neck that he left earlier in the council room. “Compared with you? I am everything !” He meets Antinous and sinks his teeth deep into his neck, over the bite mark. 

Antinous grunts and instinctively releases Telemachus’ hands to grab at his hair to yank him off. Telemachus uses it to his advantage and brings his thumbs to Antinous’ eyes, forcing them in. 

It does the trick swimmingly, Antinous’ grunt turning into a cry of panic and pain and flinching away from him. It’s enough. Telemachus uses Antinous’ momentum and throws him off, switching their previous positions so that it’s him on top of Antinous. 

He doesn’t give himself time to bask in the satisfaction, the rage in his bones calling for violence. 

The first two hits land, one on Antinous’ cheek and the other his nose— before Antinous is grabbing a wrist and twisting it. Telemachus screeches and tries to yank his arm back but it’s no use. He’s thrown onto the sand once more, on his stomach, and Antinous is pressing a knee into the small of his back. 

“Fighting dirty,” his voice is strained. “I like it.”

Telemachus grabs a handful of sand, intent on tossing it into Antinous’ eyes but the man is quicker than he, leaning over and taking his hands in his own. He swiftly shifts them so that only one of his hands is holding Telemachus’ wrist, the other tangling itself in his hair. 

His head is lifted up before being slammed down. The sand offers little cushioning. Pain blooms all over his face. It’s a mistake to open his mouth to scream, sand collecting down his throat. He writhes and bucks but he is at the mercy of his greatest enemy. 

Antinous pulls his head up and Telemachus is too busy spending it spluttering to actually heed whatever the man is saying. Nothing of importance anyway, but his tone still grates Telemachus’ nerves all the same. 

He’s still spewing sand when Antinous slams it back down, except he doesn’t keep it there, seeming to just want to stun Telemachus more so with pain than smother him to death. 

He’s brought back up, the pain in his hair nothing compared to the ache in his lungs or the agony of his whole face. He’s gasping and his face is wet. Tears drying from the sand sticking to his face. The high keen coming from his throat scratches, tearing through him. 

Writhing does him nothing but exert his strength, and he does it anyways. Bucks and tries to scratch behind him at the arm but while his nails do sink into skin, Antinous does not loosen his hold. 

“You— fucker!” Telemachus chokes out between pants and groans. 

Antinous just laughs and shakes his head, bringing Telemachus’ world dizziness. “Poor little wolf. Seems you really are all bark and no bite.” His whole body encased Telemachus, rendering him completely still under his weight. “When I’m king —”

Antinous’ weight suddenly disappears. Violently. One moment he’s on top of Telemachus, the next it’s gone. 

A shout followed by a grunt and the sound of unfamiliar voices. Telemachus is prone for but a moment. His body reacts before his mind does, jumping to his feet and spinning around. His eyes are still blurry with his sweat and tears but he can make out a writhing mass of figures just a few feet from him. 

He’s already backing away, shaking his head to clear his vision. How did the guards find him? Had they been following him this entire time? Did his mother send for them? Figures, she doesn’t trust him to do anything, not even run into the woods to throw a tantrum. 

“Get— off of me, you— ugh !” Antinous chokes as one of the men knees him hard in the gut, the other three holding him down on his back. 

Telemachus blinks thoroughly now, his eyesight clearing and—

These are not his guards. They do not bear the crown’s emblem and they are strangers, cruel smiles and sharp teeth. He takes a step back, his back hitting something . 

The something is more quick than him, grabbing him as he tries to flinch away, digging their nails into him. Telemachus is throwing the punch that never lands, his fist being caught and pinned behind his back. He kicks his legs but again, they’re too fast and he lands on his knees when the backs of them are kicks. With his one arm still pinned behind him, he can only flail the other one and it does absolutely nothing. 

He can’t see the man holding him but another comes up to his side to hold him. 

“I’ve got him. Help Nico,” the voice behind Telemachus orders. 

Telemachus spares a glance at Antinous, who has somehow managed to throw two of the men off. But he’s outnumbered, now five to one and it’s a losing battle. Telemachus can’t waste any more time on Antinous, his own situation far more dire. 

He braces to stand but the twisting of his arm more forces his body to flinch involuntarily and he can’t close off the whine that escapes him. 

Antinous growls and the men laugh, still somewhat strained as they use their full power to hold him down. But Telemachus just has one man on him— one . Surely he can dislodge a single— bandit? Whatever these men are, it’s nothing good and while he doesn’t care if Antinous lives or dies, he himself doesn’t want to stick around and find out just what these men want with him. For ransom, surely. But putting a price on a princes’ head will only get them so far. They’ll be hung for this crime, Ithaca will make sure of it. 

He writhes again, forcing himself to push past the pain. His arm swings back, closed fist, in an attempt to find the man’s precious jewels. 

The blade to his neck makes the swing fall flat. 

“Feisty little minx, aren’t ya?” the man chuckles darkly. It stings, he’s already drawing blood. Foolish. The more wounds on him, the worse the royal punishment will be. “Seriously, fellas? Can’t handle a little runaway?”

“He’s fucking strong, Castor,” one of the men grunts. They do have Antinous pinned but it’s obvious that it’s a struggle. Telemachus feels a modicum of pride at being able to have at least fought the guy for a few minutes that day in the hall. “It’s been years—”

“Castor.” Antinous’ voice is at a timbre that Telemachus has never heard before and he shivers. 

The man— Castor— digs the knife in deeper and Telemachus groans. “Peace, or your pet will be painting the sand with his insides.”

Pet? If Telemachus weren’t frozen with fear, he’d have a thing or two to say to these fiends. 

He can barely see Antinous’ expression from here but—

In all the three years the suitors have spent at the palace, all the excruciating years Antinous has lived in his halls… he’s never seen him apprehensive. Pissed, yes. Annoyed, obviously. And maybe once surprised— when Telemachus actually landed a punch. 

But now— Antinous is nothing like the arrogant bully he’s been. He’s… anxious? And surprised, sure, but stunned. 

“How?”

A single word that carries so much weight to it. Telemachus feels the heft of it, even when it’s not directed towards him. 

“I will admit, you are a hard man to track but… the Captain has his ways.”

Pupils shrink into pinpricks and Antinous visibly stills his body. “ No… ” 

“Subdue him,” Castor orders, mirth evident in his tone. “And the boy. He’s pretty enough even if he isn’t of use to the Captain. He can be of use to us.”

Telemachus and Antinous are in agreement with each other for once in their lives, struggling against the men with everything they have left. 

“Unhand me,” Antinous growls. “I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

“He’s harmless. Do not hesitate. The soft spot at the base of the head should do the trick.”

Even with Antinous’ mass and strength, he’s still just one man against five and not even the king of Ithaca would be able to stand against them. Telemachus’ own strength can’t even handle the single man holding him in place and he can do nothing but watch as Antinous is forced into a seated position, the back of a dagger swinging through the air, and the dull thump as it hits the back of his head. He slumps forward. 

“Should we do the same for his whore?” One man asks, the other four starting to manhandle Antinous, tying his prone body tightly. 

Telemachus freezes. They don’t know who he is, that much is clear. These men are here for Antinous. Probably some bandits he pissed off and came for revenge. And he’s being caught in the crosshairs. 

Revealing his status would do him no good, the cruelty in their eyes is brighter than Antinous’ and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he were to tell these bandits he is a prince, they’d ransom him but give his mother nothing but a defiled corpse. 

And yet he will not be roped up into whatever Antinous’ past mistakes are. He already has enough on his plate, he doesn’t need a kidnapping on top of everything. 

He swallows, “I-I’m not—”

The knife disappears suddenly and he blames his fear for not reacting fast enough. He barely feels the sharp sting of pain at the back of his head before his body goes lax and his world dark. 

—

Contrary to popular belief, a person doesn’t remain unconscious for longer than five minutes. If they were, that would be a sign of brain damage. However, more contrary is that once a person awakes from a fainting spell or forcibly being knocked out, they do not have complete autonomy of their bodies. And it’s a lot like trying to swim through quicksand: impossible and you can do nothing but wait for someone to rescue you. 

So when Telemachus comes back to himself, he’s being dragged from the beach onto a boat. His moan reverberates throughout his body, and rattles against his skull. Pain encompasses everything he is and it’s all he can focus on. His body is heavier than heavy and he can’t even open his eyes a slit for more than a few seconds before exhaustion weighs them down. 

“Aw, poor boy, isn’t used to this kind of pain, eh? Your master doles out a different type of pain.”

“Hahah, yeah. We saw you on the beach, wrestling like you were fighting. Gets your blood pumping?”

“Grab an oar, Nico. The whore’s not going to be able to answer, let alone suck your dick. Captain is expecting us.”

“Pff, can’t appreciate the loot? You know I can’t resist some fine booty.”

An overdramatic groan laced with camaraderie, a few gruff chuckles but they blessedly stop speaking to Telemachus. 

He feels like led, denser than that and his mind slips in and out of consciousness, his body recovering not. Nausea alerts him to the lull of the boat, moving now, and he doesn’t have the strength to muster more than a flicker of fear. It’s as fleeting as his awareness and he so easily falls prey to the bliss of silence and muted pain. 

—

He’s being jostled, body tilting in a way that only brings him confusion and he grains brokenly again. Muddled noises and he’s not sure if it’s only laughter or if they're saying words too. He just wants to go back to sleep. 

Alertness comes to him slowly, like molasses dripping from a jug. It’s only when he feels the cool hardness of wood beneath him that he is able to blink enough times and keep his eyes open. It’s not by much but it is enough that he can start to make out blurry figures in front of him. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to realize that he’s staring at legs. Some of them aren’t… human?

He shakes his head, a mistake because the sickness swells within him and another sound mumbles out from him. The laughter again, and voices but he’s still too far gone to make them out. He focuses on his vision first. Vision, then the rest. The legs are… legs but… some are wooden stubs? Or metal or…?

Telemachus slumps forward suddenly, his body twitching unexpectedly and he cries out. He doesn’t face plant onto the floor like he thought he would, instead he hits something firm and warm.

Antinous  growls and Telemachus’ body reacts for him, scrambling away as his alertness comes back to him almost suddenly. The nausea is still there but now he’s growing increasingly more sick with fear. 

Ropes adorn Antinous more than his own clothes, tied so tightly that his fat and muscles bulge between the small spaces in between. He’s on his back, blinking furiously. His eyes hold a blurriness to them, a haze that Telemachus is sure he himself has as well. But they’re becoming more and more clear and–

Telemachus squawks again when Antinous sits up, fucking somehow . Still being bound and recovering from a nasty blow to the head and yet sitting up like it’s nothing. Well, not nothing. If the deep groan is anything to go by. His back hits something firm and Telemachus runs a hand absentmindedly behind himself, feeling the wood of the wall. And it’s then that he realizes that while Antinous has been bound in thick cords, Telemachus has not been. He’s not sure if he should focus on the relief of still having his ability to move or the offense of not being deemed a threat.

“You–” Antinous is cut off by his own cough, his voice rough.

Heavy footsteps behind the crowd of boots. Both Antinous and Telemachus freeze. Telemachus because of the unfamiliarity and Antinous because, by the way he stills, the familiarity . 

Like a god commanding the sea, the men part. Moving swiftly and stiffly, the person behind the footsteps is in charge. And will be treated as such. 

The boots are black, heeled only enough for superiority, and designed so ornately that Telemachus’ eyes start to cross. With great difficulty, he raises his head. Barely taking in whatever ridiculous clothes the man is wearing, unfamiliar in every sense of the way, until he reaches his face.

The man’s eyes are trained on Antinous, stopping just a few feet away from him, and Telemachus feels his blood run cold. The way his lips move, the crook of his nose, and the arch of his brow. 

There’s no mistaking it. The resemblance is uncanny.

The man grins like a shark. “Antipatros.”

“Father,” Antinous says.

Chapter Text

Fear isn’t something that Antinous thought he’d ever feel again. Sure, he’s had his moments of apprehension. Some nerves being frayed at times, but not like this— not like it used to be. 

He knows that he’s spoken, he can feel the way his mouth moves and the vibrations in his throat. But the wind rushing in his ears is too loud for him to hear it. He knows what he says, understands what he utters. The title for a man he never thought he’d have to use again. Never thought he’d have to even see again. 

The coldness coils around him like the depths of the ocean, pulling him down. The pressure is too much, he’s in too deep and he’ll surely implode before he drowns. 

He forgets the pain in his head, his body, and mind. All that he can focus on is the absolute horror dawning upon him like a cruel sun. 

It cannot be—

But it is . There is no denying the truth. Antinous is not a delusional man, forcibly ignoring the truth is something that gets men killed. 

Even so, he can do nothing but stare at the man before him. He’s aged, he thinks. Then internally chastises himself. Of course he has. It’s been well over ten years since he’s seen the man, of course he’d have more grey than black hairs, of course the wrinkles in his face would be more pronounced than Antinous remembers, and of course some scars would be new. 

His hand, which is hovering over the hilt of his sword, is covered. Wrapped expertly and hiding the fact that two of the fingers are not real. The many chunky rings adorning both hands help to hide the stillness of the pinky and ring finger.

Antinous doesn’t let his gaze linger on the hand for long, swiftly taking in every other feature of the man before raising his eyes back up to his face. The smile remains, unkind and yet filled with more love than Antinous could ever fathom.

The bile rising in his throat is not solely from the blow to his head. 

They stare at one another for a long moment. Antinous is all too aware of the presence in front of him, the crew watching and shifting on their feet. He knows about a third of them. And not because his memory is failing him. The turnover for staying aboard the ship is quite fast and it’s actually a surprise that so many of them still remain.

There’s a challenge in the man’s eyes, daring him to speak. He won’t be the one to break the silence. He had a habit of that, waiting and watching like a predator for his prey to either plead, run, or bite. 

The crash of the waves and the whispering of the wind does little to fill the void, every breath shallow and tense, every second prolonged so that it feels like hours.

Like always, Antinous falls prey. “How did you find me?”

His father’s eyes crinkle, the uncanny smile growing like a poisonous vine. “How?” A mocking tone. “Come now, Antipatros, did you really think that I ever lost you?”

His father is a liar and a thief, and a good one at that. But Antinous prides himself on at least knowing when he’s lying. Small tells that he can pick up on, that he’s been forced to if he wanted to survive. But Eupeithes prides more on his pride than anything else, and Antinous also knows better than to call him out in front of a crowd– more likely he is too afraid of the consequences. 

“Why wait so long then?”

The chuckle is practiced, poised, and Antinous isn’t the only one seeing right through it. A few crew’s eyes twitch but, like Antinous, say nothing. “Ah, there’s that selfishness I missed so dearly. Antipatros, you can’t possibly be that self absorbed to think that the world revolves around you. Mine doesn’t stop spinning just because you aren’t in it. I have duties to uphold, more since you left, and knowing you were safe was enough for me to focus on the matters at hand.”

He had been… distraught without him. That much is clear. Antinous can see the mirthless gleam in his eyes as his father’s memory flickers to the past. But Antinous has to wonder if the pirate spent fourteen years searching for him or gave up after a few months and got lucky.

The words to call him out are on the tip of Antinous’ tongue but they stay there, his teeth ache as he grinds them. 

His father must see the clenching of his jaw because there’s a flash of satisfaction, but is quickly smoothed out. Eupeithes takes confident strides forward, closing the rest of the distance between them and kneeling down in front of Antinous.

Despite himself, Antinous leans back, moving as much as his binds and nausea will let him. Doing so causes someone behind him to let out a squawk and his eyes widen for but a fraction of a moment, before going neutral, but his annoyance is now being directed at two people. 

Just like Antinous is excellent at reading Eupeithes’ tells, the same is vice versa and the older man’s eyes flick behind Antinous. Antinous dismays over the fact that it’s as if his body is protecting the little wolf, which only serves to piss him off more. If anything the so-called mighty prince of Ithaca should be protecting him. Huh, maybe Antinous could throw him into the throng and use him as a distraction while he escapes and–

But no, these men are not like the suitors, their violence isn’t only with their fists and as much as Antinous finds the brat irksome, he won’t willingly give him over to a shoal of piranhas.

He wants Telemachus to suffer for being a bitch, but not to break him like one. Antinous excuses a lot of things, but rape isn’t one of them. He–

Antinous forces his mind to blanken of those thoughts and focus on the present. His father has stopped staring at Telemachus, not that Antinous blames him. He may be a pretty face but his father has seen them all. He’s eaten their life force too and–

Fuck. Fuck . He can’t keep the memories at bay. He’s done so well for the past fourteen years but now, with the man who Antinous loves and loathes the most, kneeling in front of him, he can’t help but remember. So he speaks to distract himself. “Get on with it.”

His father cocks his head to the side. “With what?”

Antinous steels himself. But if he is to die, he won’t let the last thing his father sees of him be cowardice. He owes her that at least, and himself. “My throat, heart, wrists– hell, even over the side of the ship. I’m bored of your time, old man. Just kill me already.”

He’s expecting a couple of reactions. Maybe for his father to throw his head back and laugh, or maybe to be struck across the cheek. A knife to the gut perhaps to shut him up, his father always did say he spoke too much for any of it to be worthwhile. 

He gets none of that, instead his head is ruffled, like one might do to a small child. Or a playful dog. “Antipatros.” Antinous would rather rip his own ears off than hear that name again. “You wound me, do you think so little of me that I would slaughter my only son?”

Only is a little far fetched. To be completely honest, Antinous probably has a few dozen siblings, with how much his father plundered his loot. Antinous finds the courage to raise his chin. Defiance soaring within him like a crane over the clouds. “Yes.”

So now Eupeithes decides to laugh. Loud and haughty, Antinous’ courage flickers. He starts to shrink back into what he used to be, from all but a simple laugh. But that laugh carries so much weight to it. He’s heard it far too many times in far too many deplorable ways. A couple of the crew join in, but not many and it’s short lived. They’re just as in the dark as Antinous is it seems.

When Eupeithes is finished, he rolls his eyes condescendingly kind, shaking his head. “You’re mistaken. Do not fear, do not worry, for your time of aimless travel has reached its end. Back to me. And I have no intention of letting you go.”

Dread. Heavy and cumbersome. “…what?” Antinous dares to whisper. 

Eupeithes stands, arms raised to either side of him in a generous gesture. His face is twisted, hard to say whether he’s smiling or grimacing. 

Antinous feels the boat dip beneath him and hears the waves crashing, a bird croaks. Telemachus lets out another whimper behind him. Antinous doesn’t see why he’s so upset, at least Telemachus isn’t bound like he is. Pampered brat. His own binds feel as if they’re tightening with every passing second and the pounding in his head has only lessened to a dull throb. The bite on his neck still stings. 

“ The Vengeance has been waiting, your crew has been waiting, I have been waiting for you, Antipatros. We’ve been wandering, lost at sea and locked on land. The world has done its best to keep us apart, but one cannot go against the very nature of Fate. And now, the Moirai have finally brought you back.” The pirate captain’s eyes flash with a danger that sparks fear in even the most lethal of predators. “Welcome home, son .”

“This is not my home,” he breaths. 

“Isn’t it?” Eupeithes doesn’t look the least bit slighted, his easy grin never once leaving his face. Assured. “Aren’t these the very planks you grew up on, isn’t the sea and sun all you've ever set your eyes upon, isn’t the thrill of a raid what gets your blood pumping? Are you not a son of mine?”

Antinous can’t answer any of those questions, not without either damning himself or risking the wrath of a man with a god complex. “Let me go. Or kill. Either one, but I won’t stand another moment alive on this wretched ship. I do not belong to her wood anymore.” 

How he wishes he could stand, a lot of good sitting and looking up at his father does for his speech. If he was standing, maybe he could convince himself that he’s not being a coward. 

“It’s not up for discussion, son,” Eupeithes says. It’s not a command, just a fact. Like there really is no room for Antinous to argue. “Be grateful for my unconditional love. You are the only one it’s ever been extended to.”

And Antinous’ hackles raise, his heart flashing with anger. Shouldn’t it have also been bestowed to her ? 

“And if I refuse?” Does he even dare to ask?

Eupeithes looks down on him, the smile anything but loving. “You can’t refuse your own blood. Do you not feel it? The singing in your veins at finally being back, with me, with them.” A gesture to the crew, which Antinous either doesn’t recognize or wishes he didn’t. “Being home?”

“After everything I’ve done, how could you be okay with this?” He tries to keep his voice gruff, really, he does, but there’s a wavering to it that he can’t quite quell. “  Aren’t you afraid I’ll finish the job this time?”

The princes’ sharp intake of breath is ignored. He’s unimportant, always has been but it’s even more so when compared with all of— this . 

Eupeithes leans down, not quite kneeling but not quite standing, eyes bright with a darkness that stifles any of Antinous’ bravery. “Come now, you know better than anyone not to make the same mistake twice.”

It’s not even a staring match, Antinous looks away far too quickly. His throat is thick, too thick to even swallow and his eyes sting with tears he refuses to let fall. 

“Why do you even want me back?”

“Because—” his father stands, voice confident in a way that leaves no room for discussion. “You need me, just as I need you. We’re all we’ve got, Antipatros. So let’s count the past as past. Water under the bridge, so to speak. Let’s be a family again.”

His family died fourteen years ago. 

Antinous opens his mouth to say, to actually defy his father once and for all, but looking back into those eyes, something stops him. There’s more to what his father isn’t telling him. There’s another reason why his father wants him back, why he’s even doing any of this at all. 

But he’s not only keeping it from Antinous, he’s keeping it from the crew. Glancing at them, even briefly, shows confusion in their wary and hateful gazes. They don’t want Antinous here any more than he himself does. 

But why would his father keep it from them? Sure, he’s had his secrets but he’s never kept something so big from them unless—

Unless —

But— it can’t be, his father would have given up on it by now…

A strong wave hits the ship and it lurches, rocking forward unexpectedly. It’s interesting how Antinous must have already grown accustomed to the rock of the ship. He’s been away from sea for so long, but it’s like riding a horse and one can never really forget, can they?  He lets his body sway with the movement, not falling over. 

The same can’t be said for the little nuisance behind him. Antinous lets out an annoyed grunt when the prince slams against him. He’s already dealing with a splitting headache, he does not need a bruise the size of the queen's audacity on his back as well. 

The grubby little hands brace themselves oh so kindly on his shoulders and Antinous doesn’t give him a single moment to recover before he’s rolling them to get him off. Can’t the brat keep to himself for just once?

Eupeithes’ eyes flicker to the prince behind him and take on a new gleam. Antinous feels his heart drop to his stomach. 

“And who is this pretty little thing?”

Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if the kid was actually smart and knew when to shut the fuck up and let Antinous take lead for once. But of course, Telemachus is nothing if not stupid. 

“Where the fuck are we?” Short and clipped. His voice is raspy, cracking at the end. And yet it still carries that nasally tone to it. 

Eupeithes blinks twice before throwing his head back and laughing. The rest of the crew join in, this time with more confidence. Now, Antinous is all for laughing at the prince, gods know he’s had his fair share of moments mocking him, but this is different. He can’t afford to have the prince blabber anything that he’d rather keep to himself. 

But he can’t very well throw the brat to the mercy of these men. They’d—

His mind refuses to supply even as his heart quakes with terror. He hates Telemachus, loathes him with his very being, but—

But he cannot in good faith let him be raped. 

If he were to tell these pirates who this boy really was, they’d be beside themselves.  Of course they’d let his poor, idiot mother know they had him in their grasps. Put a bounty on his empty head, but they wouldn’t return the prince without having a little fun with him. 

Antinous knows that, while some can move past the horrid events, or at least pretend to, the prince wouldn’t. And he promised himself that he wouldn’t let another soul go through what she did, not if he could help it. 

He finds Telemachus nothing but a nuisance, the fantasy of having the boy under him can only extend so far. In reality, he’s sure that the prince would sooner bite his dick off than suck it. And Antinous is not these men, he may not be a good person, but he’s not a monster. 

“Quiet,” he growls, head tilting back to side eye the brat. His peripheral vision is still blurry, the edges of his vision frayed like that of an old shroud, but he still maintains the strength enough to pin the boy with a glare. 

He does look a lot worse for wear, to Antinous’ amusement. His hair sticks to his forehead and neck, his garments ruffled. Eyes unfocused somewhat, narrowed despite the evident blown of his pupils. He’s shaking, not even just a little but an obvious full body shake. His hands are fisted at his sides and lips curve down, his canines poking out. 

Trying to appear like a wolf when he’s really just a scared pup. 

Antinous can’t even give him credit for trying since he’s so fucking bad at it. Really, the prince is hardly a good liar, a terrible skill to not have if he wants to be a ruler so bad. He’s an open book, there’s nothing to him that Antinous does not know. From the small size of his dick to the very thoughts in his head, Antinous already knows. 

The princes’ eyes flick to him, an offense morphing onto his face. If it wasn’t for his brattiness, Antinous would say that the dusting of pink on his cheeks would be cute. But unfortunately,  the boy has an attitude to go with his attractive features. 

“Excuse me?” Incredulous but his voice cracks at the end. “Don’t you fucking tell me to—”

“You let your eromenos speak to you like that?” his father asks, surprise and amusement lacing his tone. 

Antinous shouldn’t feel the need to defend himself. Not in comparison to this man. His hackles are raising nonetheless and he feels like the fresh-faced twenty year old he was back then. 

“Eromenos?” 

The boy’s exclamation goes ignored. Antinous forces himself to relax, to let himself become the cocky airhead his father, and the boy, think him to be. It’s surprisingly easy to fall back into the roll. Maybe it’s less of an act. “It pleases him. And I.” His stomach twinges with something but, like the boy’s bark of anger, it goes ignored. He shrugs, as well as he can in the binds. “Upstart. He likes a challenge and so do I. The best of them are always earned.”

That gets a knowing glint in his fathers’ eyes, a modicum of respect. Antinous’ mind wars with itself as he feels a surge of pride at meeting his fathers’ approval mixed with disgust. 

A kick to his back nearly sends him faceplanting onto the deck. The little wolf can kick hard . 

“How dare you,” the boy seethes. “I’ll have your tongue cut off and served on a platter for that. You have no right to speak of me in such a manner. I’m—”

“A spoiled little princess,” Antinous drawls, sounding bored but he’s anything but. This fucking moron, can’t he keep his maw shut for just once? 

The boy’s breath hitches and he goes silent. Huh, guess that did the trick, who would have thought that the only way to shut up a prince was to call him a princess. Antinous wishes he’d known about it a while ago, would have made his time more blissful back in Ithaca. 

The boat rocks again and the boy squirms as he tries to stay upright. 

“Looks like you’ve got quite the handful of a lad,” Eupeithes says. His eyes linger on the prince uncomfortably. Antinous tenses. He cannot, he cannot—

“Touch him and you’re dead.” The surge of protectiveness over the prince of all people is something only a comedic poet could come up with. “I will not have you or any of your men raping what’s mine.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the boy go still, pale skin turning white as all the colour drains from his face. Good, maybe now he’ll quiet down with the realization that he’s not in his warm bed anymore and he can’t go crying wolf to his mother’s bosom. 

Eupeithes rolls his eyes. “Relax, son. I have no intention of defiling your property. Finders keepers and all that. I’m merely appreciating your eye for treasure. Something you and I have in common.”

Antinous is going to be sick .

His discomfort must slip through his mask because Eupeithes raises an eyebrow but before the pirate can comment on it, the boy suddenly leaps to his feet. 

This brat . Can’t he ever do what he’s told? 

Unsteady like a newborn foal, the boy takes a few steps one way, then the other. All attention is on him now, which Antinous would almost be grateful for if not for the fact that he’s sure that the prince is about to make a stupid decision.  But really, has he ever made a wise one? 

“If you’re thinking about leaping overboard, I’d advise against it,” Eupeithes says with a jovial tone. “I doubt you’d be able to swim back home from here, and even if you have the energy to swim leagues to your island— which, you don’t, I can assure you— the sharks would get to you before you drowned. Of that I’m sure.”

