—rage. do you see?

in my dream, i built a funeral pyre. for myself, you understand. i thought i had suffered enough.

Hear me out, he said, as if there was really anything to say, some big case to be made. Fuck’s sake. All he’s got are these pieces of nothing, bullshit, and he can’t even dress them up, can he? Nothing short of honesty will give him a chance, not now, not here. He’ll have to lay it all out exactly as it is, unroll it like a surgeon’s kit, hand Achilles the gutting thing handle first.

“Chaos,” he says, running a hand over his face. Stalling, even for a moment, even though he doesn’t have any to spare. “I didn’t actually expect– okay. Let’s see. What can I tell you that you don’t already know? I fucked up. I’ve been fucked up, and I pulled you into the middle of it like I always do. I don’t know why my mistakes are so– how someone else always ends up involved. Hurt. Whether it’s an argument in a bar, or–” Pause. Inhale. “Look. I’m not complaining about it. I’m just saying, I know it’s bad, and it’s a pattern. Going off on you like that, it was childish, uncalled for. I’ve been–” having a hard time, he almost says, and it’s pathetic, it’s nothing, but it gets caught in his throat anyway.

He blinks twice, fast. Takes a mental step back, tries to imagine he’s describing a story, something happening to someone else. “Things have not been going well for me on Pontius, Achilles. I’ve been trying so fucking hard, I really have, but I don’t know what I’m doing. Everyday feels like a desperate sort of sprint, where I don’t know if I’m running towards my salvation or my own death, but I know that the ground will fall out from under me if I don’t do something, keep moving, and quick. I had a few leads I’d been courting, trying to really build something good in the long run to bring back to Hades, but–” He shakes his head. “They’ve fallen through. You heard about Galani and Zeus, right? Apparently they’ve been fucking this whole time, and I didn’t even know? When Galani was my main target?”

Laying it out there like this, the depth of his hopelessness, feels like a public lashing, except this time he’s the one both holding the rope and receiving the blows. Agonizing, yet satisfying in its own horrible way, like laughing into a fall, or smiling at an executioner. “I don’t know what Hades will have to say about that. But I know that the influence I thought I was building with Galani, the strides I thought I’d made, count for close to nil now. I’ve gotten by this far bringing back scraps of information, little secrets where I can to tide over my life’s debt, but I don’t know how much longer that will be enough. Or how much longer I can stand it.” And there it is: the part he’s avoided speaking, even to himself. Every new detail, now dragged in the light, more pathetic and small than the one before. “With Galani, I was trying to find a golden goose to bring back home, something good enough I could bargain with it. I know I’ll probably never be allowed back, but– I’d hoped there might be something else. Some other job I could do for him. Something that’s not this.”

Sisyphus, to his credit, lays things out clear for Achilles. It’s like he can track the beat-by-beat movement of his pseudo-confession. It’s easily understood: there is no more golden goose. More than that, there’s no golden chicken, either. All the birds that could’ve given Sisyphus some leg up have, apparently, fled through the gap in the fence. Achilles has heard about Galani and Zeus. It’s an unfortunate turn of events that this is where Hephaestus has left Sisyphus, high and dry with nothing to give Hades. In short, Achilles surmises, he’s fucked. No, more than that, he’s Fucked. Capital F.

Should they have expected anything different? For all those years, Sisyphus had played his game right under their noses, and to his credit, he might’ve won if it hadn’t been for the slightest gap of light into the dark. In another world, Sisyphus Xenia is still Sisyphus Xenia, friend and ally to Achilles Pithia and Nyx Erebus and Hades Rhea and Charon, trusted to work with Zagreus — Hades’ own son — something in Achilles’ head goes haywire. This is not the conversation he’d imagined he’d be having right now. Is it such a shock that Sisyphus has burned out so quickly, like some pathetic dying star?

He stops the timer and lets the silence hang between the two of them, once Sisyphus has finished his repenting. He’s staring at Achilles with something that Achilles can only identify as desperation, but it could be something else. Nothing feels more pathetic to Achilles Pithia than a man who can’t lie in the very bed he fucking made. He’s been doing it for so long. Sisyphus made it... what, a handful of years? This might be what spurs him on to speak, to say what he does.

