Work Text:
Apollo is very young, a fact his many and myriad siblings—and own twin—love to remind him of. He supposes he must always be in this time; feasts and music and peace follow after all the work and fight.
A war first; a hymn last.
He is questionably the youngest. As a story teller, he appreciates the license.
Apollo is very young, given everything he could ever want—so his siblings, many and myriad, say—so he is perfect. No—flawless.
There is a difference, you see. Perfect and flawless do not often meet.
War was first, a hymn last but—
Ares is very fond of drums.
***
Apollo is very young.
They are horseback riding, he and Ares. Apollo is making it look effortless despite the nature of Ares' nightmares, despite a certain wind that refuses to turn another way. He is enjoying the brilliant heat of a timeless summer's sun as it begins to dip low and it is, truly—
A race. Wide and sweeping helixes, crossing back and forth laughter in a sea of out of season wheat that gleams gold against their knees, their horses black seafoam; the sun gold, the sun orange, the hem of night's cloak nipping their heels as they ride, another arc sweeping wide, caught in and out of summer forever, ever, ever, towards a tree bent by a stream, bent by the weight of—laughing, true, a rush and so truly, truly—
Apollo is very young. He always has been.
"Halt," Ares calls long after Apollo has drawn his horse from gallop to canter to walk, to restless spinning eddies. He has already seen the figure beneath the tree.
Ares draws by him.
"Lord Thanatos," Ares greets, the breeze only a breeze now.
There are two figures beneath the tree, one very old and one very, very young.
"Lord Ares," Death says. He is squinting a little, mouth all sour in his set, and he has pulled time short around him. His hair is out of place; he pushes it back and does not repeat the gesture when it falls amiss again.
Apollo's fingers itch.
"A snake bite," Lord Thanatos says to a question Apollo did not hear.
"How unfortunate," Ares says.
Apollo does not. Say.
A child, gathering water. The urn, split and damping the ground. The stream sings a lullaby and glimmers in the evening that follows Death's step.
Thanatos—Lord—is always very gentle. With the young. With—
Flawless and perfect are very different things.
"Forgive my brother," Ares says.
Thanatos cradles a soul, wings aglow as time sweeps around them all.
"He is still young," Ares says.
Apollo smiles effortless as he meets Lord Thanatos' gaze.
His heart is not so flawless. He is very young. He always has been. His tongue is so heavy, too rooted to even sigh.
"Farewell, Lord Ares, Lord Apollo," Thanatos says, perfect.
"And you, Lord Thanatos," Ares returns, grace and ease.
A war first.
***
Thanatos departs. The fields stretch out of time once more. The tree twists shade and a body and dirt turned to mud. The horses stamp and a perfect night smooths the last of her cloak out.
Apollo leaves the horse. Ares. He crouches, the wet mud sticking to his skin, the dirt catching on his hem. Gently, gentle, he cradles a child all alone to his chest. Another.
A boy. Ares would have always found him. Eventually. Perhaps even greeted Thanatos on his behalf.
"Shall we?" Ares asks, then chuckles the threat of storms that he always, always is. "Of course."
Sweat and dirt and mud—one bloodier than the other—suit them both. The grave is well made, the flowers sweet in their grief as they bloom here amidst Apollo's eternal fields. Apollo does not weep; he does not sing.
He sits a while though, still. Ares, ever patient, waits.
"You have grace," Apollo says at last. The horizon is all stars; the only day now is his own.
Ares laughs.
"I shall remember you said as much next we disagree," Ares says, then offers his hands. His hands are worn with age and scars, pale palms crisscrossed wear, broad and yet never, ever, ever clumsy.
"I shan't say it again," Apollo says, then takes Ares' hand, familiar it in its strength, its, his—
Ares' hands at his ribs, fingertips meeting at his spine. The sweat and callous of him drawing Apollo along a war beaten path, towards rhythm, towards song, towards greed and fingers tangling in hair sheened steel, towards spoiled and greedy, towards—
good, good, louder
—a hymn.
He cries, after, throat all rough.
Safe.
Ares' hands are always and ever and ever so gentle. They untangle Apollo's hair and a little of his soul.
A kiss at his temple.
Apollo traces a halfmoon scar that curls around one of Ares' knuckles, the hand pressed flat against the sun star truth held by Apollo's own brittle ribs. He does not feel flawless. His eyes are no doubt red; he is sweaty and stinks and sticky with sweat. He is sore, for now.
Not flawless.
He traces the half-moon scar. He gave it to Ares long, long ago. Ares has never healed it, never asked such. It would be trivial.
Apollo's fingers itch.
"Do not," Ares murmurs without moving his hand away.
Apollo stays his own. It is the only grace he has.
Apollo is very young. Everyone loves to remind him, even his own twin.
"Thank you," Ares says, then presses a kiss that eases the itch of Apollo's fingers. A boon.
Not flawless, but...
"So young," Ares sighs, voice heavy with all that means. "I've nary a thought how you manage it."
"A talent," Apollo says.
He always has been.
Young. Not a hymn.
"Not everyone can be perfect," Apollo adds, a smile at last lilting his voice for all his heart is still so tight.
"Certainly not you." Ares chuckles again; Apollo relaxes at last fully.
"Bastard," he says, fire soothed.
"That you are," Ares replies, dropping another kiss to Apollo's temple before the quiet settles around them both, but for the birds on the eaves, but for a breeze that is only a breeze, but for their breath and timeless creature comfort, sweat and uncomfortable in their tangled limbs.
A hymn.