The boy may be stupid but he’s not that stupid, Antinous thinks. And anyway, he’s pretty sure that the lad can’t swim, he’s never seen him at the public baths (although the pampered brat probably has his own) or on the shores of his island. The probability of this idiotic boy knowing how to swim is slim to none. If anything, the boy is most undoubtedly trying to figure out if he can take all of these pirates head on. See, that’s the type of ego and stupidity Antinous expects from an egotistical prince such as the boy. 

He doesn’t look at the boy, his attention rapt to his father and the hand hovering over his curved sword. He puts forth all of his commanding tone, leaving no room for argument. “Sit, boy. You’re only making a fool of yourself.”

He can practically feel rage emanating off of him. “I’m no dog ,” he spits out. 

Antinous rolls his eyes, and it’s not all for show. “We can play later. I can feel you itching but I have you an order, pup .” What he would pay to be able to turn around and see the boy’s face. Hatred is a good look on him. But he keeps his eyes on his father. “Sit.”

“You dare ? Antinous, you are vile and I ought to—”

“Antinous?” His father blinks then meets his eyes. “What is this?” 

His heart drops far below his stomach, Antinous’ throat closing in on itself. No, not this. Not his name . What he chose for himself, for her, for them. One of the only things his father couldn’t claim to be a part of him. 

Eupeithes meets his gaze. “Oh, Antipatros, did you change your name?” A dry, condescending laugh. “Did you really think something as simple as a name change would change who you are? Foolish boy, you can’t dilute the blood within you by adding or subtracting letters from a word. Call yourself what you like, but you will never be anything other than what you are; my Antipatros.”

Anti— he clenches his hands, grateful that they’re tied behind him so that his father cannot see. But he’s sure his own face is an open book. The coils around his body are nothing compared to the ones choking his heart. 

Perhaps the prince is having a seizure for how many gasps of breaths he’s been taking. Either that or he’s just overdramatic. 

“Don’t look so sour, Antipatros. You've had your fun. Indulged in whatever silly fantasies you convinced yourself you were. But the time has come to grow up, you’re a man now,” Eupeithes says. “Start acting like one.”

There’s so many things Antinous wants to say, so many things that Antipatros never could. They war with one another, fighting over who gets to claim autonomy of a body with no heart, hands with no nerves, and a mind without matter. 

In the end, he wins. But who is he really?

“You tie up the man you call son?” he says. 

Eupeithes’ face breaks out into a genuine grin, still twisted as his heart will always be. “There he is. Cocky little thing, eh? Alright boys, you heard your second in command.” The pirate captain gestures to his son. To his right, Castor's eye twitches and his jaw clenches, but he too does not speak up. “Untie him. And prepare a feast! For today is a celebration. The prodigal son has returned home!”

The cheers that break out are forced, their smiles do not reach their eyes. Antipatros does not think for a moment that he is welcomed here by any means. Not by these men and certainly not by his father. 

There’s something Eupeithes is playing at, another one of his games. But if Antipatros wants to win, he’s going to have to play. Not by the rules, oh no, he’s never been one to abide by anything but his own want. But he’ll make it appear as such. And when the moment’s right, when he can see his chance, he’ll grab it, by the balls if he has to, and fucking win . 

He’s wary as the men approach him. He bears no illusions that they won’t slit his throat the moment his fathers’ blessing wavers. It's not like he can blame them though, if he were in their position he’d— he doesn’t know what he’d do. Who would he have become if he hadn’t been his fathers’ son? 

The answer might upset him too much so Antipatros remains. 

“It’s good to have you back, ’Patros,” Castor says as he stoops over him. 

Antipatros looks him evenly in the eyes. “You too, Castor.”

“You’ve changed,” Castor raises an eyebrow, raking his gaze down Antipatros' form. 

“You haven’t.”

“No.” Eyes flash dangerously. “I haven’t.” 

He barely even realizes that his binds have been cut free, his focus having been on his old– friend . The other men step back when Antipatros rolls his shoulders and tests his movements, blood rushing and joints popping. When he stands, Castor still stands before him, not even flinching. 

He’s grown taller at the very least. Or he’s increased the lifts in his boots. Antipatros is leaning more towards the latter since they were the same height when he left . 

A staring contest, dull blue eyes meet dark brown and neither even dare to breathe. Antipatros feels his anger rising the longer he stares into Castor's eyes but he keeps his composure. 

The boat rocks again though neither falter, keeping still as they stare each other down. Antipatros is all too aware of everything around him. The faint tickle of the wind, the dip of the ship, whispers in his ears from the crew, the many eyes on them, the little wolf breathing heavily behind him and shifting on his feet. 

And yet Antipatros doesn’t let that deter him from the loathing he’s sending Castor’s way, and the same loathing Castor is to him. 

Neither are going to break first and Eupeithes must sense that, impatient when the attention isn’t on him, whistles sharply. Like dogs on a leash, both men whip their heads to him, both of their spines straightening. Antipatros hates that it’s so easy for him to fall back into the role he thought he shed eons ago. 

Eupeithes grins at them, the crows feet around his eyes deepening, the grey wisps of hair dancing over his skin, the liver spots ever so prominent. 

Is this guilt that Antipatros is feeling? For what? Lost time? But how can it be lost when he deliberately gave it away? 

“Walk with me, Antipatros,” his father says, gesturing with his head. 

Antipatros deliberately shoulder-checks Castor as he strides to his father and although the nausea weighs heavy in the pit of his stomach, he feels a grim sense of pride at being his fathers’ second in command again. 

Castor grunts but doesn’t say anything. He’s as much of a coward as Antipatros is. 

“And his bitch?” a crew mate asks. 

“I am not his—”

Antipatros feigns boredom, if not with a little bit of anger. He throws a glance to the prince. He’s slowly trying to back away from the men starting to walk towards him. His face is pale and his legs are shaking so badly it’s a wonder he can stand on them at all. Their eyes meet and for the first time since he’s known him, Antipatros feels a tug of pity. 

A boy so out of his depth, a fish out of water and a wolf in the ocean. The prince barely had a spine in his own home. Here, now, away from all he’s ever known and surrounded by men who would very much so like to defile him in every way possible, he’s even more endangered. 

Antipatros understands. 

“You won’t touch him,” he growls. “He’s mine.”

Righteous anger flashes in the boy’s eyes and he opens his mouth to object, but Antipatros beats him to it. 

“Anyone here dares to lay a finger on him, and I’ll castrate them. I’m not fucking joking.”

The men slow their steps, glancing between Antipatros, Eupeithes, and the boy. Weighing their options of a good meal or risking their manhood. 

Antipatros is already thinking far ahead, sifting through every option he can. If he can work this out, if he can still escape, he may as well bring the boy with him. 

Sure, when they get back to Ithaca, his suit will be null and void once they realize he isn’t actually a son of the lord he claimed, the poor old man couldn't even tell his sheep from his children. The queen wouldn’t want the hand of a man if his own was empty. But, if he were to return the prince to her, perhaps she’d reward him plenty. Of course, the problem would be the boy snitching on him and exposing him for having tainted blood. 

He’ll have to have a little chat with the brat before they get home, maybe a deal. Offer him protection in exchange for that hefty reward the queen would give him if the prince were to use those pretty tears for him, instead of against him. It could work, convince the prince to tell his mother how well Antipatros took care of him amidst the sharks and brought him back home. The queen would be grateful. So grateful that she wouldn’t throw him in the dungeons. Perhaps exile but Antipatros couldn’t care less of that. 

He can always find a new home, has been for the better part of fourteen years. 

With his reward under his arm, he’d have enough to start over. Again. A new life, new identity, a new home just within his fingertips. 

Exhaustion pulls at the coils of his heart but he pushes that aside. 

Eupeithes gives the men a short nod. “My son has spoken. We do not covet other men’s treasures, what's ours is ours and what’s theirs is theirs.” 

Antipatros doesn’t feel like now is the time to mention that they steal from other merchants, men, and islands. The code amongst their crew is stronger than their morals or desires. At least there’s that. 

“Toss… err, Antipatros,” his father turns to him. “What do you call your pet?”

An offended gasp. “I swear to Athena, I’ll—”

Antipatros’ mind races as he quickly tries to think of a name. He finds one and smoothly says, “Talos.”

The boy makes a strangling noise and there’s the quick sound of sandals slapping towards him. Antipatros isn’t worried as he spares the prince a glance. He’s fuming, pale face now red. 

There doesn’t even have to be an order uttered for two men swiftly close the distance between them and the boy and he’s seized. Rather easily. A mixture of still being visibly weakened from his conk on the head and Antipatros’ and his earlier scuffle. And the fact that he’s just a weak man. 

“Get your hands off of me!”

His legs kick out uselessly and Antipatros rolls his eyes. Is he ever not overdramatic? “And gag him. Please,” he adds. Half so that he doesn’t have to hear him bitch and whine and the other so that the boy doesn’t say anything that could risk the plan that Antipatros already has in motion. 

One of the men mutters something about stuffing his mouth with cock. It’s whispered but obviously still loud enough so that the whole deck hears. Eupeithes laughs. Antipatros doesn’t and the boy stills. He flicks his eyes to him, pleading with Antipatros for once. 

“I said…” Antipatros warns. 

“Fine, fine,” the man chuckles, cuffing the boy's head lightly. “Just playing. S’not fair you get to have him all to yourself, Anti.”

“Play amongst yourselves,” Antipatros growls. “If I hear from him that you even trailed a pinky over him, I’ll have your cock on a silver platter.”

“A whores mouth so easily lies,” Castor chimes in. Antipatros had almost forgotten he was even there. “Who’s to say he wouldn’t lie? Just to watch you tear us apart. Firecracker like him would probably get hard from watching it.”

The laughter weaves through the crowd of men. Only Antipatros and the boy don't laugh. Their eyes meet again and this time Antipatros sees resilience in them. Good, he thinks. If the boy really is the warrior he’s convinced himself he is, then it will be all the more easier to get through to him. He may have to use force or threats, but this boy will comply with him. 

He doesn’t even feel bad for whatever threats he’ll have to use. He would never let someone be raped, not again. But if he’s to just bluff the threat of letting these men have their way with him, then so be it. He knows this boy is smart enough not to risk his pride. A broken prince is more useless than a grieving queen and Ithaca is already racing toward ruin as it is. 

If the boy wants to see his precious mother again, he’ll do as he’s told. 

The boy still puts up a fight as he’s tied. Albeit barely. He gets his hands behind his back and ankles together. The gag is makeshift, a piece of his own tunic and Antipatros sees the way the men leer at his now exposed thigh. The little wolf snarls at them from behind the gag, his eyes bright with a piercing blue fire. 

In a weird way, Antipatros feels a sense of pride at watching his little wolf. He doesn’t cower so easily. At least, not under these men. Good. He shouldn’t, for these men are piranhas following a shark. Nothing about them is human.  

“Patience, son,” Eupeithes claps him on the back. Antipatros flinches. “He’ll be waiting for you when we’re through with talking. “I’ll see to it that he’s deposited in your chambers.”

“My chambers?” Antipatros feels like he’s underwater. 

“Aye,” Eupeithes says as if it’s the most natural thing. “Your cabin is still yours. Untouched.”

“All these years?”

“I didn’t give up on you, son.”

Antipatros isn’t sure how he feels about that. He’s too busy mulling it over in his mind to give the muffled shouts of the brat any notice. Later. He’ll deal with him later. For now, he follows his father further onto the ship. 

It’s interesting how even the memories of the ship are coming back to him. How the wood feels beneath his feet, how the dip of the ocean eases his mind, and how the salty breeze calms his nerves. He missed this, he realizes. As much as he loathes it with his very being, he missed it. 

Nostalgia is a bittersweet poison. 

Some marks are new. There’s a crack to the railing, the sail is a brighter colour, and the wood is less polished. But overall, it’s like he never left. 

“Did you miss her?”

“More than you know,” he says without thinking. Getting sentimental around his father is dangerous at best and lethal at worst. “Did you miss me?”

A slow huff. “Every damned day.”

“Really?” Antipatros can’t help but doubt that. “Because the last time we saw one another, we were trying to kill each other.” There’s no beating around the bush. And even though they are walking alone, he feels the eyes of the crew on them. Waiting and watching. In case they need to strike. Antipatros isn’t a fool, he can’t slit his fathers’ throat and get away with it. Not this time— but it’s not like he really got away with it last time either. Just prolonged the inevitable. 

That flash is back again and Antipatros sees the hand on the sword hilt twitch, the faux fingers lying limp. But as quickly as that flash appears, it’s gone and what remains is a con man’s smile. “It’s true, our last goodbye wasn’t on the greatest of terms. I can imagine you must feel conflicted. I am too, but my love for you, my son, is stronger than our past. Let’s put it behind us, we’ll miss so much of the future if we focus on matters that have long since happened.”

 Antipatros’ own anger is volatile. Like the earthshaker himself it crashes against the waves. He starts and barely catches himself at the last second. But the anger remains, surges inside of him. For he will never forget and he will never forgive. 

“Cut the bullshit, Father ,” he spits. “You and I both know it’s pointless.” He looks him dead in the eyes. “What do you really want?”

And so much passes in the blink of an eye, if Antipatros didn’t know his father, he’d have missed it. But he, unfortunately, does know his father and he sees so much in those brief moments. 

He sees the anger, the sneer of the man’s lips. Sees how his muscles tense, itching for a fight. There’s the sharp intake of air and the threat of sweet violence. A thousand upon a thousand words spoken between the two of them, their past leaking into the present. 

All too soon, it’s gone. Not entirely, for a history such as they have will always linger. But Antipatros learned his ability to lie from the best, and Eupeithes bares his fangs in a false smile. “You don’t believe that a father simply missed his son?”

“No.”

“You wound me.”

“That would imply that you had a heart to begin with.”

“Touché.” Eupeithes stops in front of the railing, leaning over and breathing deeply. Closing his eyes and just… enjoying himself. He opens them, sliding over to Antipatros who hasn’t stopped warily watching him. He sighs and turns around, resting his backside on the railing. “I almost lost you.”

“That was the idea,” Antipatros says gruffly. “You were never one for small talk. Stop beating around the bush. Why am I here— alive ?”

Eupeithes waits, he doesn’t hesitate. Hesitation is for the weak so he says. All good men are patient and good things come to men who wait. 

So Antipatros waits too. 

When his father finally speaks, and after he’s finished, Antipatros laughs at him. It’s an annoyed sort of laughter, the kind that drips cruel sarcasm. “You’re chasing a myth,” he finally says when the hysteria has lessened. 

His father doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t reprimand Antipatros either which is a shock. Perhaps he’s changed—

“A myth that belongs only to me.”

Perhaps not. 

Antipatros rolls his eyes. The fear is still there but it’s becoming familiar again. Like before, when he lived on the Vengeance , it was more common than splinters. And if his father is to kill him, he may as well do it with good reason. Antipatros may be biding his time, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to waste his breath by sugar coating his words. 

“You’ll die trying.”

His father looks him dead in the eyes and it dawns on him. 

“That’s why… that’s why you brought me back.” It’s not a question. 

A cool expression, no guilt to be found. “Aye.”

Antipatros looks away, his heart quaking. She keeps flashing in his mind. Her face is too ashen, her skin too cold, and him too late. “I could refuse.”

“You could,” Eupeithes smiles. “But you won’t.”

And Antipatros knows he won’t. Can’t. Not when it’s all she left for him. 

He stares into the sea, wishing it could take him too.

—

Telemachus is going to kill Antinous. 

Actually, first he’s going to cut his dick off. Feed it to him. Then kill him. And for good measure maybe spit on his corpse. 

Or perhaps that’s too good for him, a simple torture and swift death wouldn’t do all the torment he’s caused Telemachus and his house justice, oh no. Antinous needs to be thoroughly punished for what he’s done.

That prickle of absolute fear swells inside of Telemachus again so he grabs ahold of anger instead. Anger is good. Anger is his one comfort. So he keeps it close to him like a friend. 

How dare—how dare Antinous. He can blame a man, he cannot blame the gods, so he blames Antinous. If it hadn’t been for him, then Telemachus wouldn’t be in this position. He wouldn’t have been kidnapped by strange and unsavoury men, he wouldn’t have been tied up and thrown onto a bed that is not his, and he wouldn’t be far from home. 

Home. His heart twists and he struggles to find that anger. He doesn’t even know how far away it is. There was nothing as far as the eye could see when he looked to the horizon on the deck. 

And now, below and surrounded by walls, Telemachus has never felt like he’s drowning any more than he does now. 

Unease comes at him in waves so Telemachus dives below to swallow that anger. 

The crewmen must think themselves comedians. He huffs and shifts, as if that will do him any good. He’s not sure if he should be more grateful or pissed that they actually listened to what Antinous ordered. They hadn’t assaulted him, but Telemachus is sure that’s a bar that’s so low on the ground that most men would walk over it. But he could tell they wanted to and that fear is all encompassing. For all the times the suitors— and Antinous, is he even a suitor?— harassed him, they never touched him like… that. It was always violence for the sake of it. Or verbal humiliation. Never— assault . 

Never in his life would he think that he’d miss the suitors but now he’d gladly take them over these… scoundrels. 

They’d all but dragged him below deck, he didn’t make it easy for them. Athena told him to fight back so that’s what he did. Until one of their hands holding him slipped too close to comfort to his chest and he stilled. He can’t let them know. It’s bad enough that they think he’s an eromenos to Antinous— he’s going to be sick — but if they were to find out that he’s… that his body is… not what they think… he’d be in even more danger. 

He knew this must be Antinous’ cabin. It’s far too nice for a crew mate but not as luxurious as a captain would have. Not that Telemachus has ever been on a ship before but he’s read books. He’s seen scrolls and— oh gods, gods . He realizes that the first time he gets to actually have an adventure, what he’s been dreaming about ever since he had consciousness, it’s against his will. 

He squirms again but it does absolutely nothing to change his position. At least the bed is comfortable. But it only serves to make him more anxious when he feels the plush padding and silk sheets. 

Sprawled out on a bed that is most assuredly Antinous’. 

When the crewmen had untied him, Telemachus hadn’t even hesitated, lunging for the door to— he doesn’t even know what. Make a break for it? And then what? Swim back to Ithaca? 

Athena would not be proud of his actions, no mind behind them. But— but he’s scared and he had acted without thinking. 

The men had grabbed him, embarrassingly easy, and threw him back on the bed. The terror of them ignoring the order had caused his adrenaline to surge and he fought them. But he couldn’t even best Antinous with a goddess on his side and these men were big . 

They’d tied his hands to the bed posts and ankles to the foot of the bed, leaving him spread out like an offering. Their comments didn’t make him feel any better, nor did their eyes roving over his body. 

But they hadn’t touched him, not really. And they left after telling him all the things they wished they could do to him with him being helpless as he is. And with the gag still in his mouth, Telemachus couldn’t retort back. Not that he’s sure he’d even find the strength to speak without vomiting. 

Being alone in the room is almost worse. Now he only has his thoughts for company and he’s spiraling. 

He’s alone, actually alone surrounded by danger. At least in the palace he had the guards, Eurycleia, Argos, his mother—

His mother . 

Telemachus feels the sting in the corners of his eyes. How long has it been? It was night when he ran out of the palace to have his tantrum and the beginnings of dawn were painting the skies. Had his mother even noticed that he was gone? Unlikely. She probably would give him space, they always did whenever they had a fight. She’d try to find him by dinner time, but even then she wouldn’t be too concerned if she didn’t find him. He’s been gone for longer. When they’d had a fight about his— situation . 

He pushes that memory away. 

Penelope won’t start to worry until it’s been a good few days. And who knows if he’ll even be alive. 

His body quakes as he fails to ignore the fear. He just wants his mama. 

The first tears begin to fall. The last thing he said to her can’t have been him telling her that she’s not his mother, that’s not true! She is, she is his mother and the best anyone could ever ask for. 

And now the last thing he’ll remember is the hurt on her face when he snapped at her. And the last thing she’ll remember is the anger on his face. 

He’d give anything to take it back. 

The tears start to fall more freely. He doesn’t want them to, he shouldn’t show even the slightest bit of weakness in a place like this. Those men will only sink their fangs into him further. 

But he’s scared and alone and he doesn’t know what to do or how to get out of this situation. 

The doorknob starts to turn slowly and Telemachus freezes. He tries to blink away the tears but knows it’s futile with the stains on his cheeks. 

His hands clench into fists. He’ll fight tooth and nail, whichever man walks in to rape him, he won’t go down without a fucking fight . 

Antinous walks into the room. 

Chapter Text

If it were any other situation, Antipatros can’t say that he would not have minded being welcomed back in his cabin this way: a pretty boy sprawled out on his bed, face flushed and eyes bright with defiance, stains of tears streaking down his cheeks, and chiton bunched up well above his knees, barely keeping his modesty. 

Unfortunately, it isn’t any other situation and Antipatros isn’t staring at a handsome young man and is in fact staring at the nuisance that is prince Telemachus. 

The boy’s eyes narrow and he immediately stills his movements. If Antipatros couldn’t see the quick rise and fall of his chest, he’d think the boy had gone dumb. Well, dumber than usual. 

Antipatros takes in a deep breath and exhales, slowly. He’s at the side of the bed before he knows it, hand hovering over the boy’s mouth. “If you scream or even attempt to fucking bite me again, I’ll let you loose on the ship, unprotected from the crew. Do you understand?”

The boy’s eyes narrow. 

His patience is being stretched thin. He’s already had to deal with one man’s hostility, he doesn’t have the energy to deal with another's. Not that the boy would pose as any sort of a threat, he can barely hold his own in a fight for longer than a minute. But Antipatros doesn’t want to waste his time having to babysit this upstart who can’t even walk upright on a ship. 

“Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

He keeps his eyes open. 

Dear gods , how the fuck did anyone even tolerate him? No wonder his mother stayed locked in her room all day. She wasn’t hiding from the suitors, she was hiding from her pathetic excuse for a son. 

“You’re testing my patience here, kid,” he growls. At least he gets the grim sliver of satisfaction when the boy flinches as he puts the flat of his palm on his cheek. 

The shaking intensifies. The fear in the boy’s eyes is overwhelmed by that burning hatred in those bright baby blues. 

Antipatros snags a finger underneath the makeshift gag and pulls, forcing the gag even deeper into the boy’s mouth. He shifts uncomfortably but still doesn’t make too much movement. Not until Antipatros, getting righteously annoyed, yanks the back of the gag and causes the boy to choke. The satisfaction is as fleeting as the first time and Antipatros sighs. This isn’t helping. 

What’s the point of torturing the boy when he can’t do more than squirm? There’s no excitement to be had on a wolf that doesn’t bite back. That’s just— more cruel than what Antipatros is capable of. 

Untying the knot proves more difficult than he anticipated. Really though, it shouldn’t surprise him. The crewmen have always liked their loot when it’s at their utter mercy. Antipatros focuses on the task at hand rather than the memories. 

The boy licks his dried lips and cracks his jaw, the fabric lying limp around his neck from where Antipatros untied it. His eyes never leave Antipatros’, lethal in their own right but tamed in the fact that he’s still lying prone on the bed. On his bed. In Antipatros’ room. In his fathers’ ship. On the very waters he’d been hoping to avoid forever. 

They stare at one another for a long beat of silence. Neither one even seeming to dare to breathe. Antipatros doesn’t move his face from where it’s only a few hairs away from the boys’. And even though he’s looking over him, Antipatros feels as if the boy is looking down on him, as is always the case. Figures. The prince thinks he’s better than every one of the suitors. 

Antipatros tells himself that he’s not relenting, that he’s simply untying the prince because he’s on his bed and he’d like to sulk in his misery without having to share it with this fucking twat. 

The moment one of the boy’s wrists is freed, he strikes. 

Sure it’s sloppy and sluggish and his punch couldn't have been more obvious if he had drawn out a detailed plan and given it to Antipatros himself, but Antipatros has to give out credit where it’s due. At least the kid has spunk. Or stupidity, the line is quite fine when it comes to one or the other, but still. 

He easily ducks from the first swing and then catches the second when the prince tries to punch him again. His hand encases the fist and twists, wringing a cry out of the boy that would have been delightful if only Antipatros was in a better mood. 

“You fucking bastard !” the boy shouts. 

It grates Antipatros’ ears and he growls, twisting even harder and earning a higher pitched cry, cracking at the end. How easy it would be to just break it, Antipatros mildly considers the wrist. Maybe it would teach him some better manners, make him see how grateful he should be that Antipatros didn’t let the men ravish him like he knows they still would very much like to. 

It’s not that the crewmen would find it anything new, and if anything, they’d become bored within a couple of weeks anyway. Move onto the next warm body. But knowing the little twerp, it would haunt him for the rest of his days, and knowing himself, Antipatros would have to fend off the guilt that would gnaw at him for a good couple of months. And that’s not something he has the time nor the energy to worry about. 

Despite the pain in his wrist, the fact that the rest of him is still tied up, and the depleting energy it must be taking, the boy continues to writhe and shout obscenities at Antipatros. Even when Antipatros shakes his wrist, starting to see some dark colour appear around the wrist, the body continues to squirm. 

The slap isn’t as harsh as the boys’ cry lets out, he’s overdramatic and Antipatros rolls his eyes. The whiplash snaps his head to the side, showing off the bright red mark from the backhand. And at least it dazed him enough to shut him up. 

“Are you done?” Antipatros asks gruffly. 

“Done?” the boy asks. “ Done ?”

“Aye,” Antipatros says. “If I’d have known you were going to throw a temper tantrum, I would have kept the gag on and waited until you wore yourself out.”

“Temper tantrum? Are you fucking serious right now?”

“As a heart attack.”

A dry, hysterical laugh that is cut short by a venomous shout. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

Another writhing episode which does nothing except cause one of Antipatros’ eyes to twitch. This brat is really testing his nerves. He can practically hear the grinding of bones when he tightens his hold on the wrist. The boy opens his mouth but all that comes out is a choked out groan. 

“St-sto-p—!”

“Are you going to behave?”

“F-fuck yo-u…”

Antipatros is really getting sick of his childish behaviour but maybe the stick isn’t what gets the boy to comply. Perhaps he should try the carrot. 

The boy tucks his arm into his chest when Antipatros lets it drop, throwing him a petulant glare. 

“Listen,” Antipatros starts. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Cracked, strained yet still temperamental. “Really, ‘cause it looks like you’re really enjoying yourself.”

The restraint that Antipatros shows by taking a deep breath instead of strangling the boy into unconsciousness should be commended to the highest degree. He’ll have to mention the fact to his mother when he deposits him at her feet, she’ll be ever so grateful. And understand the pain he went through of having to deal with her spawn. 

He puts distance between them, finds it easier to breathe when he’s not inhaling the hypocrisy of the brat. His eyes catch light, soft and warm, and they flit to the small window. 

The view isn’t anything new, Antipatros has seen the ocean time and time again, from this exact spot. If anything, it’s as mundane as it’s ever been. The window is just big enough to see the ocean and the ocean only. The flat, deep blue of the horizon stretches out as far as the eye can see. Antipatros focuses on it, lets his mind drift and pictures that raft lazily bobbing in the ocean. Casts his mind away from the situation just long enough to ease the tension between his eyes. 

“You know what it’s like, don’t you?”

The boy doesn’t answer but Antipatros knows that he’s listening, he’s often caught him eavesdropping on conversations he has no right to. 

“To be trapped in your own home?”

He’s met with silence. 

Antipatros watches the waves for a little while longer. Eyes meet eyes when he turns around, still as bright and volatile as ever. “Feeling like you're suffocating on the same air, time and time again.”

“If this is your attempt at manipulating me to feel sorry for you, you’re doing a shitty job.”

“Heh, if I wanted to manipulate you, kid, I’d have already done so. Your heart’s easy to twist, soft as it is.”

“Like I’d let you anywhere near my heart.”

“Whose to say I haven’t already?”

“I’m not as gullible as you think I am.”

“And I’m not nearly as selfish as you think I am.”

“Unlikely.”