“And laundry is the thing you chose to do?” Eyebrows crease together in amusement and Artemis lets out a soft chuckle. “Eh. I don’t think it’s embarrassing. I’m not gonna let myself be embarrassed by my lack of knowledge on laundry.” She looks at the sole bikini top, turning around in the laundry machine. She supposes that’s appealing about laundry, watching something as repetitive as that. Not for her, personally, but maybe someone else.

Her attention turns to Achilles now, as she hops on top of a drier. He’s similar to most of the older people in Tartarus she’s come across: private, a bit brusque, and somewhat intriguing. A different beast than Charon, to be sure, and Nyx as well, but just as much as a mystery. Maybe she makes him into an archetype, in her head, rather than a person. Assigns him certain qualities and leave it at that. No harm, there.

“Oh shit, right. At least the last big get together was on home turf for me! I hope you can spend at least a month sleeping in your own bed after this.” Artemis places her hands behind her and leans back a little, legs kicking back and forth. Life was nothing but the next event after the other: from awards season to festivals to summits like these. She considers Achilles’ words. “No, no, I should go home. At least to exchange bags, get myself some fresh clothes and stuff. But I’ll pop down, soon enough. I don’t think I’ve seen this much of Zagreus in such a short time and it’s pretty nice.” Artemis cocks her head. “Do you get out of Tartarus much?”

🗡🗡🗡

He’d spoken with Hera, over drinks, of her children. What she’d thought of them, what she’d thought of having them grow up in the public eye without much choice, and the situation she’d found herself in on Pontius. The Summit is a different beast for him. Too many people, crowded into an even smaller space than Olympe, with different motivations and ideas of what to do with their time. And here Achilles is, doing laundry with the daughter of Hera Rhea, indie film darling and rejecter of laundry. He smiles. “Well, you just did laundry. Congratulations.”

How much of a performance is Artemis Rhea? What about her twin? He thinks back to his conversation with Alecto, too, the way that no one seems to be as open about their suspicions on Pontius and Olympe as they do in Tartarus. Does it come down to cultural differences, or more of an open willingness to admit to knowing where the knives are? How much of Artemis is real? (How much of a threat does she pose, exactly?) Right now, sitting atop a washing machine and swinging her legs, she looks harmless as a fly. Every bit the star.

Achilles nods in understanding as she speaks, before following up. “As much as Hades does.” Which is to say no, not really. He thinks he took a job or two in Arcadia when he was younger, and the financials with the House of Pithia weren’t in order, but it seems so long ago that he worries he might’ve imagined it. He crosses his arms. “Couldn’t you get another top flown in via helicopter, if you wanted? You don’t feel embarrassed by not knowing. So why bother?”

They hit a crested wave, but whatever technology and engineering the boat is compromised of, she barely feels a thing. At least they figured out how to do something right. She remembers boat rides with her father, fish flopping between them. The smell of salt stayed at the back of her throat for years, even after she arrived in Tartarus. Now, it was back, and instead of reminiscent, it felt like turmoil all over again. 

Alecto stares ahead, Achilles voice in one ear, the announcer’s in the other. The crackle of their microphone is static, unfamiliar. Louder than she expected. “Yeah, it was a real fucking whirlwind. The prepping though, to get all of this ready. It took a lot of time.” And yet, she didn’t have any information for them. Did that matter, this early on? She would need to get her bearings first. 

“My new coworkers?” It felt odd, saying that. Despite Alecto’s less than agreeable attitude back in Tartarus, Alecto would’ve never likened any of them to just co-workers. They were something more. They were closer to family than anything else, even if Alecto acted as though she had no room for them in her heart. But that word meant something here, and it felt cold. “They’re all way fucking nice. Nicer than I expected. I guess their suspicions are better hidden than outright like back on Tartarus.” Alecto shrugs, hangs her arm around the back of the boat. Water spits at it, and she welcomes how it cools the heat of the day. “Or maybe they’re being genuine, who fucking knows. But yeah, they’re fine. Helping me get acclimated.” 

“Hm.” It’s nice to hear from Alecto herself that things are working out alright, so far. It’s not any grand surprise that if any of those on Pontius have their suspicions, they’re keeping them close to the chest. It’s early enough into things that any concrete strategy may not have been solidified, or that their suspicions aren’t even really suspicions yet. He takes mental notes as she speaks and watches the sea rush by.