“You wound me,” Antipatros starts to say but stops himself, bitter in his mouth. They really aren’t so different. He must have stayed quiet for a while because the boy starts to squirm again, impatient. 

“You’re a good liar.”

He snaps his gaze up. “Excuse me?”

Those blue eyes take over his form, scrutinizing him in every way. “You even had me fooled. Thought you were nothing but a lazy, oafish noble. Turns out you’re even more of a con man than I thought.” The boy barks out a humourless laugh. “Figures, men like you only care for the bottomless pits in your stomach.”

“Men like me?” Antipatros takes a dangerous, almost cat-like step forward. 

“Aye.” Confident and cocky little bastard. “Pirates care for nothing but their own greed. Although, I’m surprised that one of you had the foresight to try going for the crown.”

It only takes two strides for Antipatros to close the distance between them, his hand grabbing onto the boy’s wrist and yanking it away from his chest with ease, twisting again. His face pinches but he doesn’t yelp, at least, not yet. Just lethal blue. 

“What? Wanted to bring the crown back to your daddy so he could finally have something to be proud of?”

He can feel the bones groaning beneath his grip as Antipatros tightens his hold. Just about to snap his wrist in two. And he’ll do it. He really will. Because this fuckimg brat is far beyond just testing his patience. He’s pulling it apart with his teeth and if the brat thinks that he’ll get away with it then he’s sorely mistaken. 

Antipatros will show him what happens when his authority is questioned—

He drops the wrist like it’s burned him, running that hand over his face and chuckling darkly. “Oh, you think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

“More than you, at least.”

“Fucking masochist,” Antipatros rolls his eyes. “You want me to hurt you?”

The boy swallows thickly but doesn’t look away. 

“What? You think that getting a beating makes you a man? Is that what it is? Feeling so helpless that you have to rely on the one thing that gets your dick hard because that convinces you that you’re doing the right thing?”

“Says the man who only picks fights he knows he will win.”

“Not even confident in your own skill?” A taunt, more of a low blow but Antipatros’ nerves are too frayed to care. He’s had a long day and it’s not even noon yet. 

Narrowed eyes and the dust of pink on his cheeks. “Why don’t you untie me and we’ll find out.”

“Careful, kid. Someone might mistake that for a threat.”

“Good. It was.”

“Hardly, you have to be threatening to make it count.”

“I am .”

“Kid, you’re about as scary as a newborn pup.”

“And yet I make you nervous enough to keep tied up.”

“Sure,” Antipatros says, making to untie the boy. “Let’s let you loose and have you knock me down. Then what?” He fiddles with the ropes on the boy’s other hand, still squeezing the bruising wrist in the other. “You walk on deck and demand to be delivered back to Ithaca?”

Those plump lips disappear in a thin line. 

“Face it, little wolf,” he breathes, enjoying the rush he gets from the small shiver. “The only thing keeping you from being ripped apart is me.”

The boy blinks slowly, as if coming to a realization. “Why?”

Antipatros cocks his head to the side. “Hmm?”

“Why?” the boy repeats. “Why not let me be— raped .” Even he can’t get the word out without choking on it. Antipatros doubts the boy has ever had to think about it at all. Lucky. “What’s in it for you to keep me… unharmed?”

Ah, there it is. At least the kid does have some brains. If not tucked safely in the far corners of his mind. 

Antipatros lets go of his wrist, using both hands to untie the other. Surprisingly, the boy lets him  do so without a hassle. Once it’s done, he pulls back, not bothering to untie his feet. The boy can do that himself. Antipatros watches as the boy struggles to do so, his hands still shaking and his bruised wrist probably not helping but he doesn’t make to help him. 

Blue eyes still stay on his person, as if afraid to let him out of his sight for even a moment. At least the boy isn’t that naive. 

“You’re my ticket to getting out of here.”

“What?” The boy stills. 

Antipatros offers him one of his award winning smiles. The one that can charm any man or woman. Apparently the boy is dumb because he doesn’t so much as flush. Maybe the conk on the head was a little too harsh. “You do want to make it back to your home, don’t you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“How about a deal.”

“I don’t make deals with con men.”

“Well, you will with this one if you want to see your precious mama again.”

A flinch and sharp intake of breath and Antipatros knows that he has him in the palm of his hand. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Neither of us want to be here.”

A scoff, “That’s for sure.”

He decides not to reprimand the boy for interrupting him because he’ll be the bigger person for now. The boy is lucky he’s so lax. “My father is no fool.” He really wishes he was, it’d make everything easier. 

“Guess the apple does fall far from the tree then.”

“Do you want to hear the plan or should I toss you out the door?”

“You really like getting off to threatening me with rape, don’t you?” the boy spits back and yelps when Antipatros is wrenching his head back with his hand tangled in his hair. 

Antipatros breathes heavily as he throws the brat onto the floor, vision going crimson as he looks over him. The boy scrambles up fairly quickly, fists raised and eyes ablaze, though flickering with fear. His stance is laughable but Antipatros doesn’t have the mirth to even grin. “Watch your tongue, boy. I have no interest in rape.”

“Then… then why threaten me with it?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” the boy challenges. “You really think threatening someone to be raped is any different than raping someone? Or just simply letting someone be raped isn’t the same as if it were your own hands? Gods, you’re sick .”

“Watch it—”

“No, you watch it,” he snaps. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them. If you know someone is doing something bad and you do nothing to stop it, it’s just the same as doing it yourself.”

Faster than the boy can even fly in, Antipatros has him pinned against the wall, lifting him up so his feet are scrambling for the purchase that he’s refused. Antipatros growls, low in his throat as his head pounds. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? To look down on those you think are less than you, eh?”

The boy’s hands claw at his, nails sinking in but doing little to deter Antipatros from loosening his grip on the front of his chiton. 

“Easy? How could you think what I have is easy? You and the suitors have feasted in my home for years— years . And I was able to do nothing to stop it.”

“Because you’re weak.”

“No, because I have honour and respect. Something you do not.”

“ Boy…”

“ Antinous .” The brat bares his teeth. “For someone who likes to hear the sound of his own voice, it seems that you never even listen to it. I mean, gods, do you even hear yourself? How could you possibly think that ignoring the assault of another renders you any better than them? Huh? How?”

"You are not in any position to challenge me, prince ,” Antipatros seethes. “Need I remind you who is in whose hands here?”

“And there it is again. Really, if you even want to call yourself a man, you need to start acting like one first, Antinous.”

“Antipatros,” he says without missing a beat, though his stomach churns at the boy’s words. Telemachus doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t understand hardships, not like Antin— Antipatros has. What has the prince had to worry about besides which tunic goes with which chlamys? Antipatros is the one who has suffered more, Antipatros is the one who has had to rise above what others’ forced upon him, and it’ll be Antipatros who will choose his own Fate. 

“What?”

“It’s Antipatros now.”

“Antipatros,” the boy says slowly. Something odd on his face, chewing the thoughts behind his eyes. 

“Aye. That’s my name.”

“Do you… do you want it to be?”

What kind of fucking question is that? This little wolf is full of nonsense . The sooner they make it back to Ithaca and he collects his reward, the sooner he can be with the one person who understands him the most; himself. 

“Do you want to make it out of this alive or not?” The boy may not be able to look further than the bridge of his nose but Antipatros can. And if he has to think for two then he will, he just won’t be very happy about it. 

The boy raises his chin defiantly, although it does little since Antipatros is still holding him up by the front of his tunic. “I’m not afraid of death or—or rape , and I’m certainly not afraid of the likes of you. I won’t comply with whatever scheme you have. If I must, I’ll find my own way home, fiend. ”

Cute, but for Antipatros’ plan to work, he needs the boy to comply. What good is leaving for a new life if he has no money to start it with. “But you are afraid of leaving your mother alone, are you not?”

Like clockwork, the boy freezes. His face pales and mouth unhinges. Perhaps a low blow but Antipatros is too spent to do this song and dance for much longer. Easier to just cut to the chase and get on with it. 

“I—”

“Very selfish of you to leave her alone. Without her son to protect her,” Antipatros leans in, making sure to blow hotly against the boy’s face. “Who knows how restless the suitors will get. And you saw it firsthand, the council will do nothing to stop them if it means Ithaca has a king once more.”

“Ithaca has a king! My father—”

“Is where?”

The boy’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out, mind short circuiting. 

“Thought so. Even if he is still out there— which is impossible at best, little wolf— he’s not there to protect your dearest mother. And with you gone— even with what little protection you offered— she’ll be vulnerable to the acts of man.” His eyes glint. “You know so yourself, don’t you, little wolf?”

And he’s won. He can see it in the hesitation in the boy’s eyes. It wasn’t even that hard to win him over, and why would it? The little prince is a mama’s boy at heart, something Antipatros can— 

The boy would do anything to protect his mother, even if that means working with the man he loathes utmost. And this is the one thing Antipatros will take advantage of, if only to further his one goal in life. 

For a home. 

“What is it.”

“Hmm?” Antipatros asks sweetly. 

“Your deal.” The boy glares at him from under his lashes, raising his chin like the pompous pup he is. His hair clings to his face, framing his features and drawing attention to his eyes and his eyes only. Sharp as ever, more lethal than any knife or even a set of teeth could be. He only stumbles a little when Antipatros sets him down, condescendingly smoothing out his chiton and brushing off imaginary dirt. 

“Knew you'd come around, smart for a boy as pretty as you.”

An annoyed huff but the boy visibly holds himself back from lunging. Huh, perhaps he can practice self restraint. The hands clench and unclench at his sides and his breathing comes uneven, and yet the prince stands his ground and waits. His bloodline must be used to that. 

Antipatros takes a step back, quickly glancing at the window. The waves calm him a little, but only a little. “The deal is simple, really. You don’t even have to do anything.” His deep brown meets those vibrant blues. “You agree to be my eromenos—” A strangled sound from the boy but Antipatros continues on. “Play your part at being my pretty little pet, and I offer you protection from the rest of the crew. They won’t touch what isn’t theirs and especially not if my father tells them to keep their hands to themselves.”

“And in return, once we find a port and steal away on our own ship and sail back to Ithaca, you’ll tell the queen how well I looked after you. How I kept her precious boy safe and sound from all harm. Perhaps even held you on nights to wept yourself to sleep.” Antipatros throws the boy his shit-eating grin to which the boy is not amused. “And your mother will be oh so grateful for my kindness that she will bestow riches for my weeping heart. Enough to sail away, start over, and never see you again.”

The boy blinks a few times as the words set in, his hands now permanently clenched.  “That’s your plan?”

“Too complicated to wrap your mind around it?”

“Quite the opposite really, that’s… simple.”

Antipatros shrugs. “Sometimes the simplest of plans is the one that works.”

The boy snorts, and that makes the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise. “You’re really relying on so many what-ifs , how can you possibly think any of this would work?”

“Care to elaborate?” Antipatros growls. 

“Well, for starters, the first part of your plan is dependent on us actually being able to escape this ship.”

“You don’t think we can? You have such little faith in me?”

“Aye, that, but—” The boy swallows, the wheels spinning behind his eyes. “The captain, your father, he… he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to fall for the same mistake twice. If he’s as intelligent as you say he is, he’ll know something is up before you even attempt to escape. I’ve seen the way the crew and him look at you.” The boy gives him a hard look. “They don’t trust you. Probably even less than I do.”

He really is smarter than he lets on. But so is Antipatros. “You’re forgetting a very important thing, little wolf,” he says. 

“And what’s that?”

“People will believe what they want to believe and if my father thinks I’m so desperate to chase after the one thing we’ve been trying to find since before I was born, he’ll be so focused on that that he won’t even bother to think I’m stringing him along.”

Eyes narrow. “And what thing would that be?”

“None of your concern,” Antipatros says smoothly. Too smoothly it seems because the suspicion doesn’t leave the boy’s face. 

“Is that why your father… brought you back? For fools gold?”

The sting hurts, actually. Something that surprises Antipatros. The anxiety and desperation to prove to this stupid prince that his father does want him for more than that rises so fast and so heavy that he almost starts the argument then and there. But catches himself right before he does. There’s no truth to that in the slightest. He doesn’t care for his father, how could he? After everything that Eupeithes did? To him and her. How could he ever hold anything in his heart but contempt for the old man? 

“Don’t worry, if we find it before we escape, I’ll let you have quarter.”

“I’ll pass.”

“On the deal or the treasures?”

“The— treasures,” the boy says slowly. “I don’t care for tangible values.”

“Of course you don't," Antipatros rolls his eyes. 

A beat of silence as the boy mulls over more. “You say you’ll leave once my mother gives you— whatever treasures or gold or coin but,” he licks his lips nervously. “What if your father comes back to my island to look for you?”

“What about it?”

The boy’s eyes flash. “What about it? That’s my home, my people, my mother !” He takes a step forward, cheeks flushed with rage once more. “How can you be so callous to not care for innocent lives?”

Antipatros shrugs. “Well, they won’t really affect me once I’m gone. So why should I?”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“No,” Antipatros says. “I’m a selfish person. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Isn’t there?”

“You think that being selfless is any better? Look at yourself, kid. You’re running yourself ragged just trying to keep the peace or throw out the suitors from your home. And, for what? So you can watch your mother wallow in her grief more? So you can take over the kingdom that you have no skill to rule? What good does your selflessness do if it just kills you in the end? You gotta learn to be selfish every now and then.”

“I think I’ll sooner take advice from your father than you,” the boy spits out. 

“Look,” Antipatros tries. “Ithaca is strong, one of the reasons why I wouldn't have minded ruling it alongside a powerful consort.”

“A consort is what you would have been, you—”

Antipatros speaks over him, “If my father really were to come to your home while looking for me, I’m sure your guards and people could handle them. They’re not as well trained as even some of the suitors. And I’m sure the suitors would understand that if they protected your mother, they’d be earning her favour. So—” He leans down. “You’ll be fine . Quit worrying about things that haven’t even happened yet. If they’ll even happen at all .”

The boy tries one final time. “And how are you planning on finding a ship that is willing to sail us back to Ithaca?”

“When did I say they’d have to be willing?”

A violent exhale through his nostrils but Antipatros just chuckles at him. 

The little wolf blinks owlishly at him, mouth opening and closing and still as useless as ever. “I—” He sighs. “I don’t think this plan of yours is of any sound…”

“But…” Antipatros’ eyes glimmer. 

“But,” the boy sighs. “I don’t see a better one.”

“Atta boy.”

“Yeah, don’t say that.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands. You are my eromenos, after all.”

At least the boy’s face goes completely red. Some things can be satisfying it seems.  “I’m not agreeing to that.”

"You have to,” Antipatros sing-songs. Waiting for three years, a waste, does make this even more sweet. “Or else the crew will eat you alive.”

“I hate you,” he says. “You’re a fucking monster.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Fuck you.”

“Only if you want me to.”

The boy raises a fist but the anger on his face quickly deflates. “You’re not worth it,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He addresses Antipatros once more. “They will not touch me?”

“They will not.”

“Swear it,” he orders. “Swear that no man aboard will touch me.”

“Not unless you want them to.”

“ Antinous, swear it.”

Antipatros sighs and holds up his hand. “I swear no man on this ship will rape you. And it’s Antipatros, you’d do best to remember that, Talos .”

The boy swallows again, closes his eyes, and shudders. Antipatros has him in the palm of his hand. He sticks out his hand, still shaking. 

“Deal?”

Telemachus closes his hand around and gives it a jerk. “Deal.” 

The smaller hand wrenches itself away as if he’s been burned and he takes a few steps back, hitting the wall. His eyes unfocus as he breathes in and out, coaxing himself out of a mild panic attack. Antipatros watches him, bored but pleased. That was difficult and a pain and Antipatros still wants to throttle him, but he’ll offer mercy when it should be, and at least the boy came to his senses. 

“You’ll have to change.”

Head snaps up. “What? Why?”

Antipatros raises an eyebrow. “You need to look the part, don’t you?”

“Pervert.”

“Call me what you want, you can even tell your mother every name you cursed me with when you make it back home.” Antipatros glances at the window again. 

“How did you do it?”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t bother to turn around. 

“Trick Ithaca that you were a lord? It’s impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Antipatros corrects. “In fact, it was easier than you might think. The old man was really convinced I was his son. Senile poor thing.”

A gasp. “You killed his son?”

He half turns. “Didn’t have to. He was already dead. His emotions got the better of him. Probably because he had an insane man for a father. That would make anyone want to kill themse—”

“Have you no respect for those in pain?”

“Not unless it’s me.”

“Selfish dog.”

Another shrug, it’s so easy to be nonchalant. The boy grumbles, not much else he can do, and Antipatros stares out the window. At the wide expanse of nothing . 

—

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Aw, how cute, if it makes you feel any better, you can always dream about me.”

“Slitting your throat does sound heavenly, I’ll be sure to tell you about it in great detail.”

Antino— Antipatros ?— raises an eyebrow, not fazed in the slightest. Telemachus can’t blame him, it isn’t his best come back but his mind is a little too frayed to come up with anything more scathing. 

The door shuts with a click and Telemachus tries not to focus on how foreboding the sound is. He tenses, hearing Antipatros take pause at the door for a moment before he walks away, the sounds of the crewmen fading until they’re gone. 

But Telemachus still doesn’t relax. He bolts forward, his feet barely touching the floor as he lunges for the door. The bolt echoes throughout the small cabin and even still, his heart still races. He doesn’t trust anyone aboard this ship one bit, not the crewmen, not the captain, and certainly not Antipatros. 

His forehead rests against the door and his shoulders shake. He thinks he’s sobbing, finally breaking down, and only becomes even more confused when he realizes that he’s laughing. He hiccups on his breath and clamps a hand over his mouth but that does little to muffle the hysteria. His breath is ragged and his chest aches. 

He looks fucking ridiculous and tries not to glance down at his… garments. 

Turns out, that even though the ship is composed of only male pirates, they still have quite the plethora of feminine chitons, peplos, and loincloths that were clearly not for their… endowment. 

Telemachus all but hissed at the strophion that Antipatros had teasingly tossed his way. He has to physically calm himself down. 

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know ! Antipatros is simply being a dick for the sake of it. He doesn’t know that Telemachus is—isn’t—he—

Another shrill sound and he slams his head against the door. At least the spike of pain quells the hysteria burning his lungs. It’s not funny, nothing about his situation is funny, but he laughs anyway. 

He laughs because if he doesn’t, he’ll start crying. And if he starts crying, he’s not going to stop. 

At least Antipatros let him change in peace. Left the room to do… whatever, Telemachus doesn’t fucking care, and he swiftly changed into whatever the fuck he has on now. The length of the chiton barely covers his thighs and the himation is too red, too bright, too much . The same exact colour that Antipatros changed into. 

He looks better in blue. The kohl staining his eyes stings and he has to blink furiously to stave the threat of tears. 

He hadn’t wanted to part with his old chiton, silly as that may sound. But it was his and it gave his mind some sort of comfort from how his body is. But Antipatros had said there wasn’t a need for it anymore and took it with him. 

Perhaps Telemachus is too much of a coward, he should have fought tooth and nail to keep it. But he hadn’t wanted to look childish by throwing a tantrum, gods know Antipatros already thinks of him as weak. Not that he cares what the bastard thinks of him as. Actually, it’s probably a good thing if he’s seen as weak, it lets people’s guards down around him, allows him to stalk his prey until he can have them in his jaws. 

A wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Or a prince in whores clothing. 

Another huff that isn’t muffled by his hand anymore. He’s not sure when he took it off to run his hand through his hair. He grips the strands, almost tearing them out by how hard he pulls at it. The pain isn’t a distraction in the slightest and the edges of hysteria tighten their hold on him. 

Backing away from the door, Telemachus surveys the room. It’s… a room, there’s not really much more he can say about it. It’s way smaller than his back home— home, he just wants to go home!— but cozy. There’s a large bed, dressers, side tables, a few bookshelves and a small window. Looking out the window gives him nothing but despair, just the vast expanse of the sea. Sure, maybe if he was on deck it would be more of a breathtaking view. After all, he has always wanted to go sailing, adventuring. 

Maybe he can try to imagine that he is on a journey of his own. That he isn’t locked away in someone’s cabin, the same someone who not only has been trying to court his mother for the throne but has been lying about who he is in the first place. 

Not that having a new identity is a lie, gods know Telemachus understands firsthand, but he’s fairly certain that his situation and Antipatros’ situation are very, very different. 

But he isn’t standing at the bow of the ship, overlooking the waves with a crew behind him awaiting orders. He’s locked below deck surrounded by pirates who want nothing more than to rape him. 

He stumbles but forces himself not to fall. He can’t risk having a mental breakdown. He needs to stay strong and alert, for even the slightest misstep could cost him his life, or worse, his body. 

Forcing himself to look around the room, he tries to think like a warrior of the mind. What would his father do in this situation? What would Athena?

Well, Athena wouldn’t have gotten herself into this mess in the first place and his father… his father… he has no clue what the great Odysseus of Ithaca would do, he doesn’t even know the legend let alone the man behind it. 

Odysseus would have been able to take every one of the pirates in battle and simply sailed back home. Telemachus clenches his hands. Now there’s a real man, not like him. Not like he’ll ever be. 

His father would be—

He doesn’t let himself finish that thought. Put his emotions aside. Focus on the task at hand. 

There are no weapons in this room, at least, none that he can see. Which— figures. Antipatros wouldn’t leave him in a room with swords lining the walls for him to use but there’s got to be something he can use. 

He opens a drawer, finds nothing but clothes and sandals. He keeps looking. 

It’s hard to ignore the clink of his jewelry with every small movement and he prays to whichever god that is listening to be able to wrap the chains around Antipatros’ neck when all this is through. Not necessarily to kill him, just to choke him a little so he gets a taste of his own medicine. 

Antipatros . 

His bad mood worsens. 

He shifts through another drawer, finding a phallic piece of leather and quickly yanking his hand back. He keeps looking. 

Has everything he’s ever thought of the man been false? Not his core personality he knows. Because no man could keep up the charade if being that insufferable for that many years. And it’s not like Antipatros has changed his attitude since being on the ship. He’s still the same fucking bastard he’s always been. 

Telemachus has to admit that he felt the grip of sympathy in the first few moments when they woke up on deck, realizing that Antipatros had fled a terrible life to start a new one. He definitely understands where he learned his sordid behaviour, Antipatros’ father seems even worse than he is. Which is saying a lot . 

But that sympathy has long since fled when Antipatros threatened him with rape— more than once. And the sanity and safety of his mother. Those are things that are inexcusable to him. 

He finds another drawer of nothing but clothes. Seriously, how many chitons of the same colour did one man need?

Telemachus still can’t believe that he made a deal with him. A fucking deal with a conman who will more than likely slit his wrist than offer him a helping hand. 

He had no choice but there’s always a second choice, isn’t there? How can he claim to be a warrior of the mind if he can’t even use that? His mind feels thick but it’s no excuse. A real warrior would have figured out a way out of this. A real prince would have demanded to be brought home. A real son wouldn’t have argued with his mother. 

And a real man wouldn’t be scared out of his mind. 

He almost drops the dagger in his hand once he realizes what it is. He blinks and brings it to his face for inspection. It’s small, barely more than a knife for cutting up small chunks of meat, but at least it’s something. And it’s so unassuming that he knows Antipatros won’t miss it if he were to borrow it. Permanently. 

He grabs a small belt from a rack and quickly straps the dagger to his thigh. It’s unfortunate that he has to put it so high on his thigh but any lower and it would be seen. There. He stands back, making sure to put all the clothes and items in the drawer back in place so it doesn’t look like he was rummaging around in there, and looks down at his leg. Perfectly hidden. Good. 

He feels a little bit better now that he has a weapon. But not by much. Because what good will a small dagger do against the swords and muscle of the pirates?

He shudders and shakes his head to rid himself of those worries. A bad idea since it just leaves him a little bit dizzy. His head still throbs somewhat from the bludgeoning to the back of his skull. 

Resting his back against the wall, Telemachus just… stays there. Trying not to think and failing. Even tracing his fingers over the handle of the dagger does little to ease the tension between his brows. 

His chest aches . It’s getting hard to breathe. Not impossible but difficult. He hasn’t taken his wraps off at all last night, not like he would have if he could because he couldn’t . 

He’s going to get an earful from his mother when he gets home. When, because it will be when , not if . 

He just has to put up with his end of the deal. So long as Antipatros keeps up his. He doesn’t trust the man any further than he can throw him and Antipatros is large. Both in his body and ego. 

The temptation to break the deal as soon as he’s home is strong. Let his mother know of Antipatros’ mistreatment of him and see how well he likes the wrath of his very angry and very Spartan mother but—

He gave Antipatros his word. And although he doesn’t delude himself that the man probably isn’t so good at staying true to his word, Telemachus will not stoop so low to break his end of the bargain. He will be the bigger man, even if that means he’s going to have to swallow his righteous anger every time Antipatros opens his ugly maw. It’ll be almost as impossible as stringing a bow meant only for a king, but he will do it. 

Because he has no other fucking option. 

The hysteria wells up again and Telemachus allows himself to sink to the floor, his legs finally giving out. 

His chest aches, his cheek stings, his heart wavers, and his chest aches . 

Chapter Text

Antipatros is fucking pissed. And exhausted. Pissed and exhausted and scared out of his gods damned mind. 

The irritation is the fault of Castor, it usually comes from a different dark haired nuisance so at least Fate is shaking it up a bit for Antipatros. Though he’s not sure which he would prefer; Castor or Telemachus. They can both bother each other for all he cares, they’d probably be into that, biting at each others’ necks. 

Not that Antipatros would have minded seeing that either but at the moment, he’s a little too exhausted to even consider fantasizing about it. 

The meeting, if one could even call it a meeting, was abysmal. It was like he’d never left. 

Eupeithes is a fool, a fucking fool if he actually believes he can chase a myth. And for what ? 

Antipatros huffs a little too loudly and Castor throws a glance his way. His eyes narrow as if in deep thought but Antipatros is pretty sure he’s never had an original thought in that pretty little head of his since before he could even think. “Is it strange?”

“Hmm?” Antipatros side eyes him. 

“Being back.” Castor casts a gesture around them and Antipatros follows it. 

The crew are hard at work, preparing for the upcoming raid. Antipatros watches them stuff the barrels and line the planks. Sails are stitched and men are yelled at and to. “No. It feels the same.”

Castor lets out a bark of laughter. “Damn, you’re awfully quiet.”

Antipatros shrugs, watching the crew fumble their way toward another bloody aftermath. “Not much to say.”

“Bullshit. You always have something to say.”

“Maybe I’m tired.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Why are you here, Castor?”

“Same as you; gold and riches and bitches. Why else would anyone do/... any of this?”

“No,” Antipatros corrects himself. “I mean why are you here? Standing next to me.”

Castor huffs. “I can go where I please.”

“Eupeithes entrusted you to watch over me?” Antipatros deduces, incredulous. “You?” He barks out a laugh. “Now that’s some true bullshit right there.”

As expected, Castor bristles and steps in front of him, hackles raised. “And how is that?”

Antipatros looks at him and grins like a shark. “Come now, Castor. You and I both know that if there ever was a repeat of before, you’d do exactly what you did before.” He steps forward so they’re almost nose to nose and whispers, “ Nothing .”

He’s not imagining the shiver, he just doesn’t comment on it. “Wanna bet?”

“I don’t have to.”

He goes to walk away but is stopped by a hand on his wrist. He glances down at it, then up at Castor. He’s definitely wearing lifts now, if he wasn’t before. 

“Where are you going?” Castor demands. 

Antipatros rolls his eyes. “To bed. I’m tired, Cassie.” Castor bristles at the nickname. “You know how exhausting it is dealing with Eupeithes.”

That gets him a half eye roll and a huff. “Allow me to escort you back to your room then, oh second in command.”

“That’s not necessary,” Antipatros says, his irritation growing. 

“Aye, it is. Wouldn't want you to get lost again, now, would we?” The smile of a conniving bastard. 

“No,” Antipatros responds softly. “We wouldn’t want that.” He doesn’t even know what he wants anymore . 

It’s disheartening in a way to leave the deck and head down to the cabin, he already misses the smell of salt and the spray of the sea against his face. It’s a wonder how easy it is for him to slip back into the muscle memory of everything. That no matter how much time away he spent or how much distance he tried to put himself between this ship, it still feels like home in a way. 

But her ghost can do little to make him feel peace in his nostalgia. 

Castor follows close on his heels, breathing down his neck and invading his space far too much for his liking. The irritation only grows and Antipatros has to take deep breaths so he doesn’t lose control of himself. It wouldn’t do to waste whatever modicum of patience, not even a day back— home . 

“If you’re going to ride my ass,” Antipatros drawls as they get closer and closer to his cabin. “At least pull my hair a little.”

Castor makes a noise between a huff and a grunt, walking a little bit faster to clip his heels as they continue to walk. “Is that how your eromenos has you? Wouldn’t have pegged you to give yourself to another man.”

“What, jealous that he got something that you could only dream of?” Antipatros stops in front of his cabin door, turning around and crossing his arms, staring dead into Castor’s eyes. 

The other man’s eyes narrow and he takes a step closer, almost touching. “You think you’re so smug, don’t you?”

“Isn’t much of a thought if it’s what’s been said to me time and time again.”

“Peacocking.”

“Is that all it's doing?”

Castor slams his fist against the door, narrowly missing Antipatros’ head. He doesn’t even flinch, just stares coolly at the heavily breathing man. “You grate my nerves.”

“I can see that. Poor boy’s all pent up.”

“We’re not youths anymore, Antip. You can’t get away with acting as you do. He won’t be so lenient this time.”

And Antipatros has to laugh at that. “Lenient? Since when has my father ever been lenient ? You delude yourself, brother, if you think that Eupeithes is anything but a cruel, violent man.”

“Then why act so brash? Has the time you spent away really softened your mind?” Castor presses his body flush against Antipatros. “Surely fourteen years isn’t so long that you forget your place.”

Antipatros scoffs, “And what of you? Fourteen years and I come back to see that you’re no closer with him than you were before. Would have thought that in my absence my father would have grabbed at any semblance of a man to thrust his desperation onto.” He grins wickedly. “Why didn’t he?”

Eyes so narrowed that they’re almost slits, Castor breathing shallowly as his chest heaves. When he opens his jaw to speak, Antipatros beats him to it. 

“For all the trouble you went into, it seems it hasn’t even paid off in the slightest. I mean, look at you.” He casts his eyes over the man’s face and body. “You’re still in the same position you were when I left, still in the same boots, and still the same man crying for a man who you dream of making proud. Pathetic.”

“And what of you?” Castor hisses, his other hand thrusting against Antipatros’ chest. “You’ve changed so much that I can barely even recognize you. Have you no shame? No respect for your own blood?”

“No.”

A low growl. “It’s a wonder, truly a wonder why Eupeithes doesn’t just slit your throat. I mean, even in the meeting he entrusted you with the plan. You just waltz back in here like you own the place?” Another bark of incredulous laughter. “You don’t even have to try.”

“It bothers you that much, eh? Seeing me strive when you’ve clawed and scraped your way just to barely get by? Perhaps you truly did need me.”

“I don’t,” Castor whispers. 

“I think you do.”

“You’re so fucking full of yourself.”

Antipatros licks his lips. “You wish you could be.”

Castor responds the same way he always does; with his mouth. 

Antipatros isn’t taken aback, really, if anything, he’s surprised that Castor held himself back so much. Perhaps some things do change. But not by much since Castor is growling into his mouth, a needy little man. 

Antipatros hasn’t changed much in this regard, hands rising to grab Castor’s hair to deepen the kiss. Like always, Castor huffs from the tug to his scalp and, like always, Antipatros takes full advantage. 

He spins them around, a loud thump against the door, and shoves Castor as hard as he can into it, just as a little bit of payback. Castor growls but it’s twisted into a groan when Antipatros shoves his tongue inside, licking along the corners of his mouth. 

He’s already sliding a knee between Castor’s thighs, time apart having made him impatient. There’s more hair on both their faces than the last time, over a decade of change to their bodies. He probably has more scars, more muscle beneath those clothes, but still the same responses that Antipatros will easily pull out of him. His thighs will probably still shake the same when he’s brought over the edge and there’ll be that rasp in his voice when he tries to talk too soon when they’re finished. 

He swears that he doesn’t care, tells himself that he’s just pent up but his body isn’t the only thing missing a warm touch. He’s missed it. He’s missed Castor—

The sound of a bolt unlocking and the handle turning is faint but Antipatros knows the sound all too well and begrudgingly parts from Castor’s mouth. Both breathing heavily, they glance at the door as it’s opened, Castor having to lean against Antipatros to keep his balance. 

The princes’ face is more red than Castor’s and he has that petulant scowl that never seems to leave. Perhaps it’s just his face. “Do you mind?” he seethes. 

Castor throws his head back and laughs, low and throaty. “Aw, I think your pet’s a little jealous, Antip.”

“I am not —”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Castor says then— just stands there. 

Antipatros rolls his eyes. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

Castor shrugs. “Your father entrusted me to watch you to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. Except for doing your pet, of course.”

“I swear, I will—”

“Ah, and you’re so good at following orders, aren’t you, Cassie?”

“Call me that again and I’ll take your pet. In front of you.” Castor takes a threatening step inside the room. 

The boy immediately pales and shuffles back, looking wildly between the two men, a pleading look in his eyes. 

Antipatros steps in between them. “Sorry, but I don’t share my spoils.”

“Not even with me?” So sweet but so is poison. 

Antipatros pulls him in again and whispers, still loud enough for the boy to hear, “You can listen, but you can’t touch and you can’t watch. It’s what you get for being… yourself.” An insult and a promise. 

Castor’s eyes crinkle and he snickers. The boy doesn’t find it at all amusing but his objections are ignored. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Castor gives Antipatros a mock salute. He starts to shut the door but then pauses. “Oh, and Antip?”

“Aye?”

“Make sure you get at least some sleep. You’ll need your rest for the raid tomorrow. Can’t imagine how out of shape you are already.” 

“Raid? What raid?” the boy asks. A glance at him shows Antipatros that his feeble little, royal mind is already hard at work. 

“Nothing you need to worry about, sweet thing,” Castor says, earning another indignant squawk from the boy. “Perhaps you can get your toy to massage whatever aches and pains when we’re through. His hands have callouses, is that where he gets them from?”

Antipatros shares his lecherous grin. “That and wearing out his fingers while he prepares himself for me.”

Yet another chirp and the stomp of a foot but Antipatros doesn’t turn around until the door is shut behind Castor. When he doesn’t hear the sound of heels clicking away, he chuckles to himself, guess the man really will be stationed outside his room all night. 

It will be a bit difficult to convince the boy but they do have to keep up appearances. He can keep his virtue, Antipatros has no interest in coercing him into sex, but with Castor’s ears pricked, they will have to at least give off the impression of coupling. 

—

Telemachus has had it up to here with the men on this ship, and that includes Antipatros. What a fucking pig , talking about him like he has any right to even think about the desires of his body. It makes him hot with anger. 

He’d have thought that the argument they had earlier would have gotten through to this oaf of a man but it seems that his skull is too thick. 

He’s right in Antipatros’ face when the man spins around. His lips are slightly swollen from his make-out session with the other man— Castor, Telemachus’ mind supplies. Unhelpful since he doesn’t care about the specifics of the man who just admitted to voyeurism on their nonexistent intimacy. 

"You have some nerve ,” he hisses, finger prodigy against Antipatros’ chest. “Talking like that. I am your prince!”

Antipatros rolls his eyes— actually rolls his eyes at Telemachus. “Calm yourself, he’ll hear you if you keep screeching like a bird. And yes, you are a prince. But you are not my prince. Or have you forgotten that no island can hold me?”

“More like no island wants you,” Telemachus says, to his dismay he realizes that he is lowering his voice. 

Danger flashes behind Antipatros’ eyes and he invades Telemachus' space. Telemachus forces himself not to back up, as much as his instincts scream at him to. He’s not going to cow to this low life. He’s above that. And he’s above him. 

“Careful, boy.”

“Scum,” he bites back. 

A slow grin stretches across Antipatros’ features “You have an interesting form of foreplay, little wolf.”

“What?” Telemachus stutters and takes a step back, regretting it immediately when Antipatros only follows him. He tells himself not to keep backtracking, to hold his ground but his body doesn’t seem to be listening to him. His face is hot, hot, hot and he’s not sure if it’s just the anger. Apprehension coiling in his guts. 

His foot catches something and he stumbles backwards. Unluckily for him, Antipatros is faster than he looks and grabs onto his forearms to steady him. Also unluckily for Telemachus, the man doesn’t just stop at that and brings him closer, leaning over him like the giant that he is and grinning down at him. Loudly, he says, “You’re such a tease, Talos.”

Telemachus squirms to no avail. “Unhand me, I am your p—”

“Pets don’t make demands, darling,” Antipatros interrupts, words almost like a purr. 

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You like it.”

“I do not ! Antin—Antipatros— whatever you want to call yourself,” Why do these words sound familiar and taste like acid?  “I suggest removing your hands from my person before I do it for you.”

“Sure,” Antipatros says lazily. “Want my hands somewhere else?”

This fucking cockhead— Telemachus growls and stomps on the bridge of Antipatros’ foot. He’s lucky for once, Antipatros sucking in a breath and loosening his hold enough for Telemachus to jump back. He hits the wall and with Antipatros still standing in front of him, the best he’s done is put about a foot of distance between the two of them. 

“You promised,” he hisses, low enough that the asshat outside can’t hear them. “You said—”

“I know what I said, little wolf.” A flicker behind those dark eyes. “But we do need to keep up appearances."

“I am not having sex with you!” Telemachus’ voice cracks in the middle and he winces at the sound of his voice. At how pathetic and naive it sounds. 

“Of course not. You prefer to call it lovemaking, don’t you?” Antipatros says loudly. Then, dropping his voice, he hisses, “ You promised you’d play the role.”

“I’m no whore,” Telemachus whispers back. How is he to get out of this situation? He can’t best Antipatros in a fight, unless the adrenaline courses through his veins like nectar. 

“Relax, little wolf. Gods, use that big brain of yours that you like to brag about.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to take away your dignity, but we at least need to make it believable."

Telemachus blinks at him. “Huh?”

Antipatros glances behind him. The door remains closed but the shadow peeks from underneath. “Are you really that dense?”

And no, he’s not. Telemachus catches on pretty quickly to what Antipatros is implying and it makes his face even darker. He scowls at the man. “You can pl-pleasure yourself. I want no part in it.”

“But you have to have a part in it.”

“I do not!” He says that a little too loud and Antipatros’ eyes flash in warning. He bites back the urge to snarl again at him. 

“Relax, pup. We’re not going to do anything. Unless of course—” Antipatros winks at him. “You want to.” Telemachus doesn’t even get a chance to retort, Antipatros carrying on as if he has the most amazing sounding voice. “You can use that silver tongue of yours that you like so much. All you have to do is pretend you’re having a good time, pretend I’m bending you over and ruining that tight little ass of yours, and convince Castor outside that you really do belong to me.”

“I don’t.”

“Pretend.”

Telemachus swallows thickly. “No.”

An eyebrow is raised. “No?”

“No,” Telemachus says again, more firmly this time, he hopes anyway. “I’m not going to… do that.” The way that Antipatros isn’t even blushing is making him even more pissed off. How can this man be so calm when propositioning so lewdly? “I’m not going to defile my honour like that.”

Antipatros snorts. “You wouldn’t be defiling anything, little wolf. Just a distraction so that Castor doesn’t blab to Eupeithes that the little stow-a-way on board is actually a little prince. A little prince that would bring them a hefty reward.”

Telemachus crosses his arms. “Isn’t that what you’re planning to do with me? Demand a reward from my mother?”

“Aye. But at least I won’t touch a hair on your head. These men will. They’re already buzzing with the raid come morning.”

There it is again. A raid. Telemachus narrows his eyes. “What do you mean by raid ?”

And this brings annoyance to Antipatros. “Seriously, kid? That’s what you’re worried about? Some random cargo ship that won’t even be missed?”

The anger and fear swell up in Telemachus’ heart and mind. A cargo ship? Some well meaning merchants on their way to deliver goods to a neighboring island? Perhaps even Ithaca or one of their allies. Men who know nothing but the hardships of manual labour but the understanding that they are not only providing for their families by bringing them coin from their travels, but sharing their trades with others who need it. 

He is no fool, Telemachus understands that even the richest ruler is no better than their poorest subject. Every single person has a place and purpose on this earth, the Fates themselves have decreed it. And to attack these men’s livelihoods, and most undoubtedly hurt or kill them in the process… that’s not only defying Fate themselves but the very nature of good. 

He hasn’t much experience outside of the palace— the freeloaders and tasks inside keep him well busy. And his mothers’ own overprotectiveness of him, not that he minds it all that much at the moment. Telemachus would do anything to duck behind her like a child and have her chew one out at Antipatros, Castor, Eupeithes, and the whole gods damned world. 

“You can’t… do that…” he says, horrified. 

“Do what? The raid?” Antipatros phrases it like Telemachus just said something stupid instead of common sense. “Don’t worry, you’ll be far below deck, you won’t be hurt, little prince.”

Now it’s Telemachus' turn to take a step forward. “You know that’s not what I meant. You can’t attack an innocent ship. That’s… that’s… immoral!”

Antipatros gives him a deadpanned look. “Are you going to try to lecture me on my morals now? Easy for you to say, a boy who’s never had to struggle a day in his life.”

Telemachus’ hand whips out so fast that not even Antipatros can dodge it. The resounding slap is one of the most satisfying things he’s ever experienced. The older man’s head snaps to the side from the impact. Telemachus’ hand stings a little but he doesn’t regret the backhand for a moment. 

His heavy breathing isn’t solely the result of the exertive day he’s had, his anger is getting the better of him but really, when has he ever actually been able to keep his emotions in check when it comes to Antipatros. “You,” he grinds out. “Have no fucking clue what struggles I’ve had to deal with.”

Antipatros slowly turns his head back to face him. The danger in his eyes is no longer a warning, it’s a promise. “Care to elaborate, oh troubled prince.”

Telemachus scoffs, which turns into a hysterical laugh that he reigns in as quickly as he can. “You’d never understand.”

“Try me.”

“No.”

A roll of eyes before Antipatros is upon him again, hand in his hair. “You’re so full of yourself, you know that?”

Telemachus whines as he feels some strands be ripped from his scalp. His hands come up uselessly and claw at Antinous’ arms and it does absolutely nothing to help his situation. “Y-you’re one to talk. Pig.”

“Insults will get you nowhere, kid,” Antipatros drawls, he gives Telemachus’ head another jerk. “Neither will this petty squabble.”

“Petty? How is arguing about slaughtering innocent people petty?”

Antipatros huffs out an annoyed breath and gives his head a shake. “What does it matter? Huh? Actually tell me, kid. Because the way I see it, bad things are going to happen to those people either way, what does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” Telemachus says softly to himself then digs his nails deeper into Antipatros’ arm and gets a grunt out of him. “Those are people , Antipatros. People! You mean to tell me that you don’t care what happens to them on a humane level?”

“Nope,” Antipatros pops the p . 

Telemachus laughs, rolling his eyes. “Right, fuck, why do I even try? I forgot, you only care about yourself.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“Only if you’re the only person you care about. I mean, come on, Antipatros, has there really never been anyone you’ve cared for? And I mean really cared for?”

He expects Antipatros to growl and shove him onto the floor, maybe beat him for good measure. The softening of his eyes, and something so deep and painful in them shock Telemachus enough to get him to freeze. His hands go lax on Antinous’ arms and he stares at the man. 

Crocodile tears don’t work on him, he knows better than to trust the maw of a man who does nothing but lie. So why does that flash of something strike such a deep chord in him?

“Not anymore,” Antipatros rasps. He must not have meant to say it out loud because his gaze immediately hardens and it morphs back into that ugly and smug scowl. “Caring about others only gets you hurt.”

“I think the only person you’re hurting by not caring is yourself.”

“Bold words from—”

“Don’t. Just— don’t, Antipatros,” Telemachus sighs. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“What isn’t?”

“This. Arguing. You’re not listening to me.”

“Could say the same for you.”

“Excuse me? Why would I —”

“Bingo.” Antipatros removes his hand from Telemachus’ hair and flicks his nose. Telemachus scrunches instinctively and backs away, surprised that he’s allowed that. “If you’re allowed to have opinions of me, then I’m allowed to have opinions about you, champ.”

“I never said you couldn’t—”

“You wanna know what your problem is?”

“My—my problem ?” Telemachus repeats, incredulous. Was this ogre of a man serious?

“Yup,” Antipatros says. He straightens, eyes flicking over Telemachus’ whole form. He feels exposed, even though he’s still technically wearing clothes and the chlamys is loosely covering his torso. He can’t know! “Your problem, little wolf, is that you care too much about what other people think of you.”

Telemachus blinks at him. Slowly, he says, “And that’s a bad thing?”

Antipatros shrugs. “Only if you let it cloud your judgment. And,” his gaze lingers on Telemachus’ thighs before sliding up to his face. “You do.”

He resists the urge to pull down the skirt of the chiton. “Exc—”

“Deny it all you want but I’ve been watching you too, boy,” he says softly but the timbre is low enough that it sends shivers down Telemachus’ spine. “I’ve seen the way you act when you know someone is watching you and when you don’t, the differences are astounding.”

He walks forward and Telemachus’ hackles raise and a warning flag wags in the back of his mind. His body acts for him, backing away to put as much distance between himself and this dangerous creature. Antipatros walks him back until the small of his back hits something solid— a dresser, his mind supplies— and he has to brace both hands on it so he doesn’t fall. 

Antipatros takes full advantage and leans over him, forcing Telemachus to lean backwards and nearly fall flat on the desk. 

“When you feel eyes on you, you act . Whether it be that haughty little attitude or the sniveling bitch that you think will get you sympathy, it’s all for show isn’t it?”

“I—”

“You can hide behind your bite and bark all you want, kid, but I’ve seen how you really bare when you think no one is looking. And you wanna know what I see?” His lips almost touch Telemachus’ and it takes everything in Telemachus not to flick his eyes down. “I see nothing .”

Telemachus’ breath hitches. “Wh-what? When have you ever…?”

Antipatros chuckles, his breath hot on Telemachus’ already hit face. “It’s depressing really, how much you deflate when you don’t have an audience. It’s as if you don’t even know how to act if it isn’t to impress anyone. There’s nothing there, little wolf. And,” he cocks his head. “I have to wonder…” Eyes filled with an intelligence that’s nothing less than lethal. “Will you ever be anything more than an extension of someone else?”

The room goes quiet, a silence that is deafening and squeezes Telemachus’ throat. He croaks. He blinks. And he doesn’t move. 

“This is all an act too, is it not? A pretense for something that I’m not even sure you want to be.” Another soft chuckle. “You don’t even know who you are.”

Ludicrous. Absolutely insane that this man thinks he has any idea of what Telemachus is. He narrows his eyes and finds his voice, “I know what I am and what I am not.” Looking down the bridge of his nose. 

“Ah, but do you know who you are?”

It strikes him harder than any fist. He flounders, then bites back, “Do you? ”

“Unlike you, I do know who and what I am. And I don’t need to pretend to care about random merchants to prove myself.”

He’s a fucking liar, and the both of them know it. Even if Telemachus was half blind and had nothing but empty air in his head like Antipatros, he’d be able to smell the bullshit. Telemachus may not have met his father but he sure as hell understands the need to prove oneself to a man so far away. 

 But the reminder of what’s at stake makes the gears in Telemachus’ mind start to whir. “How soon is the raid?”

“Eh? You’re still on about that? Calm yourself, kid, we have much more important matters to attend to.”

“Your definition of ‘important matters’ is whether or not I fake sucking your dick?” At least Antipatros draws back and gives him the space to breathe, although it’s not by much. “You’re playing with people’s lives !”

“Isn’t that all a king does? All a warrior does?”

“You know it’s not the same thing, a king takes care of his subjects and warriors make the decision to fight for their land.”

“Guess that’s one thing we have in common then,” Antinous smiles at him. “Neither of us know what it’s like to make a decision or protect anyone.”

“I will protect the merchants from this foolhardy raid—”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Telemachus opens his mouth, intent on ripping Antipatros a new one, but a sudden onslaught of thoughts strike him. Unlike when his family’s goddess aided him all those months ago, so unlike it. Because there is no muted world around him nor does it come to a standstill. The thoughts come at him unexpectedly and fast, and with him still present in the moment, Telemachus has to fight to make sense of them. 

He blinks rapidly as they fit into place, too well into place and he suspects an error, searches for it but finds none. Too good to be true, and when something is, that usually means it won’t last. 

The only thing wrong with this… idea are the lengths he will have to go to ensure it. And it’s not something he can put off, in fact he has to act on it now . 

He doesn’t get to have a chance to think it over, which he would greatly prefer. He likes his plans like he likes his weaving; carefully thought out and unable to unravel so easily. He is not used to doing it this way. A spur of the moment thought that could very well get him hurt— or worse. 

But he has no time, only now, and if he doesn’t act, he won’t ever get another opportunity again. 

So —

“Getting through to you now?” Antipatros says when Telemachus lowers his face, but not before letting it crumple a little bit. 

“What’s going to happen to them?” he asks, so low that he’s not even sure if he spoke them out loud or it was merely in his head.

Antipatros sighs, as if Telemachus asked him the answer to a ridiculous arithmetic problem. “I feel like it will just sour the mood if I tell ya.”

“What mood? Oh, the one where you pretend to assault me?” Telemachus snaps, his mind is still trying to work out the kinks to this plan of his, and he’s only half paying attention. Which is why he starts so bad when Antipatros takes a step back.

His face is twisted into something almost human, almost, but even monsters can have emotions when it suits their purpose. Telemachus doesn’t fall for it. 

“It’s better not to dwell on it.”

“Is that how you sleep at night? Not thinking about it?”

“It’s easier.” 

If Telemachus didn’t know any better, he may have thought that Antipatros was being honest with him for once. But honesty is the last thing this man is capable of. He only speaks in riddles and self indulgence. 

One puppeteer to another, and Telemachus can play the game just as well as any other man. 

“Yeah, sometimes… it is.” Telemachus’ hands fiddle with the bottom of his chiton, at least able to admire the craftsmanship of it. Whoever designed it knew what they were doing. It won’t tear so easily unless someone were to abuse it time and time again. “But you can’t just go through life like that— ignoring everyone else' s pain to the benefit of your own.”

“Why not?”

It’s like talking to a brick wall. Telemachus needs to try a different approach. He has all the pieces and strategy, he just needs the board. 

Telemachus looks at Antipatros, really looks at him. Appealing to his emotions is pointless. The man has them, all people do, but they’ve been buried so deeply inside of him that there’s no possible way that anyone can dig them out. So that method is out of the question. 

Antipatros likes to pride himself on being intelligent, the worst part is that he is intelligent. As much as Telemachus loathes to admit it, Antipatros is smart, otherwise he wouldn’t have fooled even the queen into believing that he’s a noble. It’s one thing to just say you’re the son of a nobleman, it’s another thing entirely to continue the act to the point that it becomes real. 

Something like hot steel stiffens Telemachus’ spine. The man said he was all act? Well then, so be it. If he has to, he will. 

“What’s on this cargo ship that’s so important anyway?”

Antipatros throws him a tired look. “I told you—”

“It’s in my nature, Antipatros,” Telemachus snaps, this anger not at all a part of the act. 

“And which nature is that? A warrior or a future king,” Antipatros asks. 

“Both,” Telemachus answers. “So?”

“So…?”

“So.” Telemachus licks his lips. He’ll have to be as transparent as possible so as not to allude to the reason he’s omitting. “If you tell me what about this ship that has you so tight lipped, perhaps I’ll— I’ll…”

A coy smile. “You’ll what, little wolf?”

Telemachus meets his stare. “I’ll pretend.”

He wishes that his stomach didn’t choose that moment to revolt against him, the nausea too much. His discomfort must be mistaken for admittance though because Antipatros throws his head back and laughs. 

“Ah, I get it now. One exchange for another. You’re not so different from the crew now, are you? Perhaps you’ll fit right in, heh. Would you want that instead? Hear you all the time complaining about wanting to go off on some adventure, maybe this is Fate offering you a boon. A chance to go out and— what was it you liked to say? See the world ?”

It takes him a few strides but Telemachus stands in front of Antipatros in a flash. “Do you want me to comply or not?”

“Your price is fairly hefty…”

“ Dear gods , I’m not asking you to tell me much, just a little information would be nice. Not like it’ll make any difference whether you tell me or not. I’m not going to steal from another party. It’s below me.”

Maybe the wrong words to say as Antipatros’ eyes flash again. 

Before the man can beat him or utter another piss ass remark that would get the both of them into yet another heated argument, Telemachus drops his eyes. “I just don’t want to be left in the dark.” He raises them only enough to peer up through his lashes, looking as pitiful yet irked as he can. “ Please .”

He’ll wash his mouth out with soap when all of this is done, the submission to a fiend like this tasting more rank than rotting meat. 

It does the trick though, perhaps a little too well, and Antipatros’ face softens for the barest hint of a moment. It’s yet another thing that almost makes him look human. Almost, but not quite. 

“Nothing more than an old, old map. I’ll be surprised if it’s even on the damned ship,” Antipatros huffs. Melancholy and sad nostalgia in the way his eyes droop downwards. 

There’s more to the map, more history, but Telemachus isn’t so dumb as to push his luck. He keeps the conversation going, dithering and fiddling with the ends of the fabric. “What’s on the map?”

“You’re awfully curious.”

“I’m awfully bored,” Telemachus shoots back. Which is half true but not all of it. It’s more of a desperate kind of restlessness, the urge to do something about his situation. “You keep me cooped up in here for a full day while you gush to your father over plans about stealing from good intentioned merchants.”

“I do not gush, little wolf. It was talk of strategy. Something you’d never understand?”

There ! Telemachus just has to—

He forces an offended sound from his throat. “I know plenty about strategy!” He even stomps his foot a little, although the heat on his ears isn’t faked either. “More than you actually. Why—” He takes a pause, as if only now coming to the realization. “I’d have planned your whole raid marginally better!”

“Oh really?” Antipatros is amused, a disbelieving smile crossing his face. “How would you?”

Telemachus crosses his arms and feigns embarrassment. “I don’t need to tell you.”

“Naw, naw, I wanna hear it. Wanna hear how the intelligent prince of Ithaca could plan a raid better than Eupeithes of the Vengeance .” Suave and egotistical as he sits down on the bed, patting the spot next to him. 

True apprehension and embarrassment tighten around Telemachus’ throat. But there’s no going back now. He squares his shoulders and plops down on the bed, making sure his huff of air is louder than his words. “ Hauh ,” He feels his face heat up and pointedly looks anywhere but Antipatros. 

It won’t be so bad, he tries to tell himself. It’s just pretending to have sex with someone. It’s not actual sex. How hard could it be?

And he’s gathering more than just his protection. He’s getting a way to save those poor and innocent merchants. Something a true king would do, to protect others who can’t protect themselves. It doesn’t matter if the means to the end are a little… mortifying. 

“I’d wait until the break of dawn, when the merchants are still drowsy with sleep and strike.” He does feel a bit sick to his stomach to even suggest this, despite the fact that it isn’t real. 

Antipatros hums loudly, gruff enough that the hairs on the back of Telemachus’ neck stand up. The older man shifts on the bed, making it creak. He’s now facing Telemachus though Telemachus is still staring straight ahead. “What else?”

“What else? I’d—” 

“Fuck, Talos, you’re wet already,” Antipatros says loudly, voice strained even though there’s nothing to be strained about. 