He’s overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. Speaking to Alecto. On a boat tour. About their undercover operation on Pontius. They’re in the thick of it, now, except for the fact that it doesn’t feel like it. He’d drag them back to Tartarus himself if he didn’t know that this is what they want — that maybe it’s what they’ve wanted for a long time.

.

“As much as Olympe takes pride in it’s artistic soul, Pontius does get more creative with the drinks. I wonder if my Hermes has anything to do with that.” Her beloved menace of a child is a tech genius, but Hera is well aware of their passion for some other forms of recreation. She takes another sip of her drink while Achilles talks. 

The mention of Hades and Nyx’s popularity gets a wide smile from her. “It’s usually not this bad. Official events make the press hungrier, and they also give the general public an opportunity to interact with people who are inaccessible most of the time.” She shrugs, having accepted that as part of the job. 

“I find it easier now that my children are all grown. I knew what I was signing up to with the career I chose, but they were all born into it, so it never seemed fair that they were exposed to such attention.” Though Hera didn’t exactly become an actress out of her own volition, she took control of her professional life before she was even an adult. She was as aware of the costs as a desperate teenager could be, but she never regretted it. “I’m lucky I have the means to avoid it when I need a break. Occasions like the Summit are a bit more tricky, but I’ve developed a thick skin for it.”

🗡🗡🗡

“Its artistic soul,” he drawls, brows lifting. That’s one word for it. He’d been affronted at every turn, it had felt like, with Olympe’s idea of art. Everything a little too polished, a little too clean, things that were close to functioning perfectly with a few odd flaws. Still, there’s something incredibly pleasing about seeing that smile light up Hera’s face, almost mesmerizing.

He remembers his manners and focuses on his drink, instead, and lets her speak her piece. “I hadn’t even considered that.” In Tartarus, it’d been easy to keep the Asphodels out of the public eye... up to a point. And they’d been in a loop about the work that awaited them, when the proper time came, so Achilles doesn’t think that they were tossed into the deep end and told how to swim.

and  then  there  were  three .    a  formerly  full  ballroom  ,  now  left  to  empty  chairs  ,  too  -  bright  screens  rotating  through  displays  for  this  week’s  panels  ,  and  the  three  of  them .    discounting  the  pontius  staff  member  ,  that  is .    the  room  still  buzzes  with  whatever  excitement  lingered  from  the  presentation  ,  and  it  half  -  feels  like  the  seats  are  still  full .    a  silent  congregation  waiting  for  the  next  subject  to  take  the  stage .

dusa  is  tending  to  this  and  that  when  achilles  joins  her  ,  just  short  of  earshot  from  hades .    that  sounded  worse  as  it  came  out .    she  snorts .    “  no  offense  taken .    i’m  not  the  beefy  ,  scary  security  detail .  ”    she  tucks  the  device  in  hand  along  her  forearm .    directs  her  attention  solely  to  him .    “  something  or  someone  specific  i  should  be  listening  for ?    or  is  anything  interesting  up  to  interpretation ?    i  can  work  with  all  -  encompassing  and  ambiguous  ,  but  details  do  help .  ”

🗡🗡🗡

When Dusa was brought up to work as Hades’ personal assistant, there were certainly doubts. A few accusations of nepotism, if Achilles remembers correctly, not to mention the fact that her sisters had been involved in work that was very different from what one might’ve expected from a Gorgonia. To everyone’s joy, however, she’s had the job pinned down from day one. He’s never had to worry too much about Dusa and whether or not she can keep up.

—

He turned away from her. She had to accept, then, that there wasn’t much more she could do. If Achilles wanted to speak to Patroclus, then she doubted there was much in the world that could dissuade him from doing so. She admired his love, his ability to act on it, even as it worried her.

“Alright.” She had already conceded that it was a good idea; he didn’t need to convince her of anything. She wondered if perhaps he was trying to convince himself. She sighed and pulled out her phone because she couldn’t keep staring at Achilles’s back.

“I have a few particularly disgruntled employees that I’m targeting. I’ll email you their names,” she told him. “If you can get any more information on them, on the sorts of opportunities they might be looking for, that could be useful. I wonder -”

Her gaze shifted back to Achilles. “If you could get his impressions of Alecto, subtly, that could be helpful, too. I want to make sure there aren’t any suspicions.”

He takes mental note of the way she’s sitting, the way that she speaks. If there’s any disdain running through her words he can’t hear it. Achilles is grateful for that, even while he quietly folds his hands and interlocks his fingers together. Alright, Nyx replies.