Telemachus flinches at that, at how Antipatros sounds as he says it and his gaze locks onto him. Antipatros raises an eye brow, still shifting a little on the bed. The small sounds are anything major but if someone were to be listening close by, they might think that Antipatros was making someone else squirm on the bed—

“You’re a pervert,” Telemachus hisses, his face molten hot now. He scoots away from Antipatros but that only serves to make the sounds of the creaking bed louder. 

“Play your part, little prince,” is all Antipatros says. He jerks his hand in his direction and waits.  

Shit, Telemachus hasn’t.. well that isn’t to say he… he’s… touched himself before. When the nights grew long and he was in need of some form of release from all his pent up aggression towards the suitors. And he’s… tried to do something with someone a while ago. But— But nothing because it didn’t go anywhere and… and… and it’s not like he’d ever be able to satisfy anyone anyway. Not with the parts that he has. 

At best they would be disgusted with him and at worst they’d… they tell everyone . 

So no, Telemachus doesn’t really have experience with sexual endeavors. Sure he’s read scrolls and accidentally walked in on maids and guards alike, but that’s  itching like actually doing something. Or— pretending to do something. 

He can’t fuck this up though, people’s very lives are depending on him. 

He almost laughs. Right, depending on how well he can moan in bed. What a fucking joke. 

The courage in him is nearly nothing until he meets Antipatros’ gaze and sees that smug grin. The bastard is enjoying his discomfort. Well, two can play at this game. 

“Pl-please, Anti,” he says with as much conviction as he can. He’s surprised at how… convincing he sounds. 

Antipatros must be surprised too. An actual squawk comes out of his mouth and Telemachus allows a hint of a smile to quirk his lips up. 

“Leave the men tied up so that they’d live with the humiliation of having their ship be ransacked,” Telemachus whispers. He throws in yelp that maybe isn’t as convincing as the first time if Antipatros’ barely held back snicker is anything to go by. 

“That’s hardly a sound plan, little wolf,” he says. Abruptly, he’s off of the bed and Telemachus watches him warily as he stands to be in front of him. Antipatros leans over, bracing his hands on either side of Telemachus’ thighs and lunges forward. 

Telemachus acts on instinct and scoots back, gasping loudly as the fear swells inside of him. Antipatros only laughs at him but doesn’t follow. 

With his heart racing as it is, it takes Telemachus a few extra beats to realize that Antipatros wasn’t lunging for him and instead rocking the bed as if… as if…

And Telemachus, unknowingly, had acted accordingly too. As if he’d just been—

“You fucking—!”

Antipatros covers up whatever Telemachus was going to say with a loud groan, using his thick arms to make the bed creak again. Telemachus swallows, he’s strong . Strong enough to make the four poster bed quake under him. 

He quickly shakes those thoughts from his head, mortified. “H-how are you planning on raiding them? What's so special about your strategy?”

At least he can distract himself with this and not focus on how hot he feels all of a sudden. He’s quick to close his legs when he realizes that he spread them to stabilize himself when he panicked and scooted backward. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have because Antipatros’ eyes catch the movement and linger there a little too long. Telemachus’ sharp exhale is the only thing that gets the man to look at him, but not before he takes his sweet time dragging his eyes over his form. 

Why is it so hot ?

“Good boy,” comes the deep growl and something in Telemachus’ brain does something odd. Something else does something odd too but he valiantly ignores that . At a much lower volume, the words almost lost in the now rhythmic creaking of the bed, courtesy of Antipatros’ back and forth rocking, “Sneaking up at the crack of dawn is foolish. A sailor never sleeps that late. Under the cover of night is equally as foolish, the dark offers cover for both parties.”

“Then when—?”

“There’s a brief moment of time, when the night meets the day, and that’s the moment to strike,” Antipatros says. He grunts a few more times before his next few words. “When the world is lost to a shroud of mist and only those most skilled can use the slightest sounds and shifts in the air to guide them. Hold tight.”

“I-what?”

The bed basically becomes its own ship on waves as Antipatros picks up the speed to which he’s shaking the bed, grunting louder and letting small words of praise from his lips that Telemachus refuses to acknowledge. 

At least his own gasps can be passed off as adding to the act . He’ll choose to believe that. 

“M’close, Talos, m’close.”

The mortification is going to slaughter him. “Anti—!”

“Hmm, yeah, like that, baby, fuck , I’m gonna—” Antipatros roars and gives the bed a few more heaves, Telemachus shuddering as it finally comes to an end. 

He’s still panting, despite not having actually done… anything , and Telemachus desperately tries to get ahold of himself. He squeezes his legs together and that just makes his problem worse but it’s far better than spreading them and—

“That’s it? Just taking the ship when there’s fog?” At least he has a time frame now. “And then just… attack?”

Antipatros chuckles. “You have no idea what a raid is, do you?”

“H-how about you stop being a dick and tell me? Didn’t you tell me you’d teach me lessons?” He leaves out the last part of what Antipatros had said to him that day, he’s mortified enough as it is. 

Contemplation, actual pause and thought on the older man’s face. Telemachus finds it suspicious but there’s too many thoughts racing through his head and he’s tired of having to sift through them. 

“A raid isn’t a simple plunder, as some might think it to be,” he says, slowly, as if trying to teach a young pup new tricks. “There’s strategy, time and effort for it to actually go the way it should. So as little of your party gets hurt.”

“But caring not for the ones you’re plundering?” Telemachus snaps. 

“Do you want me to tell you or are you going to continue to be a bitch ?” Antipatros snaps back. 

Telemachus keeps his jaw shut. He needs this, he’s gone too far not to have the information. His eyelids beg to close and rid himself of the view of his tormentor, but he keeps his eyes open. 

“Thank you.” Perhaps it would have been a proper thanks if Antipatros didn’t sound so smug, but that could also just be the way his voice is. “To put it into perspective; a raid is no less similar to that of a hunt.”

Antipatros gets a blank stares and sighs in return. 

“Let’s try something else then… hmm, a raid is like weaving.”

This sharp gasp is much too quiet for anyone but the two men inside the cabin to hear. Telemachus eyes Antipatros warily who grins. 

“Calm yourself, I have no interest in the frivolous craft you do. Feminine as it is, there is still skill to hone it. Of course, no man of sound man would be caught dead doing something as womanly as that, but without a proper masculine model in your life, it makes sense that you’ve chosen to take it up.”

“How did you…?”

“Come now, little wolf, did you really think you were the only one who liked to sulk on your own?” Antipatros gives him a head shake. “Of course, I didn’t think it was your loom until you crawled into that alcove after I left. It was interesting but I do not care that much to taunt you with it. Your lack of fighting skills and inability to command a room is much more enticing to exploit.”

Telemachus gawks at him like a fish out of water, so taken aback that he doesn’t react when Antipatros flops down on the bed beside him. 

How had Telemachus become so careless that he hadn’t noticed that Antipatros knew of his love for weaving. And why wasn't he more… amused by it? This man is simultaneously more intelligent than he lets on and even more confusing. His brain hurts just thinking about it. 

“Like weaving, a raid can’t be carried out by one strand. It takes every man aboard working together. It isn’t just attacking willy-nilly, one has to be concise and deliberate. One slip of the finger and your shroud becomes a tangled mess,” Antipatros continues. 

His voice has taken on a somewhat reverent tone. It’s probably the most calm Telemachus has ever heard from him. There’s no malice to it, just a man with an appreciation for his craft. 

A craft that only ends with more hurt than one can count of his hands. 

“And you need to have an understanding not only of your own ship and crew, but the one you’re plundering as well.”

“How so?” Pay attention , his mind supplies and it sounds faintly of divinity but he doesn’t dare to hope. 

“The merchant ship we’re looting tomorrow, it’s Spartan.”

Telemachus’ ears prick and he does his best to remain neutral. Luckily for him, Antipatros’ attention is focused on the ceiling, a far away look in his eyes. 

“Meaning that it will be well stocked with skilled warriors. We can’t just attack them like we normally do; which is by brute force. We have to be as smart as they are.”

Which is impossible , Telemachus thinks but doesn’t voice it. His mothers’ blood sings in his veins and he feels the itch to defend the Spartans. He hasn’t seen that side of his family in years, the last time was when he couldn’t have been more than five and was still… not like he is now. 

He wonders how his grandfather would take his new identity. He doesn’t dwell on the thought, it only gives him apprehension. His grandfather is very traditional. 

“To think like they do. So we did,” Antipatros pauses, mind taking a hold of him. “The planning was tedious. My father is a tyrant for every little detail, down to the very hair. He won’t have a single thing not within his knowledge.” There’s something heavy to his words, bitter but almost frightened. Huh. “We’re coming from the West and they’re coming from Troy, which is North East of us.”

“I know what directions are,” Telemachus says flatly. 

“Sure, kid,” Antipatros snidely says. Telemachus thinks about putting one of the pillows over his face and keeping it there. “They’ll be expecting trouble from the front. Proud as they are, they only think about others such as proud ships that attack head on for glory. So we’ll strike them where they least expect it.”

There’s too long of a pause and Telemachus realizes that Antipatros is waiting for him to interject again. To honour him, he does, “And where is that?”

“From behind.”

Telemachus can’t stop the snort. “Huh, guess you’re used to doing that.”

Antipatros doesn’t flounder. “You would know too, Talos .”

Actually, maybe Telemachus will do the job with his bare hands, wrap them around his throat. 

“Their ships are too proud for their own good and can be spotted from miles away, so, all one has to do is skirt around them and stab them in the back.”

“Where’s the honour in that?”

“We’re pirates, kid, there is no honour. Only amongst our own.”

“Seems like a sad way to live.”

Antipatros squints. “Tell me, do you have more loyalty for your mother or the fish in the sea?” When Telemachus clenches his jaw, the older man presses on. “Thought so. One does anything for family.”

“Are they?”

“Hmm?”

“Are they your… family?”

“Eupeithes is my blood.”

“But— you left them.”

“Watch it,” Antipatros warns, his tone suddenly taking a much more dangerous tone. 

“Well— you did. And I can only assume why—”

“You don’t know jack shit.” Antipatros sits up suddenly, eyes blazing and mouth turned down. “Don’t pretend to. You’re not good at it.”

Telemachus glares at him. “You know, I’m stuck in the same position you are. You could at least make it a little easier for the both of us if you didn’t act like such a dick.”

“And you think that prying into my personal life will earn my favour?”

“I think that you don’t have a life to begin with,” Telemachus says before he can stop himself. “You’re no different than me.”

The floor is better company than the beast so Telemachus isn’t that upset about being thrown onto it. 

Chapter Text

Antipatros leaves the room just as nightfall is waning, silent on his feet but Telemachus had forced himself not to get a lick of sleep so he was prepared. 

Not that it was that difficult, the floor is hardly sound bedding material. He’s sure that he’s going to have a sore body for weeks. He huffs as he sits up, at least if he walks like he’s sore it will be more believable to the crew that Antipatros had his way with him. 

Gods, he needs to get out of here. 

As he stands, he feels the foreboding of the weight of what he’s going to do. He knows that he’ll be punished, at the lightest. He forces himself not to whimper and instead take a deep breath. 

He is a prince , and it is a princes’ duty to protect others. 

Even if it means putting himself in danger. 

So, with a shaking heart and heavy breathing, he unbolts the door. 

The halls are hauntingly empty, not a soul in sight. Which bodes well for him, he supposes. But it also means that he has no clue where they are. Hopefully all above deck but he can’t be sure. 

His bare feet barely make any sound as he walks, staying on the balls of his feet. The blade is warm against his skin, a comfort in a way. At least he still has that, minimal as it is. 

It’s hauntingly quiet, as if the very ship herself is holding her breath. Telemachus rests a palm against her wood and breathes a prayer, to whom he doesn’t even know anymore. Athena hasn’t answered him and he’s not sure which god would be listening to him. He’s not even sure if he wants to be heard for what’s to come. 

He halts at the bottom of the stairs, ears pricked and listening. He can hear the creak of the ship, the hushed voices of men, and the lazy lap of the waves. He braces himself and climbs. 

—

Antipatros is nearly holding his breath, crouched down behind the railing of the ship as they make their way nearer and nearer. Castor crouches next to him, his own weapons poised just like Antipatros’, breathing just as shallowly. 

The whole crew is still, silent, waiting. 

The fog hides their features but they’re close enough that Antipatros can still make out their forms. Many he does not know the names to their faces but some he does. They stare back at him when he does, not backing down. He keeps his gaze moving. It’ll be just like old times. Just like old times. 

His father remains at the bow, foot on the spirit and not bothering at all to stay hidden. Eupeithes isn’t one to cower, he would say, and a Captain must always be the first thing a neighboring ship sees. To strike fear into their hearts. 

Antipatros tries to quell the shaking of his hands and heaviness of his heart. He hasn’t the time nor the energy to be dealing with this. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about this raid. It’s just that. A raid. 

Ignore the map that’s being retrieved. Ignore what’s on it and how it will only bring Eupeithes closer to his goal and push her further away. Antipatros can’t. He can’t . 

He’s better in tune than he thought, for he notices the Spartan ship a second before Castor does. But barely. His eyes take in the clouded shape of the massive voyager and then Castor tenses ever so slightly. Like always, Castors’ knuckles brush against Antipatros’ for good luck, and Antipatros is a youth again. Barely more than eighteen and ready for adventure. Back when he could use the raid as a distraction from… everything else . 

Now the raid only brings everything else back to the forefront of his mind. 

Their ship draws nearer, the rudder of the Spartan ship becoming more and more clear. 

So close . 

He feels his breathing start to pick up, the shift in the air, and the soft murmurs from the crew. 

His eyes flick to his father just as Eupeithes does the same and gives Antipatros a single nod before turning back around. The warmth that bursts in him is horribly intertwined with the cold dread. He’s going to be sick. 

The Spartan ship is vast. More than their own and makes the Vengeance look puny by comparison. But they have something that the Spartans don’t, the element of surprise and no desire to spare lives. 

The little wolf’s annoying voice rings in his ears and it’s harder to push away this time. For once, guilt starts to gnaw at him. Antipatros swallows thickly. 

Every so near now, Antipatros can see the cracks in the wood. Just a little more…

He can almost taste it. The battle that is to commence and his veins spark with excitement. 

He’s out of practice, that’s the only excuse he can give himself. If he was more used to being back, he would have seen the signs. He would have heard the creak of floorboards behind him, the huff of someone breathing, and the sudden warmth and smell of burning alcohol. 

He’s too late to act. As is everyone else. 

And the price they pay is their element of surprise. 

The shout would be laughable if it didn’t catch them all by such shock. Antipatros only manages to half turn behind him before his eyes latch onto the bright burning object that is hurdling from the boy’s hand. 

As if in slow motion, he watches as it sails through the air and toward the Spartan ship. It’s all a shock and none of the crew can do anything but watch as the bottle of rum, hot with fire, hits its target and smashes into a million burning pieces onto the Spartans deck. 

The effect is immediate among the Spartans. They appear from nowhere and swarm  their deck, realizing quickly that they are under attack and calling to one another to prepare. 

The crew on the Vengeance are quick to recover and stand, knowing that there is no use in trying the silent approach anymore. 

Perhaps Antipatros is slower than he realizes because it takes the familiar high pitched shout for him to come to his senses and turn back onto their own deck. 

The little wolf is on his stomach, Castor straddling him. A hand in his hair to press his face down and one pinning an arm to his back. He’s shouting obscenities into the wood and writhing but it’s obvious that it will get him nowhere. 

Castor is sneering down at him, applying more pressure than necessary and surely causing him more pain. He looks up at Antipatros and glowers. “Your fucking pet—!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Eupeithes shouts. And he’s right. Arguing about the little bitch isn’t going to do them any good when the Spartans are already preparing for the attack. They can’t back out now. Not when they’re so close to getting what they wanted. And Eupeithes never backs down from a fight, even if it costs him lives. “Castor, watch Antipatros’ pet until we’re done. We’ll punish him later.” Is he talking about Antipatros or Telemachus? “As for the rest of you,” Eupeithes raises his voice, licking eyes with Antipatros. “The plan is still in motion. Find the map, take no prisoners, and bring vengeance !”

The crew shout in response and the world blurs around Antipatros.  

Men shout and wood creaks and he’s suddenly on the Spartan ship. He doesn’t have the time to even blink as he gets his bearings, continuing to move as he makes his way through the throng of Spartans. 

Luckily for him, most of them aren’t the infamous Spartan warriors and actually are just merchants. Unlucky for them because he cuts through them like butter. 

 But the Spartans have the advantage of being more , they outnumber them ten to one. But they’re still in the throes of being taken off guard and Eupeithes’ crew takes full advantage of it. 

It’s hard to tell through the fog, but Antipatros can at least tell his own from the Spartans as he slices through them. Most of his attacks aren’t lethal, he has one goal in mind and he can’t waste time in slaying each of the men he comes across. 

The layout of the ship is still clear in his mind, and he makes his way from the main deck to the captains’ quarters. 

A body barrels into him from behind and he barely manages to stay upright. He swings around and grunts when the blade kisses his shoulder, where his heart would have been not moments ago. The Spartan roars at him and lunges. Antipatros raises his own sword in time to meet his blade. 

Iron clashes against iron as the two fight. It’s not the captain, that much Antipatros can tell. But his armor is decorated enough for him to know that he needs to be careful. The man is skilled, slashing at Antipatros every time he has to stop to breathe. Antipatros rarely gets to have any strike land, most if not all are blocked or redirected by the skilled swordsman.

How he wishes he had Castor at his back, fighting alongside him. As much as he loads to admit it, Castor was an admirable partner. In more ways than one. 

And deeper than just physical. 

His daydreaming costs him. Antipatros shouts when the blade strikes for his leg, slicing through his thigh. The red hot pain clouds his vision and Antipatros strikes out blindly. It must be luck, or some divine intervention, or perhaps maybe the Fates have even decided to show him kindness. Whatever the case, his sword strikes true, and there’s a deep grunt, followed by the hacking of lungs. The Spartan wheezes, sword clattering to the ground as he grabs at his stomach, Antipatros’ own sword, yanking out and cutting the palms of the Spartans’ hands. 

He properly turns around and runs down the deck of the ship, not bothering to wait to hear the thud of the body. 

He’s throwing open the captain's door and nearly wrenching it off of its hinges in the process. His leg burns, warmth dripping down to kiss his calves. But he ignores it. 

The room is empty and he shuts it behind him with a click. There’s no reason to bother with locking it. If someone wants to stop him from stealing the map, they can fight him for it. 

The temptation to go back to his father and return, purposefully empty-handed, feigning the impossibility of being able to find the map, isn’t as alluring as he might have thought it would be. There’s no satisfaction in returning to Eupeithes empty-handed. The results of tonight are already going to be—

What a foolish, foolish boy. But Antipatros even more so because he didn’t catch on. How did he let himself be tricked by that spoiled brat of all people? The modification is more than he can bear, so he doesn’t. 

Of course, the captain's drawers are uselessly filled with rubbish. Nonsense politics, papers upon papers of trading routes, and whatever else that Antipatros couldn’t be bothered to care for. 

The map should be here, he’s sure of it. Well, Eupeithes is sure of it and he’s, unfortunately, very rarely wrong. 

So where is it? Antipatros isn’t foolish enough to think that the captain hid it elsewhere. Something of that caliber wouldn’t just be lying around in a random bunk. It has to be in this room. But where?

The frustration gets the better of him. Perhaps it’s the fact that he allowed himself to drop his guard enough last night when the little wolf asked him. Perhaps it’s because the little wolf used him for his own means, or perhaps it’s because the little wolf is here at all. 

It’s not him at all, and Antipatros knows it. But it’s easier to be mad at someone smaller than at someone bigger. 

He throws the table across the room with a shout. It slams satisfyingly against the wall and cracks. Antipatros is about to find something else to throw— maybe the chair— when a sound stops him in his tracks. 

It’s soft, barely more than a murmur, but he heard it. He turned slowly, taking in the sight of the wardrobe. The perfect size to hold a human.

He wastes no time in stalking over and doesn’t bother to be silent when he wrenches the door open  at first, he sees nothing. Cloaks and armor greet him but he pushes them aside. 

She looks up at him, eyes round and face pale, oh so pale and oh so round. She’s shaking, arms wrapped around herself and—

She can’t be any older than ten, if that. 

He wasn’t expecting a child. He was expecting a whore not—

What sort of captain brings their spawn on board their ship? 

“Where is it?” he asks gruffly, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. 

“Please,” she whispers and oh gods, her voice is too shaky, too high, and too young . 

“The map, that’s all I’m here for.” Please, give it to him and he’ll leave. “Where is it?”

She hunches further in on herself and that’s when Antipatros hears the crumple of paper. Terrific. 

“Give it here.” 

She only shakes her head and starts crying. Softly, someone who has long since known to keep her voice quiet when scared. Antipatros understands. He’s getting nowhere with this and he doesn’t— he’s not going to hurt a child. Daughter of a Spartan captain or not, he’s above this. He’s suddenly glad that Castor is busy babysitting the royal nuisance. The last time they came across youths, Castor had killed them faster than Antipatros could stop him. 

Perhaps he’d always been different. 

Fuck. 

Fuck . 

He squats down on his haunches, a bit too fast for the girl flinches. He sighs. “Listen, uh, girl.” He’s not about to ask her for her—”

“Chloe,” she whispers. “M’name’s Chloe.”

And isn’t that just terrific. Antipatros resists the urge to groan. It’s bad enough when someone names an animal, even worse when a sweet child has one. Makes it harder to—

“I need that map,” he tries. And then, “Sweetheart.” The word is strange on his tongue and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

Chloe— she shakes her head again. “Nuh uh, Papa said that I can’t let anyone have it. It’s special.”

“Yes, it is special. Which is why I need it.”

She shakes her head again. “I—I can’t.”

This is going to get him nowhere and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes into the cabin. Whether it be a Spartan or crewman, it doesn’t matter. A Spartan would mean he’d have to traumatize this girl in front of her by killing him and a crewman would just slit her throat. 

He doesn’t have time . 

“Look, sweetheart—”

“Chloe!”

Fuck him. “Chloe, right. I need that map because my P-Papa needs it too.”

“Why?”

That question has too heavy of an answer. So he goes with something as light as he can. “Well, he has a… sickness.”

“A sickness?”

“Aye, a sickness.” That’s one way to put it. More like an obsession .  “And he needs to find the little island on that map to help him get the cure.”

“Oh,” the girl looks down. “I don’t want him to be sick.”

“Exactly, and I promise I’ll give it right back when we’re done.” Fucking liar . “We just need to find the fruit and then you’ll get the map back.”

The biggest and roundest eyes. “Pwomise?”

She would be so disappointed in him. “Promise.” 

—

“Well done, son ,” Eupeithes claps him on the back. The map is already in his hands, the three working digits curling around the paper possessively. The hand on Antipatros is too tight to be comradery, it’s always like that. 

“Thank you,” Antipatros swallows. “Father. It was nothing really. Foolish captain left the drawer open and practically begging me to take.”

A handful of men cheer at that, but the majority of them are too busy licking their wounds to do more than nod. It wasn’t the worst skirmish, only two men died and they were young, probably no more than twenty. Upstart young men who didn’t think they could. The other young pirates are more solemn and at least they will take away a lesson with them from this raid. 

The same can’t be said for—

“Where is he?” Antipatros asks, his voice thick. 

Eupeithes grunts and gestures to a man, who goes running off below deck. Antipatros watches him go, something uncomfortable in his gut. 

The Spartan ship has long since disappeared over the horizon, not nearly as badly ransacked as any of them would have liked. Even with what little warning they got, it was enough to take a stand. 

All of it could have been avoided if the brat had just stayed in his cabin like he was supposed to. And now he’s going to have to bear the consequences of his own actions. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or be dragged by the nape of his neck. 

Antipatros holds his face blank as the man brings the boy forward, that something in his stomach growing stronger. The boy has his hands tied in front of him with coarse rope. His eyes are red but not from crying it seems, but a bloodshot that can only be described as righteous anger. 

The moment he sets those vibrant blue-grey eyes on Antipatros, a flicker of victory swells in them. Then that flicker dies when they slide to Eupeithes’ hand still holding the map. 

He tries to still, plant his bare feet on the deck, but the man is stronger than he and pushes him onto his hands and knees. Antipatros keeps his eyes on the boy even as Eupeithes steps between them. “Ah, my son’s pet.” The boy spits at his feet. “You’re becoming quite the handful.”

“Good,” the boy growls, voice hoarse. 

“And such an attitude too, I can see why my son fancies you. It’s in our blood to go after fiery damsels.”

Antipatros tries not to throw up. 

“Now, I can assume I don't need to explain to you why you’re about to be punished,” Eupeithes drawls, coming to stop right in front of the boy. A bold move since he still has his teeth intact and Antipatros knows how much he loves to bite. 

“Enlighten me.” He’s going to get himself killed. 

The queen would not be pleased if he brought home a corpse. “Father,” Antipatros finds himself saying. “The boy is my own property. He will get thoroughly punished in the confines of my own cabin. You can be sure of it.”

“His offense is not just against you though, son of mine,” Eupeithes says. “He deliberately put the lives of my men in danger by purposely warning the Spartans of the attack. And by doing so, embarrassed me, disobeyed you, and killed two of my men. He will be punished for all of that and you—” Antipatros feels his blood run cold. “Shall be punished as well. For not having him on a tight enough leash.”

When Antipatros opens his mouth to argue, his father beats him to it. “Now I understand that he’s in a new environment and pets can get a little anxious when they don’t recognize their surroundings.”

“I’m not a fucking dog—”

“But he’s under your care. And you’re under my care and my ship. So it befalls me too.” Eupeithes gestures to a crewman and takes an item from him. 

Antipatros’ mouth goes dry when he sees what it is. 

The handle isn’t new, Antipatros knows it well. Worn and dark, it settles well in Eupeithes’ palm. The leather is, however, newly woven. His father takes great pride in making sure the strands are always in tip top shape to ensure that the pain isn’t lessened by softened leather. 

“Son.”

His eyes snap up at the familiar tone too fast before he even registers what was said. He blinks at his outstretched hand, palm up. It’s shaking but he doesn’t pull it back. 

Pull it back . Pull it back, pullitback. 

“You will get two,” Eupeithes is saying. “One for your own shortcomings and one for your pet’s. Understood?”

In front of the whole crew no less. And in front of the sniveling boy who’s thankfully silent. But Antipatros can feel his eyes on him.  He keeps his feet planted on the deck. “Understood.”

A short nod. 

The strikes are quick enough, but no less painful. One after the other in succession, Antipatros could have mistaken them for one extended strike. 

He keeps his hand out, even as the pain sears up his arm and shoots through his shoulder. The only sound he makes is a small grunt and he’s loath to let even that spill. 

All things considered, he’s fine . 

It’s fucking nothing. Two lashes with a flogger on the palm of his hand is nothing compared to— anything else his father has done to him. It’s  nothing. 

So why is he shaking so bad ? 

His hand is still outstretched so Eupeithes has no problem in placing the handle onto his throbbing palm. The skin hasn’t been sliced open, Antipatros realizes. His father had been light with the punishment this time. 

His fingers curl around the handle and he looks expectantly to his father. Even though he already knows the answer. 

“Twenty for the boy,” Eupeithes says as if they’re discussing the weather. 

“What?” 

Antipatros gives his father a nod, his mind far enough away from his body that he doesn’t feel quite like himself. Or, as if he’s simply watching someone else puppeteer his body. 

“Tie his wrists to the ring on the floor— yeah, that should do it.”

He watches as the boy is manhandled toward a line ring, unused at the moment. He fights them the entire way, writhing and shouting at them but three pirates against a single pup is futile. His wrists are looped around another rope and tied to the ring, forcing him in a kneeling position with his back to Antipatros. 

The flogger feels like it gains weight, his sweat making it almost slip from his hand. He pushes past the pain and tightens his hold. 

“Antipatros,” the boy says. He throws his head over his shoulder and meets him with a wild glare, much too scared to be threatening. “Don’t.”

“Twenty lashes,” Antipatros hears himself saying. 