It should feel like a victory. It doesn’t. Instead, the dread comes rushing right back up, cut through clean by the mention of Alecto. Another injury. Another failure that isn’t really a failure, but certainly feels like it. They haven’t spoken much of that. He has been unable to offer her any sort of creature comfort up to this point.

He hadn’t seen the fight, but he knows the aftermath had been ugly. He’s not privy to all of the details of that particular arrangement, which was a key piece of his role he’d had to accept a long time ago. Sometimes you know things. Sometimes you don’t. “I’ll see what he says,” he agrees, but really, what could Patroclus say of Alecto?

He doesn’t dwell on it, the way something unclenches in Thanatos’ chest as the conversation drifts to Zagreus and they think of him – sun-warmed and laughing, head tipped back and close enough Than could run their fingers over the lines of his face. He doesn’t let the memory stick, or acknowledge the ache that has eased. To do so is to accept there’s something to be lost, and a pain to be felt at losing it. It’s only been two weeks; Thanatos hasn’t earned back that feeling when it comes to Zag. 

His head tips back against the wall with a gentle thud. Thanatos’ arms are still crossed over his chest, a defensive posture, but the set in his shoulders eases. He shouldn’t have expected any less from Achilles, even under the circumstances: his thoughts on Thanatos’ life delivered straight and unflinching. And still, it feels like catching on the side of Than’s jaw.

“It’s funny.” It isn’t, really. Thanatos isn’t smiling, but he isn’t giving Achilles the same distant stare he’s worn for most of the week, either. “My mother said something – different but similar, right when – just before we came home.” I also don’t believe that you can stake your opinion of yourself on how Zagreus feels. Not close at all to what Achilles is saying, not really, but the heartline running through both beats the same: Thanatos can keep an iron grip on his own heart if he likes, but not anyone else’s.

And isn’t that what Zag had said, too – in that terrible Olympe bedroom, Than’s heart high in his throat. However you want to handle your love is fine, Than. But don’t fuck with mine. This is all the same story. There is only ever one story, for Thanatos. Tell it again, and maybe this time he’ll understand.

“Wants to, or feels he has to?” Than doesn’t want to pick this fight, but it’s there and raw and his nails catch around it the same way they might a still-pink scab. He scratches, just a little. “Everyone’s so fucking scared, and the worst part is you all try to pretend around me like you aren’t. Like I don’t see it. Like I don’t know half of you are knocking at my door not because you want to, but because you’re all terrified of what you’ll find if you don’t.”

Achilles thinks that Thanatos has the tendency to run through his emotions the way he’d run through combat drills when he was still learning. For just a second, there, he thinks that they’ve settled together into something like peace. Calm. Reassurance, a steeled-acceptance that things will be fine. But then Thanatos lifts their head, something nervous in their eyes, and Achilles is exhausted.

“When I,” he starts. Stops. When I was young — no. I know how it is — no. We aren’t — no. What do you — no. Achilles for chidingly gentle when he follows it up with, “Thanatos.” But nothing follows, after. He has been rendered speechless, suddenly exhausted and out of options. There is no kind way to reassure Thanatos, here, and Achilles doesn’t want to meet him halfway with the cruel greeting of metaphorical knuckles to the face. He puts his hands on his hip and stares at the floor.

His father had hated his tendency towards kindness. When he was a boy he’d taken the time to learn the names of everyone in his house. That habit had continued all the way up until they’d begged for their lives when he’d come to kill them. They hadn’t all died in the House of Pithia. Some sooner, some later, some at exactly the right moment. Some at the wrong time. He’s struck again by the worry that in exterminating his House, his father had succeeded in stamping out that last little bit of joy in his heir. Not for the first time, he worries they’d done the same thing to Thanatos, and the Furies, Hypnos, the rest of them.

The silence on the way to the garden was eye opening and spoke to the distance they had now, it wasn’t the comfortable silence that they were used to when they were alone, no. This silence was tense, it spoke volumes of how things changed between them, whatever it was because of the time they were apart or their different factions, nevertheless Patroclus has never felt so far away from Achilles, despite the man being near him now. There was an attempt on his own part, to try and make a conversation but opening his mouth ever so slightly made no sound come out and instead Patroclus turned his head away, waiting until they reached their destination. 

What could Patroclus do to change it? Was it worth changing? Their conversation in Olympe clearly hinted that Achilles was only driving Patroclus away for unknown reasons but on the other hand, there he was; asking to see the garden for whatever reason, maybe to humor Patroclus once more. The arrival to the garden was a good excuse to stop drowning himself in regret, maybe focusing on the thing that gave him what little bit of joy he had these days. “Grand tour it is.” Patroclus started walking side by side Achilles, when they lived in Tartarus, most of these flowers were only in the books that Patroclus read, there was little greenery in Tartarus. The thought of the hydroponic garden plans he drew especially for Tartarus burnt in his mind, plans he most likely should’ve destroyed but still hasn’t.

Maybe purposefully or maybe his legs took Patroclus towards that special section in the garden, these flowers were nothing if not for beauty alone. It had the same flower but with different and bright colors; white, red, pink, orange and gold. Yarrow flowers. They always reminded him of Achilles. Patroclus would only visit this section of the garden only when days were a bit too empty. Patroclus wanted to leave this area of the garden but instead he felt tired and sat down for a moment, his head hanging low. “Nothing like the books.” He said quietly, their past once again calling. Maybe he didn’t miss Achilles, maybe Patroclus just missed them. Together. One mind. A connection that he never thought he would ever have and probably will never have again. 

Patroclus introduces him one-by-one to the sections of work. For most of the tour Achilles is speechless. He makes quiet sounds of awe or consideration, where appropriate, as if deep in thought, to indicate to Pat that he gives a semblance of a fuck about what Patroclus is telling him. He allows himself to daydream in-between, when the power of Patroclus’ work is too much. He imagines a small garden, with plants just like these. Some are practical, some not. He imagines work different from what they were born to do, and kissing Patroclus goodbye in the mornings and hello in the evenings and sitting on a small bench in some apartment where the sun is bidden to shine and they are not steeped in one another’s blood.

He entertains the idea of abandoning Hades, briefly. Zagreus, Nyx, all the rest of them... what would that look like? Hades would hire another bodyguard, obviously. Would they try to kill him, if he went? A letter of resignation wouldn’t be the way to go. Could he get out? If he did, would Patroclus welcome him back, or would he be an even more pathetic creature than whatever he is now? Achilles stares at the wave of white, red, pink, orange, and gold flowers and feels a lump in his throat, the tell-tale sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. It might be the most beautiful thing he’s seen. Of course it all would come from Patroclus’ hands.

Artemis watches Achilles and wonders, for the slightest of seconds, how life might be if all she knows falls away. There are plenty of skills in her arsenal, but these most basic of things? She falls short and she knows it. Not that she pushes for self betterment, of course: what would be the point in wasting her precious time on learning how to do laundry? Maybe it’s arrogant, to presume that there will always be someone to do it for her, but that is the life she has been born in. The lap of Xenios Estate’s luxury and a very early onset career had left little room for laundry lessons. And any she’d had, she’d forgotten immediately.

“Nineteen? So what, like forty years ago?” She gives a wicked grin, winks to make sure that Achilles knows she is joking and then skips over to the machine. She closes the door, then stares at the multitude of buttons before hitting one that says quick wash and selecting the highest temperature, as that seems very logical. 90 degrees celsius would surely get a stain out. Then, she hits the button marked start and grins. Easy enough. “So, why did you start doing laundry? Surely the head of security has a lackey who can wash his underpants?” She grins, looks at the laundry machine that holds the fate of her bikini top in the balance. “Do you miss Tartarus? I do, a bit. I want to step by soon.”

🗡🗡🗡

His one on one experiences with Artemis over the years have been limited to brief waves through glass windows and the smile in a hallway. He’ll admit he hasn’t seen any of her art-house films, the same way he’ll admit that he doesn’t enjoy Apollo’s work much either. The consumption of the Rheas in a public capacity might reduce their chance of being a threat, might dull down their edges and have him thinking they’re something other than what they are: the children of Zeus. Achilles has heard enough stories from Hades over the years to know that Zeus poses as much of a threat as his siblings, and perhaps even as much as his father had. They’re no kings of Tartarus — they’re different beasts altogether.

Achilles knows what beasts will make of their children, if given the chance, even if they don’t know how to hold a knife the right way to cut the carotid artery. He’d made small beasts of the heirs to the House of Hades, hadn’t he? (He thinks they know how to do their laundry. He’s not sure.)