“No…” 

“Twenty and then whatever else you wish to do to him can be in the privacy of your chambers,” his father says at his side. “Unless you wish to share that with the crew too.”

The men break out into boisterous and ugly cheers. Antipatros is reminded faintly of the suitors but at least those ones listened to him. These ones only listen to his father. 

He raises the flogger. Slowly. As if in a dream. 

“Antipatros… Antipatros, wait!” The boy’s words are scared and sound so much like a different young man over a decade ago but Antipatros closes his heart to it. “Stop— wha-wait— Antinous !”

He is not Antinous anymore. 

He brings his arm down in a wide but sharp arc. The leather sings, dancing from the movement and looking almost pretty. The sound of it snapping against fabric paired with a dull thud is only seconds before the shrill scream. 

The boy lurches forward, body acting on instinct to get away but with his hand tied to the ring and on his knees, there’s nowhere for him to go. 

Antipatros can see the marks left by the leather, not yet tearing through the fabric of his himation but wearing it immensely. That sickness crawls up his throat and he distracts himself by bringing his arm up and swiftly down again.  

“Ah-ack! Stop!”

A criss cross now and Antipatros can’t quite seem to look away from it. Voices murmur around him approvingly— and some much  more heavy and heated, but he pushes them away. If only he could shut out the one voice he doesn’t want to hear. 

“Ah-Antin-Antipatros!”

Again and again the flogger comes down, Antipatros keeps a steady rhythm, knowing that if he were to stop, he wouldn’t continue. 

Everything else fades away as he climbs in numbers. The boy’s screams fade away into shouts and then grunts, voice quickly wearing itself raw so that all he can do is shake. 

His himation has offered little to none protection from the lashes, quickly shredding into scraps as his chiton is soon to follow. He can see some streaks of red underneath the fabric and his heart pangs enough for him to feel, as far away from his body as he is. 

When the first frays of the chiton appear, he gets to twenty. He brings it down just as hard as all the other times, offering neither of them any reprieve. His hand is numb from the pain, and he can see the blood drip down his arm and onto the wood flooring. Guess it did split after all.

He’s breathing hard when it’s finished, eyes glued to the shaking form of the boy. 

He’s as hunched over as he can, the position surely not helping his back but it’s not like he can lay down. Hiccups from his mouth as he continues to shake like a leaf, a keening sound from his broken throat. 

“Well done, Antipatros,” his father says, breaking him from his stupor. He hands his father the flogger, who  quickly gives it to a crewman without so much of a glance. “Clean and polish it, please and thank you.”

Antipatros looks at his hand and remembers. “Thank you, Father. For your—” The words stick to his teeth. “ Guidance .”

A hand claps on his shoulder and Antipatros flinches hard, two fingers stiff on his fathers’ hand. “Anything for you, you know this.” Antipatros nods mutely, reeling. “Now, I’m sure you and your toy would like some alone time. I’ll leave your door unguarded for tonight. After all, we both know the importance of privacy when administering just punishment to our pets.”

He’s truly failed her. She’d be more than disappointed, she’d be disgusted by what he’s become. 

Not sure when or who untied the boy but he’s thrown into Antipatros’ arms. On reflex, Antipatros steadies the boy and, to his great surprise, instead of melting into him and sobbing, the boy growls and pushes against him. He makes it a whole half a foot before he’s crumpling to the ground. Antipatros catches him before he does and this time he makes sure he has a steady grip even as the boy squirms like a worm. 

The boy must have an infinite amount of stamina because he writhes the entire way down to his cabin and until he’s set gently to his feet. 

Antipatros avoids the punch with ease, barely even having to duck away. The boy stumbles forward with a pained cry and catches himself on a bed post. 

“You— fuck-ing—bastard!” he chokes out. He’s still shaking and Antipatros is pretty sure he’s about to faint any minute now. 

Despite how pathetic he looks and the amount of pain Antipatros knows first hand what he’s going through, he can’t find it in himself to solely feel pity. His anger rises. “Don’t yell at me, it’s your own fault.”

“My fault— my fault!” the boy screeches and tries again to unsuccessfully hit him. At least he has the hindsight to keep one hand on the post for stability. 

Antipatros takes an easy step back, already searching the room for his kit. His room hadn’t really been touched since he left, it has to be in the same place he left it last.

“H-how is any of th-is my fault?”

“Well, you’re the one who decided to warn the Spartans of the raid.” Antipatros only takes two strides to get to his dresser, searching through the drawer for the kit. He frowns a little, he could have sworn he had a small dagger in here. Oh well.  

He turns around to see a gawking Telemachus. Fuming is a good look on him but he’s about two seconds away from landing on his face. 

“I cannot believe you.”

“Tell someone who cares, kid.”

“You should. You should fucking ca-are that  you attacked an innocent c-cargo ship filled with people who are just tr-trying to make ends me-et and sl-aughtered them.” His face is getting paler. 

“Sure, kid.” He’s too tired for this. “Turn around.”

The boy immediately stiffens. “What. Why?”

Antipatros holds up the kit in his hands. “It’s the least I can do. What? I may be a bastard but I’m not a monster.” And perhaps the guilt is gnawing a little too aggressively now. 

Shaking his head, the bot takes a step back. “No… no . I’m not letting you touch me.”

“Relax, I’m not going to assault you,” Antipatros huffs. “You can keep the bottom part of your chiton intact, I just need to get to your back.”

For some reason, that only serves to make the boy even more stressed. His head shakes back and forth faster now, which can’t help at pulling the muscles on his neck and back. “Fuck off.”

“You really make it impossible to help you, you know that?”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, you kinda do.”

“Stay away from me, stay away!” He starts to back up as Antipatros approaches. 

Fucking hell, he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Antipatros decides to double the amount he was thinking of demanding from the queen. And that won’t even cover the emotional damage this brat has already done. 

He should be grateful that Antinous is aiding him before himself. His hand fucking hurts and yet here he is, offering to clean and dress the wounds for a boy who brought it upon themselves. 

Backing him into the bed is easy and all Antipatros has to do is grab him by the waist, flip him around and press him onto the bed. 

So he does. 

“Stop! Antinous, stop !”

“Not my name, Talos ,” Antipatros grunts. He’s still squirming even as Antipatros pressing his face into the bed. “Quit moving. I’m trying to help you!” Unpinning the chiton is harder than it looks when he has a bucking wolf beneath him. But he makes due and the pins are thrown behind him. He starts to pull down the fabric, brow furrowing when he sees another set of cloth. Huh, he hadn’t thought the prince was that much of a prude to wear more garments. 

A frantic screech, animalistic even, and the boy moves. Perhaps Antinous had grown lax but the boy is actually able to throw him off. 

He moves fast and for someone who just received his very first public flogging, he’s light on his feet. 

It takes Antipatros a full five seconds to realize and by then, the boy is on the other side of the room, staring at him with absolute horror. 

Antipatros puts his hands on his hips, hissing a little when the bad one throbs. “Fuck, kid you—”

He has to cut himself off because he blinks and blinks and—

The boy’s arms are wrapped tightly around his chest but it doesn’t do much to hide the fabric around his upper torso— wrappings . And even though he’s hunched over, Antipatros can see the slight curve to the boy’s chest on the corners by his armpits. 

And he’s never been at such a loss for words, finally realizing . 

Chapter Text

Fuck . 

Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck–!

Telemachus can’t wrap his arms any tighter around his chest if he tried to, and he’s trying . 

His back is molten with pain, a kind he’s never felt before. It cascades down him in waves of lava, reaching throughout his whole body. His head is lighter than air but heavier than a mountain. His legs shake, dangerously so, and he’s sure that any moment now he’s going to keel over. 

But he can’t. He can’t. 

He needs to stay up and alert, needs to keep his eye open because one wrong move and Antipatros will—

Fuck, Antipatros. 

He knows. 

He knows!  

Telemachus holds himself tighter even as that stretches the lashes on his back. He can feel skin break, the fabric of the wrappings is soon to follow too, worn to nothing but scraps from the beating it took. It’s a wonder they’re still holding up his chest. 

It’s funny now, even with the ache in his chest and ribs being the last thing on his mind, it’s still his chest that’s the worst part of his whole situation. His whole self . 

He can’t look up from the floorboards, eyes watering, begging him to blink. Cannot bear the weight of lifting them up and facing Antipatros. 

He—

“Huh.”

Why does he have to speak? Isn’t it enough that his eyes have seen, Telemachus cannot with his tongue and teeth, he cannot beat what he knows will befall him. It’s one thing for the suitors to mock him, beat him, eye him like he’s little more than a body to warm, but this… this is something that is his own . Something that he clawed from the ashes of a fire and spat out the bitter residue. 

This is who he is. 

So why can’t he just have it for himself? 

His breath comes much sharper, though he gets little air in his lungs, remaining at the beginning of his throat, as if getting lodged. His hands start to cramp where they’re clutching his torso and arms shake as they hold over his chest. 

“So that’s why.” 

Telemachus hears the creak of the wood and sees a shadow start to get nearer. His body reacts for him, flinching so violently that he slams into the wall behind him. He screams, or tries to, but his cords are too frayed, his throat is too raw, and he’s too spent to do much more than a frightened croak. “ Don’t .”

“Gods, kid. Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

You already did, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Mostly because his throat is too tight to get more than a single word out. 

He aches . The pressing against the wall isn’t helping him but the pain of his back grounds him against the panic rising in his chest. All this work, all this effort for no one to know the truth about him has all been in vain now. He knows Antipatros’ kind. 

Whatever deal they made won’t matter anymore. Even if Antipatros decides not to share him with the rest of the crew, he will still take what he wants. Men like Antipatros always take what they want. It doesn’t matter if he thinks he’s man, all everyone ever sees is the fact that he physically isn’t, it’s all they’ll ever seen

Even his own mother. Bless her heart, bless her soul , but he understands the hesitance in her eyes isn’t just because he is her child, but because she still sees him as a–

He isn’t surprised that Antipatros doesn’t listen to him and pads forward, his feet making dull thumps on the floor. Since when has Antipatros ever listened to anyone other than himself? Well– himself and his father, but Telemachus doesn’t need to be a genius to understand that a relationship like that isn’t healthy.

And he feels no sympathy for Antipatros at this moment, and he might never again. A person is not their parent, Telemachus knows that well– he’ll never measure up to his mothers’ strength or fathers’ legacy– and they bear no guilt over what they can’t control. True, whatever Antipatros’ upbringing wasn’t his fault, but what is his fault is the fact that he still chose to be a terrible person despite having a firsthand understanding of being on the receiving end of abuse. 

So Telemachus feels nothing but vile hatred for him as he approaches him still, heeding not the hissed out growl that Telemachus grounds out. It hurts his throat more than it warns the older man. 

“So, you’re a–”

“I’m not a girl,” Telemachus snaps, already knowing where this conversation will lead. He doesn’t have the patience to explain it on a good day, let alone now. He raises his eyes definitely at Antipatros. 

There’s surprise in his eyes, evidently so, but that haunting whirring of cogs behind it. A conman is always thinking after all, and it’s never anything good. “I can see that.”

Fucking condescending dog . Telemachus tries to keep his legs from shaking so much but it’s hard when it’s his whole body shaking. His hands are cramping but that ache is nothing– nothing compared to everything else. “Take ano-other step and I’ll… I’ll k-kill y-ou.”

Antipatros takes another step. It would be funny if Telemachus wasn’t terrified out of his own mind. His vision wavers but he keeps his head, just barely.

The older man just keeps– looking at him. Studying him, leering at him– whatever he’s doing, it’s unnerving him. Like a lion waiting to pounce on a pup. Telemachus won’t be able to last much longer like this, he can already feel the telltale signs of his adrenaline rush failing him. It was a victorious high to throw that burning bottle of alcohol and alert the Spartan ship, an even greater high when he saw the look of anger and worry on the pirates’ faces. 

The adrenaline only increased when Antipatros flogged him. And while he can console his mind with the fact that he did the right thing, the same can’t be said for his body. He is just human after all, and there’s only so much that one can endure before it becomes too much. 

He sways dangerously and Antipatros’ hands jerk forward to catch him. 

Telemachus flinches away again, banging once more into the wall. This time though, he isn’t able to keep himself up and his legs give out on him. He lands on his rear with a dull thump and a sharp gasp. His face is already wet with tears so he’s not sure if he’s crying harder or just never stopped since the fist lash. 

“Yeah, you look like you’re about two inches away from death, kid,” Antipatros sighs, he squats down in front of him and Telemachus barely has the energy to do more than watch him warily. The accusations are right on the tip of his tongue, but they remain heavy.

He realizes when Antipatros’ eyes linger on his chest that in his tumble, he had braced himself against the floor, leaving only his tattered wrappings to cover him. He’s only able to muster up the energy to bring one arm to guard himself, doing very little to shield him from Antipatros’ calculating gaze. 

“If you’re go-oing to r-rape me,” Telemachus says. “Just do it alread-y.”

Now it’s Antipatros’ turn to flinch, nose scrunching up and lips drawing down. “Rape you? I thought I already made it clear that I’m not going to rape you, kid.”

“Sto-op calling me that.” A silly thing to get hung up on when Telemachus’ biggest secret has just been revealed. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You want to f-fuck me.”

“Sure,” Antipatros confesses easily. “ Fuck you, yeah, but not rape you.” A snide glint in his eyes. “Kid. There’s a difference.”

Telemachus swallows. “Not for men like you.”

“Oh? And are men like you any better?” Antipatros retorts.

The pang in his heart far outweighs anything his body could ever experience. So it begins. He looks away. It’s one thing to have the suitors, anyone for that matter, mock him for his lack of masculinity when they didn’t know . Most of the time it was just an easy way for them to take a jab at him. A remark about his missing father here, and a scoff about his inability to take charge of an audience there. 

Those still stung, of course they did. But it’s a deeper kind of pain when his mother or nurse made offhanded remarks about his femininity, even if they don’t mean it. It’s a pain that makes him both angry and sad at the same time, just– uncomfortable. In his own skin and his own mind.

“So that’s why you were so stuck up all the time. I thought you just had a stick up your ass,” Antipatros chuckles, Telemachus does not join in the humour. “Guess it was just up your cu—”

Telemachus’ hand barely makes a sound when he throws it. He can’t even call it a punch because he can't even curl his fingers into a proper fist. Not like he ever does any type of damage anyway but with his body shaking more and his strength waning, it’s like a kitten trying to hit a boar. 

Antipatros catches his wrist but doesn’t twist or tighten his hold like he normally does. He’s not holding it gentle in the slightest but he’s not gripping it either. Just—holding it, staring at his hand with interest. 

The eyes flit to his, bemusement in the way that he cocks his head to the side and Telemachus is not fond of the calculation so plain on his face now. He’s not even trying to hide it. 

He stands suddenly, his hold on Telemachus’ wrist not loosening so Telemachus is pulled taut. He whimpers and tries to wretch himself free. But Antipatros has a vice grip on his wrist now, and using the hand that he wasn’t beaten with, Telemachus doesn’t stand a chance. 

He’s pulled to his feet none too gently and sways, his legs not able to hold his weight. Antipatros is there, his offending hand around his waist, hot against his bare skin. “St-stop touching me.”

“Calm down, boy, it’s not like you can walk by yourself,” Antipatros huffs and—

Telemachus’ mind short circuits. Boy? Antipatros called him a… but… he saw… and he still…? What sort of trick is this?

He tries, really he does, but his feet don’t sink into the floorboards like he wishes they would and he’s practically dragged across the room. Feeble thuds against Antipatros’ chest do nothing and he’s too weak to try and throw his body weight at him. 

He isn’t aware that the keening sound is coming from him until his throat cracks painfully and there’s a hitch in the sound. “St-st-ah…” He can’t get the rest of the word out, his vision fading in and out and the only thing keeping him from passing out is the abhorrent pain on his back. 

And he’s sitting down, slumping over against something soft yet firm and he doesn’t understand. He almost lets himself slip into the limbo between unconsciousness and awareness— floating does sound nice— but the hands on his back bring him back. 

“N-no…”

It hurts , even just the grazes of fingertips over the fabric of his wrappings. A barbed tongue hot with poison licking  up his back. He squirms but can’t move— why can’t he move?

He feels his knees against his chest but his back exposed to whoever is pressing down on his wounds, his arms twitch uselessly at his sides, fingernails trying to dig into the soft sheets. 

With no tears left to cry, his heart does for him. He braces himself for the hands to descends, to feel the pain worsen between his legs and—

But those hands don’t descend, in fact, they move upwards, to where his wrappings are securely tucked in place. Telemachus’ heart stutters. This is worse. This is way, way worse. 

“Anti—Ah, no…”

“They need to be cleaned and dressed, gods, have you never had a wound before?”

The fingers pull at the wrappings, find resistance, and pull harder. “Antin-patros, pl-please stop .” He finds enough strength to push himself up on his hands, now sitting on his knees on the bed. The world spins around him and his momentum doesn’t stop, tipping backwards and flailing his arms. 

He’s caught by those same hands that flogged him, under his armpits and burning his nerves. His head rests against Antipatros’ stomach and he’s looking up at the bastard. 

He feels so utterly helpless . And normally that would make him angry, but right now— right now he’s just so scared . 

Antipatros throws his head back—

And laughs. 

His stomach jostles Telemachus and his whole body seizes up, his vision going dark. When he comes back to himself, he’s in the same position he was earlier; his chest on his knees and arms now splayed out in front of him. There’s something tugging at his back and when he realizes what's happening, it’s too late.  

Antipatros pulls the wrappings from his body, having to tug a little when the fabric snags on the drying blood. Telemachus can feel it, peeling off of him as if it’s his own skin and the dull pain on the cap of his knee is the only thing letting him know that he’s bitten down on it. 

“Shit, got you pretty deep in some places, huh?” 

And at least there’s… some guilt lacing his words. Or maybe Telemachus is just becoming delirious with the pain and blood loss. His groaning is Antipatros’ only response. 

There’s another dry chuckle and Telemachus snags the modicum of anger. “Q-quit lau-aughing…” Hasn’t Antipatros violated him enough? Does he have to wear his very heart too? 

“Pft, why? You’re so uptight even when you’re about to faint. One might think that you’d grow lax but no, I think you’re just like this. It’s funny.”

“S’not,” he’d be sobbing if he had the strength. Instead he just shakes when the last of his wrappings are uncovered. The only reason they stay over his chest is because he’s sitting on his knees, if not, then Antipatros would be able to see . 

But he’s still exposed, his back now bare and he can’t bear it . 

“No, no, no,” he repeats his mantra, even though he knows Antipatros won’t listen to it. “Please, no.”

“ Kid ,” Antipatros says with enough force to make Telemachus flinch. The hands on him pull away but Telemachus isn’t a fool to relax. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you, I’m not going to fucking hurt you?”

“You do! And you did!” Telemachus cries out. The lashes on his back are just the most recent scarring on him, the words and actions of Antipatros carving much deeper than any weapon ever could. “Every fucking day of my life you’ve made it your mission to make mine miserable!”

“Well, if you’re not man enough to take it—”

“C-can you not?” He hates how pathetic his voice sounds. “Not… n-now…?”

“Now? Why would— oh. Oh .” And then Antipatros is laughing again. “You think—? Ehahah!” There’s movement behind him and the sound of rustling, Antipatros’ chuckles fading away to a dry snort. “Shoulda figured you’d be self absorbed even with something like this.”

“Something l-like… ? ” Telemachus groans as another wave of pain rolls over him and his body shakes in the aftermath, only prolonging the pain. 

“Kid,” Antipatros says when his chuckling finally dies down. “I don’t give a shit if you have a dick or cunt between your legs.” Telemachus cringes at the crude words. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is,” Telemachus hisses, his mind is trying to run a mile a minute, to match his racing heart, but it’s like trying to move through honey. “It is . How do you not—”

“I’ve bedded many a men with cunts and women with dicks, it’s not–”

“Can you f-for once in your miserable life not equate something to sex ?” Telemachus shouts, he’s surprised that his voice barely breaks, somehow finding the resolve to keep it from doing more than a small waver. He’s able to lift himself up, his arms shaking from the strain and nearly blacking out from the pain, but he doesn’t fall back down. Antipatros must be surprised enough since he doesn’t push him back down. Telemachus throws his head over his shoulder, sending Antipatros what must be a look of hatred and fear, but for him it just feels raw . “”Just listen.”

No one ever fucking listens to him. Not the suitors roaming the halls, using any chance they can to belittle or beat him. Not the council who have never once seen him as anything more than a sniveling runt. Not the servants or guards who would gladly trade him for his fathers’ return in a heartbeat. 

And not his mother who–

He doesn’t want to think about her. 

He doesn’t care to discern whatever it is that’s going through Antipatros’ face, if he does, he’s not sure if he’ll either break down or break into hysteria. The plausibility of both is too real. 

“D-do you not rea-alize what you’ve done?” He’s not shaking anymore but it seems that he doesn’t have the energy to do so anyway. He keeps his back to Antipatros, blinking fast as he feels the wrappings still on his knees. 

Antipatros opens his mouth, but Telemachus will hear none of it.

“You violated me,” Telemachus all but whispers.

That gets Antipatros to full body flinch, something akin to Telemachus’ fear and anger, too raw. His face contorts– dark. “I did not rape you.”

“No,” Telemachus rasps. “You violated me.” His vision darkens but he holds hard onto that rawness, the only thing keeping him from passing out. “Yo-ou forced me to make a deal w-with you, one you knew I would have no actual say in. D-don’t try to deny it, I know I did-id-dn’t really have a choice. The lesser between two evils is st-still evil.”

He presses on, “Forcing m-me into garments that have n-no right to my body, using me as s-some sick prize to get your fa-ather to approve of you. And coercing me into a sexual endeavor j-just so that your crew don’t think you a prude.” His voice cracks but still carries strong. He almost forgets the pain on his chest, almost. 

“And you flogged me!” He would shout this if he could, but instead he can only keep his voice stern. Antipatros stands as still as a statue, face frozen. “You laid your hands on a prince, rega-ardless of whether or not I’m y-ou-ur prince, I am still of royal blood. How… How dare you. Antipatros, you are no pirate, you’re a monster.”

Antipatros doesn’t even blink, Telemachus isn’t so sure if he’s even breathing. He just– stands there. Completely immobile. 

Telemachus doesn’t back down. He keeps his eyes locked onto the man even as his whole body begs him to close his eyes and lie down forever. 

His man told him not to look in the eyes of a predator lest they feel threatened and lash out. It seems Antipatros’ mother never told Antipatros that. 

“I— I…” Antipatros trails off. For once it seems that not even the soothing sound of his voice is enough to bring him from his stupor. “I’m not…. I’m not .” 

For just a moment, barely even a millisecond, he breaks eye contact. 

It’s enough. 

Telemachus lets his body have its reprieve and slumps back on his knees. He croaks, the pain consuming him once more. 

When he comes back to himself, he feels those hands on him again, just as they were before. Not gentle, not harsh. Just. 

And maybe, just maybe, he can feel them shake a little. Perhaps Antipatros is feeling guilt. 

“I hope you know this is your own fault.”

Perhaps not. Telemachus doesn’t have the strength to retort, he barely even has the strength to flinch when Antipatros’ hands graze near his armpits, where his—

“If you had just stayed in the cabin, none of this would have happened.” And still Telemachus doesn’t speak, he doesn’t speak to beasts. “Why did you do it? Why would you do something so foolish as you try to spare the decency of a people you know nothing about?”

His silence frustrates Antipatros it seems and Telemachus allows himself a modicum of satisfaction at being able to affect him so. Antipatros’ grunt ends with a heavy sigh, hand disappearing from his person. He can hear rummaging and glass bottles clinking against each other. 

When the cloth touches his skin, he hisses. Not loud, but enough that Antipatros does chuckle. He’s— oddly gentle, the damp cloth wiping away any of the blood. Some of it has dried but he doesn’t press harder to get rid of it. Instead he simply dips the cloth back into the basin just out of Telemachus’ line of view and keeps going over it. 

It hurts. A lot. Telemachus’ bottom lip has already long since started to bleed and the copper tastes good on his tongue. Every other whimper he swallows back, more just slips out. His body twitches but couldn’t even push Antipatros away if he tried. He’s spent, there’s no energy left of him now. 

And with Antipatros’ voice drifting in and out, a patronizing tone laced with aggressiveness, Telemachus is left to his mind. 

It swirls, just like the cloth is on his back and just as painful. 

Maybe he should feel grateful that Antipatros doesn’t care that much that his body is that of a woman’s. But it’s hard to feel any gratitude towards a man who is more beast than human. It had felt good, to finally say ‘ I’m not a girl ’ with such anger. 

He normally has to be gentle when he tells people, not that he’s told many. He always has to be careful, to be perfect. Because if he isn’t, if he’s the slightest bit emotional, he’ll be written off. 

And he just wants to be angry, but why is it so hard?

Molten pain and he cries out, body trying but failing to get away. Antipatros’ voice becomes sterner, and there’s a hand pressing down on the back of his neck, where there’s only one lash, and holding his body in place. 

The pain recedes but there’s a tingling feeling overwhelming his body now, making him feel oddly numb. In an instant, he wants the pain back. He can’t stand not being able to feel. 

A thousand tears are better than a blink of apathy. 

The cloth is back, pressing whatever substance further into his wounds and making that croaking sound squeeze out of him. He retreats into the far reaches of his mind to go away. 

It’s not much better.  

Of course, of course , Antipatros would relate this to sex .  What else would he do? He’s a disgusting pig through and through. Telemachus is fairly certain that it’s all he thinks about. 

Maybe it’s just yet again another piece of proof that Telemachus will never be a real man , he doesn’t think about sex nearly as often as the suitors or guards do. He’s eavesdropped, he’s heard the things they brag about to their fellow friends. Telemachus hasn’t done nearly anything to the amount in which they have, in fact, Telemachus hasn’t done more than kiss and get down on his knees, even if that ended with dissatisfaction on both parts and—

He doesn’t want to think about that . 

Fabric, no, gauze on his back, being secured tightly over the cold substance that was just smothered over his wounds. It’s not nearly to the uncomfortableness that Telemachus is used to with his wrappings so he doesn’t flinch from that, more so he flinches when the fingertips get dangerously close to his chest. 

“Maybe next time, you listen to me.”

Telemachus’ scoff is warbled. “Maybe next time d-don’t fu-ucking flog me.”

“I had to, you little bastard,” Antipatros snaps. “Would you have rather my father to administer the punishment? He would not have been as light with it as I was.”

“Light? You broke through my skin,” Telemachus seethes. 

“Barely. He would have let the leather kiss your bone.” He says it with such conviction that Telemachus has to take pause. It’s said with the conviction of a person who's experienced it firsthand. He suddenly remembers the horrid moment when he accidentally walked in on Antinous and Eurymachus in the bathhouses, even though he had promptly left before he saw more than two shapes molded together. The steam was thick but he does remember making out lighter skin slashed on Antinous’ back. He’d thought they had been battle scars but now… now he’s not so sure if the battle was two sided. 

“Why are you staying?”

“This is my cabin, little wolf—”

“No,” Telemachus says. “Why are you staying on this ship? It’s cl-clear that yo-ou don’t want to be here. I think.” It’s hard to tell what’s going on in Antipatros’ head, if there’s even anything. “Why not just— not?”

“And you expect me to jump over the side and swim to the nearest island?” Antipatros says dryly. 

Telemachus can only whimper out a groan when Antipatros forces him to sit up. He hurries to wrap his arms around his chest, hunching over even though that just spikes his pain. The numbness of the salve can only do so much.  

“I’m sure there’s rafts aboard.” Telemachus knows some things about ships, limited as it is. 

“By myself?”

“Castor seems like he would go with you.”

Antipatros laughs. “No, he would not.” And it’s said again in such a way that Telemachus has refuted. Maybe Antipatros has already tried to convince him— and failed. 

“But why stay , why—”

“Shut your mouth, little wolf,” Antipatros snaps. 

Telemachus flinches, the words sounding much too loud and much too harsh for his already waning energy. His hands are still on his waist, holding him up and the threat is still there. The obvious power imbalance between the two of them. 