“I wanted something to do with my hands. And it’s...” A sidelong glance with a warm smile, to ensure she knows he’s not trying to rib at her. Achilles does roll his eyes at her joke. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing, after a while.” Part-truth, part-lie. Blood is hard to get out. He’d felt bad for the caretakers of the House of Pithia, so he’d asked for them to teach him. “I do. I thought I’d have a little more time to enjoy being at home before setting out again, but... here we are.” He pauses when she expresses she wants to come back. “You could come back with us after the Summit, for a while.”

There’s a small nod of his head. “Thanks.” Would he ever stop expressing gratitude, even when he’s the one making offerings? Mino doesn’t think he knows how to live any differently any more, his knees might as well have been malformed by the amount of kneeling at altars and superiors he does, these days. Fall from grace, in line, on your knees: does it really make life easier? And then, Achilles says something that makes him laugh.

Not because it’s funny. It’s the fucking opposite of it, really. The laughter is swallowed once it’s already half left his mouth and it makes for a strange sound, choke and suppressed. “Do you think I want that for him? Or myself?” He has to ask, looks Achilles straight in the eye. He does not want Ari back here, in Tartarus, where risk increases and his brother can see him in all his ugly glory. Assisting fixers. Cleaning blood from his nail beds. Reducing himself to fists, devotion and poorly suppressed rage. He is a creature of shame; he does not need Ari closer to see him. Does not need that kind of mirror in his life.

“Whatever deal he struck, when he got out of Tartarus, I can imagine it was a one-way, one-person ticket. He’s better off here, besides.” It comes awfully close to expressing discontentment with his own position, something he hasn’t done in these past years either. But Achilles is clever and they both know that Mino’s route to becoming one of Khton’s employees was far from desirable. “He made his decision, or took the one option that was left. I don’t know. I do understand when something is definitive. It’s why I’d prefer to see as little as possible; no need to pour salt in the wound.”

🗡🗡🗡

Mino treads a dangerous line. Achilles feels a telltale but half-hearted flicker of doubt. He lifts his head when Mino meets his eye. As uncomfortable as the encounter might be, it’s one that probably needs to be had. Does Mino know what he wants? Is it clear-cut, or more of a blurry figure on the horizon that exists only in a conceptual form? Is he like Achilles, who knows that what he wants is the one thing he’ll never get to have? That’s a dangerous path to travel down. Mino laughs, but is quick to cut himself off at the pass, like it gets caught and dies in his throat before he can find any real joy.

“I don’t know what you want.” When he speaks, it’s an unexpected rasp in his throat, and maybe a little honest for comfort. He’s could follow it up with I don’t care, but that’s not true. He does care. But he’s... resentful, maybe, of Mino’s disdain, which Achilles has up to this point only caught a glimpse of here or there. Of everyone else in Tartarus, Mino is the only person Achilles can think of who might understand just how Achilles got to where he is today. Mino was bound to Tartarus in the same way Achilles was. The only difference is that Mino was the one who got gutted belly-up by his brother. Achilles, on the other hand, took the knife almost gladly.

—

“I know.” Nyx pursed her lips, frustrated that Achilles was voicing exactly what she’d been thinking for weeks now. Ulterior motives aside, she couldn’t deny that him getting information from Patroclus was a good idea. Perhaps he could even make connections with some of the other scientists on Pontius, try to find the weaker links. 

Still, the possibility of an opportunity was not worth sacrificing Achilles for. There was the risk of him breaking his heart, of course. But she was also thinking about the far more terrifying risk that he might decide not to return to Tartarus. Selfish of her, maybe - but she wasn’t sure Tartarus would survive that hit. 

“Of course I want that sort of growth in Tartarus. I’ve been trying to recruit scientific talent for weeks. If you truly believe that Patroclus can help us get that, and that you won’t hurt yourself too much in the process, then by all means get information from him. But he cannot come back to Tartarus.” Her frown deepened. “If you’ve spoken to Hades, I imagine he told you that too.”

Her expression softened as she turned her gaze back on him. “It’s a good idea to try to get information from him. I’m not denying that. The question is simply whether it’s worth the cost. But it’s your call. I trust you.”