He swallows thickly and says nothing. Sometimes it’s better not to push his luck. 

Antipatros exhales heavily through his nose. Telemachus isn’t sure what expression he’s wearing this time, but he doesn’t crane his head to find out, whatever it is he’s sure that half of it isn’t honest anyways. 

His body is moving without his control and the world spins around him, too overstimulated by pain, nausea, and exhaustion to grasp what’s happening until a few moments have passed. 

He blinks, finding only darkness and smothering. He panics for a second, thinking Antipatros is finally doing away with him pressing his face into the mattress, but quickly realizes that there’s no hands on him and the only thing keeping him pressed into the mattress is his own leaded body. 

With great difficulty, he turns his head so that his cheek is resting on the rather comfortable pillow.  He watches through lidded eyes as Antipatros sheds himself of his chlamys and himation, the sandals and other sort of attire leaving his person. 

When it’s just his chiton, Telemachus croaks, “I’m not sle-eeping with you.”

“Nah, kid,” Antipatros says. “We’re not sleeping together, we’re sleeping together.”

Telemachus must truly be going insane from his pain. Even blinking and running the words over in his head doesn’t make a lick of sense. “Wha…?”

Antipatros answers by climbing into bed. It dips under his weight and creaks from the strain. Telemachus’ body twitches and a choked cough comes from his lips but that’s all he’s able to do. His eyes droop even as the panic in his mind roars. 

But instead of being taken advantage of, Antipatros barely gives Telemachus a second look before he’s flopping back onto the mattress and pulling the sheets up around him, snugly. 

“I—”

“Shut up,” Antipatros says tiredly. 

“Put me do-own.” He doesn’t— he can’t shut his eyes this close next to this monster. “I’m n-not sleeping on y-ou-ur bed and—”

Antipatros huffs, “Do I need to muzzle you?” He doesn’t open his eyes but his brows are almost kissing each other. “Your back needs to rest and I know you’re just going to reopen them if I toss you on the floor and all of my generosity will go to waste. You’re sleeping here, try not to thank me too hard.”

“But—”

“Boy, if you don’t clam your trap in the next three seconds, I’m using my loincloth to stuff your mouth. I’ve had a long and frankly exhausting day, so take my kindness and go to sleep.” And with that Antipatros rolls over and his back is to Telemachus. 

It’s not like Telemachus can very well turn his own back but he does— with great difficulty— turn onto his other cheek. At least this way he doesn’t have to look at the man. His eyes sting, those lashes looked deep . Antipatros must not have been kidding when he said Eupeithes had a heavier hand than him. 

He licks his lips, dry, and swallows, also dry. The salve has lost its coolness by now but the oddly tingling and numbing sensation is still there. It’s hidden behind wave after wave of horrid pain but Telemachus thinks he can feel his body start to heal. 

Or perhaps that’s his hysteria setting in. 

There’s so much to unpack. He needs to properly think before the night comes to a close and the day begins anew. Another plan or method has to be put into place and—

But his eyelids refuse to open and Hypnos has already called upon his body. He fights it, every step of the way, but a mortal can do little against the limits of their own weakness and Telemachus slips from the waking world, the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes just starting to fall as he fades away. 

—

The wolf races across the ground, feeling not the gravel and sharp stones beneath his feet. His breath comes out in shallow pants and muscles scream for a break. His fur is matted, thick and heavy. But his eyes remain bright. 

And he runs still. Even when exhaustion threatens to force his paws to stop. This wolf listens to nobody and he must continue to run . 

He must, he must— run, run, run—!

“ Young wolf .”

The wolf falters, stumbling over nothing when he hears the call, ears pricking and heart daring to hope. When he looks around, he sees nothing and no one and he has to wonder if he even heard it at all. 

The desperation comes roaring back to him and his body is moving once more, swerving in and out of trees, leaping around small rivers, and racing over hill tops. The world around him blurs. There is nothing except him and the need to—

“ Friend .”

He stops just before the lip of the cliff, one more step and he would have ceased to run again. He gasps, tongue lolling from his mouth as he looks around, hackles raised and ears pricked. Eyes keen and bright. 

He heard her, but where—? 

“ Telemachus .”

There! The world spins around, heart rising to his mouth and letting out a sharp yip when he sees her. Over the horizon but if he squirms his eyes, he can make out the crinkle of her eyes and the whiteness of her knuckles as she grips her spear. He tries to step forward but the edge of the clif stops him. He whines, ears flattening against his skull and gives another bark, calling for her. 

They’re so close and he needs her. He can’t do this alone. 

“ I know ,” she whispers but her voice carries just enough for his keen ears to hear. She sounds… tired. Strained? It’s so unlike her and the worry only grows. He tries again to cross the horizon but it’s unyielding. “ I… I cannot reach you well enough when you are in my uncle's domain, young wolf .”

“Athena,” he tries to speak but all that comes out is a whine. 

“ Quiet, prince. My uncle can hear too well and he’s much too hellbent on vengeance. Bide your time, stay alive. You can and you will. Find land, I can aid you better there . Without the risk of him .”

But how will his feet touch the ground when he’s on board a ship? How—

“ Trust and wait, Telemachus. My dear friend,” Athena says, her voice sounds fainter and fainter and he has to squint to keep her in his line of sight. He whimpers again and feels an uncomfortable warmth on his back that only swells with every passing moment. “ Be strong, young wolf. You carry my blessing .”

—

Telemachus wakes up with a wet face and an aching back. His fingers curl weakly, not strong enough to make a fist. Yet. 

They shake and his eyes are closing again but before he falls back to the world of nothing, a small smile curves his lips. 

Chapter Text

Telemachus isn’t sure if he should take it as a blessing or a warning that, throughout the week, Antipatros barely says a word to him. On the one hand, it’s nice not having to listen to the grating sounds of that bastard. But on the other hand, the silence only fills him with dread. Antipatros is a man who thinks out loud, so what is he trying to hide with his sealed lips?

Of course, there is the option that there is nothing inside his head, but Telemachus could have told anyone that. 

He gets no answer so instead he has to deal with the silent treatment as Antipatros continues to be the petulant man-child that he is. 

He had woken up the night after feeling… somewhat better. The corners of his memory were faded but he had a sense of relief, an echoing clock playing in the back of his mind and that sharp smell, nostalgic. He may not be able to speak with her so clearly now, but knowing that she was watching him from a distance was enough to strengthen his iron. 

Antipatros had been gone when he woke up and Telemachus could do nothing but lay there. He had tried, but after the pain threatened to pull him under when he barely moved, he decided that waiting awake was better than being asleep to the world. He’d craned his ears and listened. But below deck, he could barely hear anything. Sometimes footsteps would pad by and every time that happened, he would tense up. Unsure if it was Antipatros or someone else. He’s not sure when his mind started thinking the man less of a threat but in comparison to the rest of the pirates, Telemachus had no other choice. 

He’s still reeling from— everything . 

He can’t help the wry smile every time he thinks that him being publicly flogged like some slave wasn’t the worst thing to happen to him that night. 

Antipatros’ response had been unexpected to say the least. Telemachus had thought— had thought— well . Men like Antipatros only ever saw what he wasn’t rather than what he was . 

But maybe Telemachus didn’t actually know the type of man Antipatros was. 

He supposes he should be grateful that Antipatros hadn’t called him anything different, hadn’t even treated him differently than what he always had but—

But . 

Then Antipatros had to go and equate his body to his callous relationship with sex of all things. Perhaps Antipatros was exactly the type of man Telemachus clocked him as. 

Telemachus likes to think that he’s not a prude, but when it comes to his body, he’d at least like to be able to control what other people think of him. And Antipatros admitting to him that he wanted to have— sex with him was… well, he doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t want to think about it. But with nothing to occupy himself with, he can only think. 

It’s not that he’s opposed to being desired, he thinks maybe everyone wants to be seen in some way or another. And it’s not like he hasn’t ever thought about men in… that way. 

And he knows that in order to carry on his blood line he would have to lie with someone whose parts were… different from him. 

And they’d have to have… relations. 

He unfortunately can’t smother himself by pressing his face into the pillow. Although he does try. 

Telemachus is glad for the every present pain on his back because he can at least blame the heat on the fever he’s had ever since he woke up the morning after. And if it’s a different type of heat then he can simply arch his back and have the pain scream at him instead. 

Thinking about that is unbecoming. 

Perhaps he is a prude. 

His body isn’t— desirable .  He knows this. No person who wants to sleep with a man would sleep with his body and no person who wants his body wants to sleep with a man. He’s the worst of every option and none would ever really want him, not really. Sure they’d be polite and lie through their teeth but at the end of the day, his body would disgust them and mind annoy them. 

At least whoever his mother arranges him a marriage with, he knows they won’t be outwardly cruel to him. His mother wouldn’t do that to him. Perhaps she’ll find someone kind even, or someone whose kingdom would do greatly with their alliance. 

And maybe they could learn to love each other, in a way. Mutual respect. 

The door opens and his body only relaxes somewhat when he hears the familiar grunt. At least whoever he marries will be better than Antipatros . 

He gnaws on the side of his cheek. A thousand snarls are ready to spill out but he’s not going to be the one to break the silence. Perhaps he’s just as childish as Antipatros. 

It’s almost routine at this point, Antipatros huffing and puffing, wearing out the wood on the floor for a few minutes then sighing and dressing his wounds. At least there’s nothing unexpected. For now. 

—

“You’re seriously not going to let your dog out?” Castor snickers. 

Antipatros exhales heavily through his nose. “He’s still… recovering.”

“Still? He barely got a few scratches and he’s still moping about it? Fuck, Antip, you really like the weak ones, huh?”

He has to physically stop himself from throttling Castor by the neck and telling him that Telemachus isn’t weak. But he stops himself and almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. Defending that pampered bitch, what is he on? The prince can defend himself— when he’s not giving Antipatros the silent treatment that is. Gods, he really is nothing but a boy. Biting his tongue instead of having a conversation like an adult. 

Antipatros just shrugs. “There was much more than a few lashings, you know.” Bitter on his tongue. But Castor doesn’t pick up on the obvious lie. 

Well— technically there was something more than just the lashings. Antipatros got an earful from the brat about violating him. 

It still settles heavily in his gut. 

He’s not… he’s not a good person, he already fucking knows this. But he’s not… a monster. 

Was he? 

No, no . He’s not. He can’t be. He’s done enough good to balance out the bad. He’s sworn to protect the brat for Zeus’ sake and kept his precious little secret from the crew. Because he knows what they’d do if they found out that not only is he a prince, but has the body of a woman. 

Antipatros doesn’t care . A body is still a body and the prince is still a pain in his ass. No wonder he thinks he’s better than everyone else, he has what every person would want; the mind of a man and the body of a woman. If Antipatros was still a suitor courting at the palace, he would change gears in a flash. It’d be a lot easier to secure the crown by going through the prince. 

If that prince wasn’t such a stuck up, self absorbed, irritably hot, and snarky—

“Would have loved to see that,” Castor chuckles, rigging the ropes. He’s flexing his muscles more than he should, arching his back a little too much, and his voice is more airy than usual. 

Antipatros lets his eyes wander over his backside. It’s been fourteen years, he wonders how much has really changed, if Castor will still feel the same as he always does. 

“Yeah, you would have. But he’s— shy. He doesn’t like anyone else seeing him.” And that part is actually the most true Antipatros has said about him. Well, that and that the prince is a conniving bitch. Like mother, like son. 

“Anyone besides you? Tell me again how you found him?”

He’s so fucking nosey, Castor. Or perhaps the tightness in his voice isn’t only from adjusting the ship. Antipatros allows a smug smile to tug on his lips. Jealous of a whiny little runt like Telemachus, Castor is more desperate than him. 

Antipatros doesn’t get a chance to come up with a tale that would embarrass Telemachus and at least make his time on deck more bearable because two men step into their space. 

“Aye, Castor,” one says. His hair is probably one of the ugliest things Antipatros has ever seen, too bright and too much like the yolk of an egg. Stringy too. At least Antipatros takes care of his precious locs. 

“Achaeus, Thoas, aren’t you supposed to be caulking the hull?” 

Turns out the gingers’ face can get uglier when he scrunches it up. The pathetic wisps of chin hair crinkle when he does. “It’s finished. Sorta.”

“Sorta?” Castor grunts. “What the fuck do you mean; sorta .”

“Fuck, calm your cunt,” Achaeus rolls his eyes. His companion beside him chortles and Antipatros thinks about bashing their two heads together. Maybe it would knock some sense into their youthful ignorance. “It’s too hot to continue and anyway, being hooked up with coarse ropes really chafes the bits.” His eyes flick over to Antipatros. “Unless you’re the captain's sons’ pet, eh?”

Antipatros isn’t sure where this abrupt irritation is coming from. Maybe it’s because these young men, barely older than twenty-five summers, are acting so brash and hotheaded despite the fact that they haven't earned it in the slightest. Or perhaps it’s because he’s had to share the bed with a moping prince for the past week, dressing the wounds like he’s some old nursemaid. Or maybe it’s because he’s just fucking annoyed. Whatever the reason is, Antipatros doesn’t join in the chortling and in fact, feels oddly defensive over the thought of Telem— the brat living free in their minds. 

“You’d best keep your thoughts about my pet to yourselves, boys,” he says. It’s a drawl but Castor’s eyebrows raise and he looks between the three of them with interest. “He is my pet after all.”

“Oh ho, getting territorial, are we?” the other man snorts. He goes to clap Antipatros on the back but his wrist is caught and thrust back into his chest. “Oy?”

“Gods,” Achaeus grunts, leaning back a little. “It’s just a eromenos , Antipatros. We’re just joking. S’not like we’d fuck your squealing thing. Unless of course you gave us permission. Probably want to watch to—”

Antipatros doesn’t get very far, Castor's hand on his chest before he can make more than a step and a half. It does the trick well enough though, the two young men flinching. He allows a bit of satisfaction at the sight. 

“Easy,” Castor says. “No use getting worked up over a whore. Let’s be civil, gentlemen .” He directs it towards all three of them but Antipatros feels the breath hot on his shoulder. To the young men, Castor says, “Finish what you started. Or report to the captain of your laziness.”

The threat of admitting to Eupeithes of their worthless work ethic is too great to bear and the men scurry off without another word, grumbling to themselves. 

There isn’t even a beat of silence before Castor breaks it. “Really, Antip? Wouldn’t have pegged you for that.”

“What,” Antipatros says easily. “Putting two upstarts in their place? Come on, Cassie, we were never that brash in our youths. Someone’s gotta let them know they can’t act like that.”

“Naw, we were worse,” Castor says. “But I’m talking about your little possessive strike.”

“Hmm?”

Castor raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d get attached to a whore of all things. Were you really that lonely that you found solace in the first thing that bent over for you?”

The absurdity of the notion makes Antipatros break into a bark of laughter. “Pff, what? Castor, you need to be careful or I’ll choke on the air.”

Castor only offers him a wry smile, tinged with something that twists Antipatros’ gut uncomfortably. “Must have some cunt if he’s got it wrapped around your dick.”

Antipatros actually can’t believe his ears. “Castor… are you— jealous ?” 

The other man’s ears darken, such as his face, and he ducks away, going back to rigging the ropes that don’t need to be rigged anymore. Antipatros wants to find it funny, but that humour is giving away to something— something . “Naw, just observant. And you’re not as secretive as you’d like to think you are.” Castor’s voice is too strained to be casual. 

Neither of them say anything for a few seconds, Antipatros still trying to understand the weirdness in his chest. Confusion, he settles on, because why on earth is Castor of all people acting like some desperate woman? 

Perhaps Antipatros wasn’t the only person who was without a home when Antipatros left. 

And, look, Antipatros isn’t heartless. But he has bigger things to worry about than Castor’s wounded pride. Or heart. He’s back in the last place he ever wanted to be and while he’s glad Castor isn’t dead or lost at sea, he’s still a man who doesn’t belong on this ship. 

He’s not sure where he belongs. Thinking is too complicated, so—

“Where did Eupeithes find those upstarts? The charred remains of an orphanage?”

It does the trick well enough and Castor snorts. Both of them are still very much cowards but don’t mention the abrupt subject change. They can discuss later— or never. Never is good. “Fucking turncoats of their own captain.”

Antipatros scrunches his nose. “That’s…”

“Foolish?” Castor finishes for him. He half turns to look at him. “That’s what I told your old man too. Said that if they so easily turned on their own captain, they'd be even quicker to turn on him. But you know your father— he doesn’t like to be challenged.”

Maybe Antipatros shouldn’t have changed the subject. If this conversation was just going to lead to more memories . 

Luckily, Castor keeps griping, “I mean, fuck , can’t Eupeithes just listen to someone other than himself for once? He’s so stuck up his own ass that the moment someone tries to give him sound advice, he ignores it to do the exact opposite just to spite them! Some captain he is—” He abruptly cuts himself off and presses his lips into a thin line, glancing suspiciously around the deck for eavesdroppers. 

They’re out of earshot from the minimal crew tending to the ship. Honestly, the raid was worse on the men then the Vengeance so there wasn’t that much repairs that had to be seen to. 

Antipatros’ mind flashes to those lashes on the princes’ skin and his gut turns over. “Nah, you’re right. He’d be better suited for overseeing a kitchen.”

Castor blinks. Then snorts. Then throws his head back and laughs. When he recovers, he leans over and claps Antipatros on the shoulder. “Fuck, Antip. I missed having your wild tongue. The only person who hates Eupeithes’ methods more than me is you.”

They grin at each other, then Castors’ eyes flick downwards, then back up. A tilt of his head. 

Antipatros understands and the uncomfortableness in his gut is quickly replaced by something else. It’s easier to feel the heat than the chill. 

He can always rely on this sort of distraction. 

—

The prince is exactly where Antipatros last left him; sprawled out on the bed on his stomach, hands clenched into fists and back exposed for him to see. He ought to not tense his body so much, that’ll only aggravate the wounds more. 

But he supposes the boy has never really had wounds to know any better. Oddly unfitting though, the way he got them. They’re not even battle scars, not like half of Antipatros’ scars that adorn him. No, these are the scars of a misbehaving slave. Antipatros’ own back flares with phantom pain. 

He doesn’t say anything and neither does the prince. Figures, still acting like a petulant child. One would think that he’d at least be a little grateful to the man who’s been cleaning and dressing his wounds. 

Except Antipatros is also the man who gave him those—

He grunts and shakes his head, stomping over to the wash basin to clean his hands. Castor’s scent is still all over him and while he’d normally indulge in that, take himself in hand and relax, he’s pretty sure that would make the little wolf start yipping at him and he doesn’t have the energy to deal with that right now. 

He dries his hands on his chiton, then after seeing the stain already starting to dry, starts to strip. The one he throws over himself still fits him, but barely. He grins a little to himself, he has grown stronger in the last fourteen years. 

It’s a routine now. To grab the salve and fresh rags, the small bowl of water and make his way to the other side of his bed. The prince watches him through slitted eyes as he peels off the gauze and starts to clean. He’s barely even wincing this time and after a quick glance, Antipatros is pleased to find the wounds healing well. No sign of infection either. That would have made the little wolf even more of a nuisance. 

Once he’s finished and the boy has a fresh patch of gauze over his back, Antipatros— stands there. Just staring at the boy as he stares back at him. There’s a whirlwind of conversations storming within him but none come out of his mouth. He won’t be the first to break the silence and he much rather prefers to believe that the prince is vowed into submission rather than still resisting him. 

Starting a conversation now will just lead to the boy whining about the state of his body again. Antipatros doesn’t understand why he’s so uptight about it. Plenty of whores at the brothel are like him or the complete opposite and all of them know how to please him, so he’s not sure why it’s causing the boy to be so upset. 

If anything, it would make it even easier to find someone to marry him. His mother should have wedded him off to someone. A kingdom with two men was a hell of a lot better than a kingdom with a man and a woman. 

Whatever, the Ithacan royals can rot in hell for all he’s concerned. Once he gets his reward, he’s sailing off to the furthest island and surrounding himself with as many pleasing bodies as possible. He doesn’t even need to be king anymore, a duke or noble would suffice. If he has to oversee even one person that reminds him of this brat, he’ll gladly pass. 

There’s still work to be done on the ship and Antipatros is doing his best to avoid his father, so he leaves without a word and struts off to find the next thing to distract himself from feeling the unfounded surge of guilt. 

—

Telemachus knows that something has changed when Antipatros comes in this time. He had dithered at the door for a solid thirty seconds, his footsteps uncertain for once, something Telemachus didn’t know was possible, before opening it with much more force than was necessary. 

Against his better judgement, Telemachus stiffens. Which makes his back flare up in pain. Less so than usual, which irks him. He would rather die than admit it but Antipatros is strangely good at tending to his wounds. 

He’s seen Antipatros’ backside so it’s not really that surprising that he has the knowledge, only that he’s so gentle when administering to him. 

It must be a manipulation tactic, or his guilt rearing its head. Either way, Telemachus finds it suspicious and has been watching the man closely whenever he does. He doesn’t see any hidden meaning behind those eyes but he knows that Antipatros is a born deceiver and can’t let his guard down for even a moment. 

Once inside the room, there is no dawdling. Which, fine, that’s actually what Telemachus prefers. No beating around the bush. 

Except when that means that Antipatros grabs the covers and yanks them off of his body. At least Telemachus is still covered from the waist down. But it doesn’t make him feel any less exposed. “Hey,” he snaps. 

He’ll curse himself later for being the one to break the silence that’s been going on between them, right now his heart is hammering too hard and fast in his chest to worry about that. 

“Get up,” Antipatros says gruffly. At least he takes a step back and is no longer looming over him. His arms are now crossed and he’s tapping his foot impatiently— nervously?

“What? Why?” Telemachus’ hands clench and unclench, that little movement already igniting an arch on his back. He doesn’t have to use the chamber pot and he’d rather not have to use it any more than he already does. It’s morbid enough that Antipatros has to help him with that. 

“We’re invited to dinner,” Antipatros grunts. 

Telemachus blinks at him. “We?” The word tastes odd on his tongue. He doesn’t like the feel of it, of having him and Antipatros joined together like that. 

“Aye, and my father doesn't like to be kept waiting. So get off your ass and get dressed and let’s fucking go.” He doesn’t need to be a genius to discern that Antipatros’ shaking hands, gripping his own arms, are shaking from frayed nerves. 

“I’m not going to your family dinner,” Telemachus says. He turns his head, willing his body to relax. “Enjoy yourself.”

Antipatros growls. “This isn’t a request, boy . It’s an order.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Telemachus bites back, although his stomach flutters at the word again. Boy . He’s not grateful that Antipatros still sees him as— well a pain in the ass but still a man. He shouldn’t be. It’s who he is. And yet he can’t help but feel his heart glow. But the dread in his stomach is quickly replacing that warm and fuzzy feeling. The last thing he wants is to be anywhere near Antipatros’ father. He prefers Antipatros by only the slightest margin. And the man is on thin ice. 

“As much as I normally love to exchange barbs with you, I don’t have the fucking patience, Talos.” Antipatros takes a step forward and Telemachus flinches. “Get up.”

He really shouldn’t but— “Make me.”

Blame the state that he’s in, the way he’s so beyond utterly exhausted that he can’t even sleep. And what rest he gets is fitful at best and non existent at worst. He can’t even muster up the courage to do more than flinch when Antipatros’ hands are on him, hoisting him up into a seated position. His vision goes dark, and he thinks maybe he’s shouting— there’s a vibration in his throat?— but he isn’t cognizant of anything other than the pain and nausea. 

Somehow, he comes back to himself but he’d prefer not to. The only thing keeping him from falling forward is the sturdy hand on his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. 

He realizes with a start and wraps his arms around his bare chest, revulsion and fear and pain swelling together. The movement only aggravates his back more and he whimpers in retaliation but doesn’t let his arms fall back down. The pain is bearable, being vulnerable isn’t. 

Antipatros’ other hand is reaching for his waist and in his gaze of pain, Telemachus fears the worst. One hand goes to push away Antipatros’. “St-stop.”

A deep grunt and their eyes meet. “Look, I doubt you want to go with just the bottom of your chiton covering you.” And he says it with such smugness too that Telemachus’ mind fights between being angry and scared out of his gods damned mind. “And it’s not like you can dress yourself in the state that you’re in. Fucking relax—” When Telemachus tries to yank his hand away. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you, kid?” He looks like he’s about to say more but shifts the conversation. “There’s a new chiton over there for you to wear. Clean too ‘cause I know you royals are mental about that kind of shit.”

He says it like he’s doing Telemachus a favour. And not forcing him to be stripped and dressed like some fucking doll. 

“So unless you want to muster up the strength and dress yourself, allow me to help you,” Antipatros grounds the last two words out, perhaps one of the most difficult words he’s ever said by the sound of it. 

“You want to know what would help me?” Telemachus asks, his hand still trying in vain to push Antipatros’ away. 

“What?”

“You fucking off.”

Antipatros snorts. “If I wanted to, I would. But my fathers’ wrath isn’t so easily swayed as mine is, kid.”

"You are not—”

“So quit being a bitch ,” Antipatros cuts him off, his much larger hand covering Telemachus’ entirely and squeezing to the point of pain. “And actually listen to me. For once.”

“For once? What the fuck have I been doing all this time on this fucking boat but listen to your endless yaps?” Telemachus squirms harder to no avail. “If I wanted to hear a man bitch and moan about his sorry excuse for a life, I’d have a better time talking to a beggar.”

The hand flies to his face at record speed but Telemachus surprises himself by catching the wrist before it reaches him. It catches Antipatros off guard too for he doesn’t press harder, even though he probably could. Or perhaps Telemachus is stronger than he looks. 

The exhale is long and heavy and Telemachus is surprised once again when Antipatros glances away. “Can ya just do this thing for me?” It’s laced with layers of annoyance but there’s— there’s a plea to it. Something that Telemachus has to blink several times to make sure he’s not dreaming. “I’ll fucking make it up to you.”

“How?” Telemachus narrows his eyes. 

“Fucking hell, I’ll…” Antipatros flicks his gaze back to him, cold steel barely shielding from an oddly hollow look. “I’ll let you leave this room.”

The snort is anything but humorous. “Wow, gods, thanks . You’re so fucking generous to let me leave my masters kennel.” But his mind is already working a mile a minute. 

Leaving this room, scares him as much as it excites him. He’s already feeling like he’s going fucking crazy, staring at the same four walls everyday. And he needs to be better prepared, the small window barely shows the sky, let alone any neighboring boats or islands that they pass. If he's able to walk on deck, he’ll not only have a better view of what’s near them, but maybe can put a plan into action for escaping. 

He chews the inside of his cheek. But being on deck means being surrounded by the other pirates. Men who have less qualms about touching him than the suitors did. Flesh eating piranhas that would gladly violate him if it meant entertainment and a quick fuck. 

But Antipatros has— claimed him. As much as that makes the disgust settle heavily in his gut. And going against the second in command would surely have detrimental consequences. 

And— Telemachus squares his shoulders. He’s not some weak boy. He’s a prince and a fucking warrior. He can handle himself. He’s already done so for the past twenty years of his life. 

If any of them dare to lay a finger on him, he’ll simply chew them off of their hands. 

“Don’t hover over me,” he says, already feeling like he’s making a mistake. He releases his grip on Antipatros’ arm, wrapping it around his chest and sitting up a little bit straighter. “I deserve to be able to walk freely.”

The relief that fills Antipatros’ eyes would be funny if Telemachus’ nerves weren’t already fraying at the seams. “Fuck, kid. You’re so fucking difficult.”

That’s as much of a thanks that Telemachus is going to get from him so he doesn’t press the other man. One thing at a time. He glances over to the chiton laying on the side table. Little is different about it then the tattered one he’s wearing now. Except, it’s missing—

“Give me wraps.”

“What?”

Telemachus stares at him coolly. “Wraps. For my chest.” He tries not to throw up in his mouth when Antipatros’ eyes flick briefly to the arms over his chest. 