🗡🗡🗡

He doesn’t respond. Not at first. It feels like Nyx has kicked him squarely in the chest, right between the ribcage. When they’d first started working together in a real way, which meant shadowing her when he wasn’t shadowing Hades, he’d been... not unkind to her, exactly, but definitely bitter. Out of his depth, absolutely.

A familiar lash of fury stokes up, and Achilles, well-practiced, stamps out the embers. Again, again, again, no matter how much he hates thinking it because he can’t say it to her, because he knows what that would do to Nyx: Persephone won’t be coming back to Tartarus, either.

Again, again, and again, every time Achilles thinks he’s over anything... it turns out that he’s not. He looks out the window to avoid looking at Nyx, in case his face betrays anything. “He did.” There’s nothing else Achilles thinks he can say on the matter. They’d discussed it. Achilles had still felt guilty, but that had been the hard part. At the very thought of Hades he has the compulsion to look over his shoulder to see if the man has emerged yet from his call. No sign of him, yet.

-

“I did.” Patroclus bit the inside of his cheek, to stop the words and questions from flowing out of him. And what did Achilles get? Is he still hurting people in the name of House of Hades instead of House of Pithia? When they were together in Olympe there were scars on his body that Patroclus didn’t recognize and he used to know every part of Achilles’ body like it was his own. He was told that Achilles trained Zagreus, maybe he got it from training, maybe he’s no longer being sent to deadly missions like they used to so many years ago. Chiron’s lessons will forever be burnt in the back of their minds, no matter how long it has been since Patroclus has had to use them.

These were questions and thoughts he didn’t know and doubted he could get a clear answer for since they were no longer together in the same world, no longer a unit. They talked about what they would do once free, dreaming of a house and leaving the ugly things they’ve had to do behind, they would’ve been free to do whatever they wanted to do together. If Patroclus could talk to Chaos or the Fates, he would ask that they switch their places; that Achilles would be free while Patroclus would be there, punished for his sins. However, that, cannot happen either. 

At the request to see the gardens, Patroclus eyes light up. “Yeah, of course. You don’t even have to ask.” It was a wish that he had, for Achilles to see the garden in Pontius, but now when the opportunity presented it self, Patroclus was feeling nervous. “Follow me.” As they walked towards the greenhouse, he once again thought of the memories of the past. Reading books while they’re in bed, reading while Achilles’ asleep next to him, dragging him to get even more books. Patroclus knew Achilles had no interest and only indulged him, but wasn’t that love? Despite the different interest the two had, they would indulge to each other? 

🗡🗡🗡

Patroclus permits Achilles to see the gardens with an eagerness that has him questioning if he’d just been waiting for Achilles to ask. He doesn’t really know what to do with his drink, since he hasn’t finished it, but all the tables by the poolside and bar are full. When Patroclus turns, Achilles tosses the glass wholesale overboard (hoping that it doesn’t hit anyone on the way down) and puts some pep in his step to catch up. They don’t speak much on the way to the greenhouse. Achilles finds himself at odds: does he ask questions? Does he pry? Does he let Patroclus— how do they—

In an uncomfortable moment of self-actualization, Achilles comes to understand that the distance between them is far wider than it might’ve been before. For seventeen years he has spent waking and wanting for Patroclus. And he had wanted, still wants, in every definition of the word. Other entanglements paled when put up alongside the very thought of him. To disregard his duties to Hades Rhea and Tartarus would be an insult to Patroclus. To lash our and risk his position would be an insult to Patroclus. To settle for even a second in a moment of safe harbor comfort would be an insult to Patroclus, his sacrifice, his exile. And now that the man is here in front of him after their brief tryst, Achilles is... terrified, and that terror is made up of one-part nerves and one-part guilt. It was one thing to sacrifice Patroclus once, regardless of the intention behind it. It’s another to have the gall to do it again just to have the excuse to be close to him, even if you await with a knife in hand.

Achilles realizes that he might be a terrible person.

—

“I see.” Nyx’s tone was laced with skepticism, despite her best intentions. She was sure Achilles was being honest with her, that he genuinely thought he might get information out of Patroclus. She was also sure that that wasn’t his only reason for wanting to speak to him.

“If you’re going to talk to him anyway, then I appreciate you also trying to get information from him. As one of Aegan’s top scientists, I’m sure he does have something we could use. It could be helpful to know the details of what he’s working on.” She ran her now-free hand over her face, gaze averted.