“Your tits—” After a growl from Telemachus. “Your chest isn’t that big, little wolf. No one’s gonna notice if you don’t squeeze your body under itchy fabric.”

“ I’ll notice,” he hisses and bares his teeth. “Go. Get. Me. Wraps.”

He cannot leave without feeling some semblance of protection, and having his chest pinned down makes him feel— okay. Not good, it hurts and makes it more difficult to breathe, but at least he’s not thinking about the ways in which he’s not . At least, not to the degree that makes him want to—

“It’s going to pull on your wounds, idiot,” Antipatros says. Telemachus opens his mouth to argue that he doesn’t fucking care, but Antipatros beats him to it. “I know of something better.”

He turns and reaches a little past the bundle of clothes and when he turns around again, Telemachus stares at him blankly. “You’re going to dress my wounds again?”

Antipatros gives him a stare that’s just as flat. “No. I’m going to pin your t—chest to your torso with this.” Holding up the strips of gauze and wiggling them back and forth. 

Telemachus has the retort on the tip of his tongue and is fully intent on ripping Antipatros a new one but unfortunately, his mind works faster than his mouth and he has to stop himself. That’s— it’s actually a sound idea. Fuck. Telemachus opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. 

Huh, who knew that Antipatros was smarter than the dog he acts like?

Antipatros’ smug expression is enough to make Telemachus wish that he would pull the dagger from where it’s hiding on his thigh and wipe that smirk off of his face. “Well, pup, move your arms. We’re burning daylight.”

“I can do it myself, dog,” he spits back. He doesn’t want Antipatros’ hands anywhere near his chest. 

He’s either finally gaining some luck or Antipatros is too tired to argue. The man shrugs and chucks the strips on his lap. “Then hurry up, champ.”

"I have a name, you know.” Telemachus half turns to hide his body as he sets to work. It’s painful and his hands won’t stop shaking. He feels Antipatros’ eyes burning a hole into his back. Perhaps the heat on his skin isn’t solely the pain. 

“Aye, Talos ,” Antipatros responds. 

Telemachus thinks about switching patrons and praying to Poseidon to sink this ship. 

He doesn’t respond and Antipatros doesn’t say anything until he turns around again. Damn the pirate but the gauze actually works, pinning his chest and only pulling at his skin a little bit. The urge to cover himself up when A tipsy rod takes his gaze over his torso is strong but he keeps them balled into fists. 

“See? No need to thank me.”

“Alright, then I wont.”

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, Talos.”

“Good.”

Antipatros sighs. “You’d best keep it shut unless Eupeithes asks something of you. He doesn’t find it as amusing as I do.”

Telemachus feigns indifference and shrugs. “Maybe he’ll be better conversation than you.”

Antipatros doesn’t answer and throws the new chiton at him. “Get changed.”

Telemachus levels him with a glare. “Turn around. I can dress myself.”

“You’re such a prince ,” Antipatros says but turns around nonetheless. 

There’s too much in Telemachus’ gut churning for him to understand it so he busies himself with fastening the clothes to his body. Is this one shorter than the last? At least it still covers the dagger strapped to the inside of his thigh, but barely. He’ll have to be careful when he moves. Or for the slightest breeze of wind. No sandals for him again and no—

He’ll have to be more cautious for the breeze than he thought, cheeks flushing and trying in vain to pull the chiton lower, already feeling exposed. 

—

“Took you long enough. Decided to fuck him pliant for the dinner?” Hearing Castor's voice might actually be worse than Antipatros’. Telemachus scowls at the man but keeps his lips pressed in a thin line. Not because he’s listening to Antipatros’ order to stay silent, but because he doesn’t see the point in arguing with a brick wall. 

Antipatros chuckles and tosses locs over his shoulder, allowing Castor to usher them into the cabin. Telemachus tries to tell himself not to hate himself too much for ducking behind Antipatros like a scared dog. He needs to act the submissive pet if he wants this dinner to go by smoothly. 

And anyway, it’s not like any of these men deserve a modicum of his respect.  

So why does he have the urge to gain it from them? 

Why does he always have this— this need to be approved by anyone and everyone, and especially from men he despises? Why does he so badly want them to ruffle his hair and tell him he did a good job?

“What, no bark? Antipatros really must have gotten you good after your flogging, huh?” Castor addresses him now, eyes raking over his body in a way that makes Telemachus feel like he’s naked despite wearing clothes. 

The urge to cower further behind Antipatros is almost stronger than the urge to rip out the pirates’ jugular with his teeth. But he grits his teeth and bears it, because being able to walk aboard the deck is too good of an opportunity to pass up. 

“He’s a little shy,” Antipatros says, hand coming around to hold Telemachus’ waist. 

“Could’ve fooled me. He didn’t seem so shy last week.”

Antipatros shrugs but Telemachus can feel his nails dig into the thin fabric of his chiton. He does his best not to growl at either of them. “You know how pups act out when they don’t get enough attention.”

“Oh, heh, is that what it was?” Castor still hasn’t taken his eyes off of Telemachus, a look akin to annoyance flickering in his eyes. “Upset that your master wasn’t three fingers deep?”

Telemachus can’t stop his reaction this time, exhaling through his nose sharply and taking a step forward, hands already clenched into fists, prepared to—

“Thank you for joining us, Antipatros,” a voice drawls out, too similar to Antipatros’ own leer. 

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is but he does anyways, eyes taking in the dining table in front of him. It isn’t as large as the ones in his own home— he feels a twist of smug pride at how pitiful it is compared to the grandeur of Ithaca— but still big enough that the half dozen or so men sitting around it don’t touch elbows. Telemachus doesn’t recognize any of them but he doesn’t recognize anyone in this room that isn’t Antipatros, Castor, or Eupeithes. 

The latter is seated at the head of the table, elbows on the wood and fingers intertwined, chin resting on his knuckles. The streaks of grey in his dark hair are even more prominent in the flickering light of the torches than ever, giving him an almost mature and mysterious look. Except he’s not a suave, swash-buckling pirate captain— he’s an immature, repulsive man-child who’s somehow worse than his son. Of course, Telemachus understands where Antipatros got his… personality from. 

Eupeithes is looking at Antipatros with a stare that leaves even Telemachus feeling pinned in place. Suddenly grateful that he’s seen as less than in a room full of insatiable scum bags. 

To his credit, Antipatros doesn’t balk and simply ducks his head in respect. “Sorry for the delay, Father. Talos was being a bit— difficult.”

It must have been some sort of joke because the corners of Eupeithes’ mouth curve upwards. Ugly even when he’s finding delight, Telemachus notes. “So I’ve seen. Firsthand, really, Antipatros, you’ve got your work cut out for ya with this boy. I admire the dedication.”

Telemachus would admire his head served on a platter. 

“That I do,” Antipatros mutters. His body jerks oddly, as if he thinks about moving, stops, then again. He settles on popping down in the chair directly across from Eupeithes. 

Castor claps Antipatros on the back and sits down next to him, shoving him a little good naturedly. 

And that just leaves one seat left for Telemachus. Unless he wants to stand. 

He sucks hard on his teeth and genuinely considers standing but when Antipatros tilts his head and levels him with a glare, he begrudgingly settles onto the stool. At least it’s tall enough that he’s at shoulder level with the rest of the men. Not that looking at them in their ugly maws is going to help his fading appetite. 

It’s a wonder he can keep his breathing even, stuttering only every once in a while. His hands are the only part of his body that he allows to shake, although it takes every inch of his will. 

His back hurts . Not as much as it has in the past week, but it still hurts. And as pathetic as it is, he just wants to go home and hug his mama, have her hold him until all the bad things go away. 

He can’t even wrap his arms around him in a pathetic attempt at a hug, the men he’s surrounded by would surely lunge at him. More so then they already do want to. So he sits straight and stiffly, face pinched neutral, while his back screams at him. But he won’t whimper and he won’t cry. 

He can do that when he’s home . 

“So, Talos, is it?”

Telemachus can at least suppress the flinch at hearing the name that Antipatros has been covering for him. At least it’s similar enough to his real name that he won’t forget. But right now he really wishes he would have, then maybe he could feign ignorance and not have to flick his gaze up to meet Eupeithes’. 

The captain isn’t smiling at him, at least, not a real smile. His teeth are showing, some silver and some gold, and is uncannily practiced. A man who has charmed his way out of even snake charmers. Eupeithes takes a long swig from his mug, forcing Telemachus to play the waiting game. He could have addressed him after he took a drink, but no, it seems the captain takes great pride in everyone waiting for him. 

The mug is set down with ease, barely more than a clink against the table, and Telemachus can’t help but think back to the two harsh lashes that he dealt to Antipatros. How can a hand so violent against his own flesh be so gentle with an object? 

Eupeithes’ eyebrow twitches and Telemachus realizes that the man is waiting for Telemachus to say something. He’d really rather not, Eupeithes isn’t worth the scum of the earth let alone his time. But Antipatros had made a deal with him and Telemachus will hold up his end of it. Even if he would much rather claw every single person on this ships’ eyes out. 

“Aye,” he says. Perhaps he should be grateful that he’s become such a good liar these past couple of years. His tone doesn’t waver and his vision doesn’t falter. And anyway, he doesn’t particularly care about this pirate so lying to him won’t keep him up at night. “Eupeithes, was it?” Maybe it’s a bit haughty— Antipatros twitches ever so subtly next to him— but Telemachus feigns innocence. 

If Eupeithes is intent on playing a game, he’ll have to accept that Telemachus will as well. 

It’s taken in stride, or Eupeithes is just too daft to pick up on Telemachus’ snark. “By birth, but you can call me Captain or—” His eyes fill with mirth. “ Master .”

What gift would appease Poseidon most and does he take gratitude in the form of drowned rats?

Antipatros beats whatever Telemachus was going to say, “Father, thank you for inviting us to join you. It’s been a while since— we’ve dined together.” He should really get his act better, even Telemachus can tell that the words are hard to spit out. 

“Too long,” Eupeithes hums, but his eyes never leave Telemachus. “I trust you found good company in the time you were… away , Antipatros?”

“I did,” Antipatros says, smoother this time so maybe it’s not entirely a lie. “I can only imagine you found yourself quite busy. You have a whole new crew it seems.”

The what happened goes unsaid but Eupeithes picks up on it nonetheless. “A few years after your departure, there was a terrible storm, horrendous even. Killed over half of our men and injured more. We were afraid we had angered the gods themselves with how violent that storm was. Perhaps it was a test instead for we surpassed it. And it allowed the weak to be weaseled out.”

Telemachus would have loved to point out that a freak storm killing so many men wasn’t an accurate way to ‘weasel out’ anyone but he keeps his mouth shut. 

There’s a short spurt of knocks on the door and after Eupeithes lets them enter, men pour in with plates of food. Once they're set on the table, the men leave without so much as a thank you from anyone. Telemachus has to fight to not give them a nod of acknowledgment. His mother and him always make sure that the slaves and servants are thanked and properly cared for and even though these men are surely not slaves, they’re still not shown gratitude. His opinions of the pirates only sink lower and he feels a pride at being above them. 

There’s no thankfulness for the meal or a short prayer to the gods; the men immediately dig in, Antipatros included. And while they don’t eat as awfully as the suitors, his stomach still revolts at the sight and his appetite is completely gone. 

He’s not sure which is worse; the pain or the nausea. 

“Have you had him for long?” Eupeithes asks between bites. 

Antipatros takes a long swig of his drink, purposefully not looking at Telemachus. Rude. “Nah, a few years.”

“That explains his attitude,” Castor chuckles. 

“He is a bit… rambunctious,” Antipatros says. “But who am I to put out his spirit?"

“You gotta channel it into other means, my friend,” Castor continues, looking past Antipatros’ shoulder and winking at Telemachus. 

For all his will, Telemachus can’t help but glare at Castor, his hands trembling with rage. If only he could show Castor how well he could channel his ‘attitude’ into his fist. 

“Oh, I do,” Antipatros snorts. Telemachus has two fists, he can strike them both. “But he’s young, a wild thing, and I like him like that.”

“You would do well to tame him.” There’s no humour to the way that Eupeithes says those words. Telemachus squashes the shiver that begs to skitter up his spine, but just barely. Eupeithes is staring coolly at his son. “He’s already cost the livelihood of my men.”

The grin is almost impossible to fend off, Telemachus tensing his back muscles so the pain stops himself from smiling. He’ll wear the scars like a badge of honor. 

Antipatros doesn’t find it funny. His shoulders tense and his fingers curl around his fork. “He is mine to deal with, Father.”

Normally Telemachus would object to being claimed— he’s a person, not a thing— but between the two of them, he’d much rather have Antipatros be possessive of him than—

Eupeithes doesn’t take this in stride. “And how far will you let him run wild, hmm? Until he’s burnt this entire ship to the ground too? You know, you take more after her than I sometimes—”

“Don’t you dare!” Antipatros stands, knocking over his chair in the process and spittle flying from his lips. 

Telemachus flinches this time. He’s seen Antipatros angry before, but this is a sort of righteous anger, one that he himself has felt time and time again whenever the suitors had belittled him. Antipatros’ chest rises and falls rapidly, his nose flaring. Eupeithes had barely even said anything and Antipatros reacted like this? Telemachus isn’t sure what to make of it, how to make of it, and even if he should make anything of it. 

“Sit down, Antipatros,” Eupeithes says in the same voice Telemachus’ mother uses when Telemachus is acting particularly petulant. “Boy, righten his seat.”

“Don’t give my pet orders, Father,” Antipatros cuts in, Telemachus hadn’t even realized that Eupeithes had been talking to him. 

Eupeithes levels Antipatros with a stare so cool that Telemachus worries that he’ll see his breath. “Talos, pick up your masters’ chair and sit on his lap. That’ll calm him down.”

For once, Telemachus and Antipatros are in agreement. “No,” Antipatros says. Neither man is looking at Telemachus, which he’s glad for, actually. It allows him to flick his eyes back and forth between the two of them like a ball bouncing back and forth. “You don’t even get to insinuate her, Eupeithes. Not after—”

“Talos.”

“Bite me,” Telemachus snaps. 

This gets Eupeithes to break from his son and pin Telemachus with his eyes. Antipatros has some humanity in his, Telemachus can see flickers sometimes, but there’s none to be found here. Just darkness. 

The captains’ head cocks to the side, his fingers lazily tracing the blade of his pairing knife. “Do you want the crack of leather that badly, boy?” Sharp intake of breath is all this fiend will get out of him but it’s still enough to make Eupeithes flash gold and silver. 

“Threaten him again and—”

“And you’ll what, son?” Antipatros picks up his own knife and Eupeithes just laughs. “Careful, last time you challenged me, you lost an eye.”

Telemachus can’t help but raise his eyes to Antipatros’ face. He’s on the wrong side to see the scar, and maybe that’s for the best. His mind is running a mile a minute and the thoughts come too fast for him to catch them. It was his own father that gashed his eye out? 

Truth be told, Antipatros would change his story every time someone asked him for it. It was a running joke between the suitors, none of them really knowing how he had gotten it. Telemachus had guessed that it was in a skirmish, probably a stupid one since Antipatros had struck him as the type of man to start one without the intention of keeping honor. 

But now—

Now he’s not so sure if the scar was warranted. 

“And you lost a son.”

The beat of silence lasts a little too long, then, “I never lost you, Antipatros.”

“You never had me.”

The grunt is passed off as a poorly disguised cough, Castor hunching over a little and looking very interested in his mead. It doesn’t quell the tension but it does seem to break the illusion that there aren't just two men in the room. The others seated around the table continue to eat, slowly, eyes watching with interest. Unlike Telemachus who watches with baited breath, feeling his pulse thrum against the knife strapped to his thigh. 

Without looking at him, Eupeithes says, “Pick up the chair and sit .”

Which one does he want to spite more, Antipatros or Eupeithes? Neither are very appetizing, in fact, Telemachus would be much happier sharing barks with Castor. At least the both of them seem to agree that this is not what either of them want to be privy to. 

He, unfortunately or fortunately, doesn’t get the luxury of choosing. 

“There’s eight men in here, Antipatros. How many times do you think it will take before he bleeds himself dry?” Eupeithes and Telemachus watch as Antipatros goes very, very still. “At least he won’t have the same problem afterward that she did.”

Antipatros goes stiller than still and his mouth barely moves when he says, “Talos. The chair.”

He doesn’t want to but Telemachus has already pieced together the threat. And he knows, unlike Antipatros, that Eupeithes will carry through with his threat. He keeps his eyes cast downwards as he stands from his stool and reaches for the chair, righting it with ease and cringing when the wood makes scraping noises as he pushes it forward. 

A thump when Antipatros sits down and Telemachus is about to return to his stool when there’s a warm hand on his waist. That grip doesn’t relent and double on the other side of his waist, hoisting him up and manhandling him until he’s sitting on—

Antipatros is kind enough not to force him to recline backwards, his back would surely burn hotter if he had that friction. 

Even still, Telemachus’ face goes bright red when he realizes that Antipatros has no intention of letting him off of his lap. The mental image of a servant girl sitting on Eurymachus’ lap flashes in his mind and he squirms. He quickly stills himself when he realizes that all eyes are on them, specifically him and specifically his thighs which are more exposed since the scuffle has ridden up some of his chiton. He hurriedly smooths the fabric down. 

“Good boy,” Eupeithes says into his mug as he takes another swig, Telemachus is left wondering who he meant it for. 

The hand still on his hip tightens ever so subtly and Telemachus can’t help but huff a minuscule exhale. It goes unnoticed by everyone in the room except two. Antipatros loosens his hold and Eupeithes narrows his eyes in thought. 

Too much thought. Telemachus knows a contemplating look when he sees one and it’s unsettling. If Eupeithes were to guess that they’ve been lying to him about who exactly Telemachus is, then he’d get worse than a few lashings. 

He’ll hate himself later, he tells himself. Forcing himself not to wince in pain, Telemachus turns onto Antipatros’ lap and shifts until he’s practically cuddling the man. 

It’s morbidly embarrassing and it will surely haunt his nightmares but at least he doesn’t have to look at Eupeithes’ ugly face anymore. He does have to look at Castors’ face though, turned as he is but small miracles often come with consequences. 

Castor seems to have gotten over the tense moment and lifts his glass to Telemachus in mock salute before taking a deep drink. 

“You’ve scared him,” Antipatros says, annoyance in his tone. He keeps his hand on Telemachus’ waist, thankfully not drawing higher to his wounded back or lower to his ass. 

“Good. It seems that it’s shut his trap for the time being,” Eupeithes responds. 

Talking about him like he’s not in the same room, or worse, like he’s some dog. Telemachus longs to have the blessing of Athena and gut them all. Or maybe just cut off their dicks. Or just the tips if he can. 

“Pff, I think he’s just feeling needy,” Castor rumbles, eyes not leaving Telemachus’. “Makes sense, boys like him get a rise over being threatened. I’d even go as far as to say that the flogging stirred something within him.”

Yeah, violation . Telemachus narrows his eyes and presses his lips into a thin line. 

“You did call us when we were busy,” Antipatros drawls. Actually, maybe there’s only one man’s dick that Telemachus needs to cut off. “Can we hurry this dinner so we can go back to it?”

“It just started,” Eupeithes says. “Didn’t you miss this?”

“Arguing with you over dried meat? No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Spending time, son.”

Another drawn out silence, Telemachus unable to get a read on what their expressions are but Antipatros’ hand quivers on his hip, as if holding himself back from clenching it into a fist. 

“I’ll let you know if I’ve missed it when it’s done.” Antipatros’ hand leaves Telemachus’ waist and he leans forward slightly. Telemachus chews on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out as the movement only aggravates his back. But Antipatros doesn’t apologize and Telemachus doesn’t comment on it. 

It’s not with manners that the men continue feasting with but with caution, dipping bread into oil slowly and drinking with wandering eyes. Conversations are exchanged but none of them are important enough for Telemachus to pay attention to them. 

There’s a chill in the air still, partly from the atmosphere and partly from the open windows, and Telemachus actually finds himself grateful for the wall of warmth that is Antipatros. His chest rises and falls at a steady rhythm now and his eyes are already starting to droop. He blames his exhaustion on his back, healing taxes all of his energy. 

And he’s just spent, emotionally. There’s not much more of the stress he can take. He can only hope that they dock soon and he can slip away with Antipatros and return home. 

“The map is a mystery still,” Eupeithes is saying. 

Through his lidded eyes, Telemachus perks his ears. His cheek is squished against Antipatros’ shoulder and he keeps his breathing even, feigning a doze. As if he would be able to fall asleep in a lion's den. 

“A week and you still haven't deciphered it yet?” Castor asks. 

“No, it’s nearly impossible. Even with Antipatros’ mind, the words and markings are unintelligible. I’m surprised the Spartans had it at all, if Antipatros can’t figure it out, then they sure as hell wouldn’t be able to.” There’s pride in Eupeithes’ voice, shockingly. 

It must shock Antipatros too because his shoulders rise ever so slightly. “We’ll figure it out. We just need time.”

“It’s fleeting,” Eupeithes says. There’s a small thunk and Telemachus can imagine the fork spearing the meat. 

Antipatros’ hand is back on his waist but Telemachus barely pays attention to it. “We have all the time in the world, Father.”

“Do we?”

“Do you?”

A low growl, “Are you stalling, son .” And this time it doesn’t sound like a term of endearment, it sounds like a curse. “You want this as much as I do, perhaps even a little bit more.”

Nobody but Telemachus can feel the way Antipatros reacts, for it’s only his heart that stutters a little. Not even his breathing or breath tenses or gives off any indication, but his heart does. “I do, Father. Believe me, I do. But deciphering the map isn’t something to be rushed. One wrong interpretation and we end up in Scylla’s belly.”

Maybe absentmindedly or to distract himself, Antipatros starts tracing patterns along Telemachus’ waist. Telemachus shivers slightly, finding it oddly nice and almost lets it take over his senses before he comes to his senses. The exhaustion isn’t merely pulling at him anymore, it’s deluding him to find comfort in even his worst enemy. He needs rest . 

“Excuses, excuses,” Eupeithes’ voice drawls out. “The location cannot be that hard to find.”

“Then you find it,” Antipatros snaps, hand still lazily roaming Telemachus. “If it’s so easy.”

Telemachus is pretty sure that half of the dinner has just been tense silences. He misses the rowdiness of the suitors. 

“You’ve forgotten yourself,” Eupeithes says lowly. “Fourteen years haven’t taught you anything.”

“It has.” Antipatros stops his ministrations and squeezes Telemachus possessively— protectively?  

“I think your pet is about to fall asleep, Antip,” Castor says suddenly, startling Telemachus and Antipatros. He looks at Castor through lidded eyes, his best glare past the drowsiness that’s actually killing him. 

Antipatros grunts and his hand pats softly. “We should get to bed then.” There’s a question in those words, a request to leave the table and he must get it because Antipatros stands. Telemachus’ instincts act for him and he clings to the mass of muscles. It’s mortifying and once he realizes, he tries to shimmy out of it but instead, he’s manhandled until he’s being held like a bride on wedding night. His face only gets hotter. At least he has an excuse to duck into the crook of Antipatros’ neck, letting his bared teeth graze Antipatros’ skin in retaliation. 

There’s no reaction from Antipatros, he doesn’t even seem to falter under Telemachus’ weight, bidding the men a good night and walking out of the room. Telemachus hadn’t realized he’d basically been holding his breath the entire time until they’re padding down the halls, his shoulders slumping in relief. 

It’s quiet and the only pass a few pirates, each one making a remark on the state of Telemachus but he tunes them out. 

“Do I sound like him?” Antipatros’ voice rumbles in his ears. 

“Hmm?” Telemachus might actually fall asleep. 

“Eupeithes,” Antipatros swallows. “When he— threatened you. Is that what I sound like?”

It’s probably the weight of his limbs and eyelids that loosens his tongue, “Aye.”

Antipatros says nothing, not even when they're back in his cabin and he’s setting Telemachus on the bed. Telemachus doesn’t either but it’s not like how the week has been. There’s a heaviness in the air now, almost worse than the tenses at dinner. 

Telemachus falls asleep before he can think too much of it. 

—

He’s not sure what woke him up but he is. Telemachus blinks, finding it impossible to go back to sleep. A peek through his lashes shows him that not even the sun is up and a glance to his side shows Antipatros in a deep state of sleep still. 

He squirms with uncomfortability and decides that he can relieve himself without having to wake him up. It’s surprisingly easy to shimmy out of bed, his back not nearly as painful as it has been. Or perhaps his body isn’t awake enough to feel the pain. 

His legs barely even shake when he’s down, wiping his hands on a damp cloth and eyeing the bed. He really doesn’t want to go back to sleep and lying next to Antipatros sounds less and less appealing. 

Honestly, Telemachus isn’t even aware that he’s outside the cabin until he’s closing the door with a soft click. The panic stirs inside of him but he pushes it down. He’s allowed to go where he pleases, he and Antipatros had made a deal. And no one will touch him if they don’t want to lose their hands. And he’s a person , he’s allowed to get some fresh air if he fucking feels like it. 

Telemachus walks like he’s a thief anyway and jumps at every little noise. He takes comfort in the dagger strapped to his thigh. Crawling up to the deck, he’s relieved that there aren’t many men around him. He’s quiet enough that he tiptoes without being seen, choosing to half hide behind a cannon. 

The stars are beautiful . He’d missed them. Telemachus tries to chart where he is by them, but it’s one thing to be able to see the same stars from his own balcony, it’s impossible to tell where he is without the scroll to guide him. 

Is his father looking up at the same stars, is his mother?

“He let you off your leash or did you gnaw it off?”

Telemachus flinches and whirls around, Eupeithes’ teeth shining in the waning moonlight. Any moment now it will be dawn but until then, it’s just on the precipice. 

“I can go where I please,” Telemachus hears himself saying. He curses how shaky his voice is and swallows thickly to quell it. 

Eupeithes chuckles and walks to his side, leaning against the railing. Telemachus wants to leave, he should leave. Go back to the cabin before the captain makes good on his threat. But his feet are glued to the deck. His nails dig into the wood of the railing. 

“You’re an interesting thing, Talos,” Eupeithes almost whispers. He isn’t looking up at the stars but out at the sea, eyes holding depth. 

Telemachus isn’t sure what to say. So he doesn’t. 

Luckily for him, Eupeithes wasn’t finished. “You don’t like him, do you?”

“Who?” He should keep his lips sealed. 

Another soft chuckle. “My son. You truly do despise him, don’t you?”

“I don’t think you know anything about our— relationship.”

“No, I don’t.” 

A shiver races down Telemachus’ spine when Eupeithes spares him a glance. 

“Why don’t I?”

“You tell me,” Telemachus breathes. 

“What are you hiding, Talos?”

Telemachus’ nails dig in deeper. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm,” Eupeithes hums then glances back at the sea. “It’s a mystery to me, and I’m not fond of the unknown.”

“Then why choose to live on the ocean?” What was more unknown than the vast waters themselves?

“It chose me.” Oddly poetic for a man who just threatened to have him gang raped. “The feeling is mutual.”

“Huh?”

“My son and you. There’s an animosity between you two. I wonder, did he kill your father or previous erastes out of spite or revenge? Is that why you look at him with such fire?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Telemachus tries. 

“That’s how one survives. Keep moving, or you die.”

“I thought that logic only applied to sharks.”

“You think we’re different from them?”

Telemachus eyes Eupeithes warily. “Well, not some of us.”

Eupeithes neither chuckles nor huffs and Telemachus isn’t sure how to read him. At least with Antipatros… no, he can’t quite get a read on him either. He thought he had but this whole situation has challenged his view on the man. He wants to return to when hating Antipatros was easier than hating himself. 

“A shame,” Eupeithes voices. “I would have liked to have you. You’re a pretty little thing, you must get it from your mother.”

He tenses and his hands curl into fists, the dagger kissing deeper against his thigh. It’s always low hanging fruit but he always falls for it, the duty to defend his mother the one thing he can claim responsibility to. “You don’t know anything about—”