“But I don’t want you to get hurt, Achilles,” she settled on. Better to be direct about it, no? “You’re right. We can’t bring him back with us. The terms were very clear. He can never return to Tartarus. And you…” Belong there. Belong with us. She trailed off with a heavy sigh, pressing her head back against the leather seat. “I just don’t want to see you heartbroken all over again.” It was senseless, throwing his heart against the jagged rock that was Patroclus over and over. But it was love.

The wonders of Nyx Erebus, Achilles thinks, that she can call him on his bluff with only two words. He feels his face grow hot with embarrassment, brief, like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to be doing. He’s quietly glad she’s looking away, for the sake of his own pride. He doesn’t know how to cope with her flagrant admission, either. She doesn’t want to see him get hurt, but has turned her eyes away each time he’s stepped across the hot coals, the same as he does for her when Persephone is brought up. He’s seen some of the old holos. He knows what her ache looks like as much as he does his own.

They’re complicit in one another’s suffering. He doesn’t know what that says about him, or what it says about Nyx, but he thinks he knows what it says about the hold they’ve got each other in. He grips tightly to the armrests of the seat until his metacarpals hurt and the leather creaks, and then he lets go. “I’ve already told Hades.” Achilles can see her going to him, too, saying something in hopes of dissuading him, but Hades expressed similar worries in his own way.

-

It was interesting, wasn’t it? The silent power they had over one another, whether or not it was because of their upbringing or what their past relationship contributed, Patroclus didn’t know the answer and had no idea if it even mattered. What he did know was that the silence between them was comfortable, a reminder of hundreds of silent communications over the years. A powerful unity. Nobody saw the one without the other. As Achilles spoke, Patroclus looked at his now free hand and before he could second guess himself, he reached and laced their fingers together. And just like their meeting in Olympe, Patroclus can breathe again. 

Patroclus hasn’t said anything, despite wanting to. Instead he waited patiently for Achilles to speak what he had on his mind, because no matter how long it took, even if they needed to stand here for hours, eventually he knew that Achilles would finish the train of his thoughts. “There’s nothing you could’ve done differently, you did plenty already.” And Patroclus would be forever grateful that Achilles stopped him when he did. 

The first part of Achilles’ words he didn’t want to think about, because it was wishful thinking. In Olympe he spoke a different tone maybe out of desperation but in now, when is head is leveled, Patroclus knew that Tartarus wouldn’t and shouldn’t forgive and open it’s doors to him and Achilles would never leave Tartarus either. “I did too, you know? Everything we talked about, the books that I used to read suddenly in front of me to study in a university.” By all accounts, his own life was after Tartarus should be without any complains, Patroclus did everything he wanted to do and yet; “But then you sent me that holomail and then I see you again in Olympe and it’s like-” He had no words to describe the feeling, it was like he needed air but it was out of reach. 

🗡🗡🗡

Patroclus (hesitantly) takes Achilles’ free hand. His heart jumps, jack-rabbit, in his chest. He can’t bring himself to look down at Patroclus’ fingers interlaced with his. He can’t look at Patroclus, either. If he does either, he’ll break. He’s got no doubt in his mind about that. He (selfishly) lets himself enjoy the point of contact. Their hands fit just the same now as they did nigh on twenty years ago. It’s good to know that some things never change.

He lowers his head and focuses on the ocean when Patroclus mentions the holomail. It’s a sore mark compared to the rest of him. Proud Achilles, tall Achilles, pompous Achilles, a violent son and the last remaining vestige of the great House of Pithia... leaves his ex a sad, ten-minute long holomail before promptly snapping his phone into a few pieces and discarding it. He’d returned, of course, five minutes later, to fish out the chip to keep. In the moment the act had felt good, though, so... there’s that. There’s the lingering start of a smile as he thinks about it, even if those first eight or so years were the most miserable of his life, with just his work within Tartarus to distract him. It’d been like the loss of a limb, like he’d taken up the bone-saw himself—

Nevermind. “I know what you mean.” The worst part of all of it is that he does. He knows exactly what Patroclus means. Achilles still intends to see information on Pontius he can get out of him. Achilles has felt stuck in the past before, but treating Patroclus like he’s a mark he has to work over is a new low, even for him. He carefully slips his hand from Pat’s, turning to look at him with unabashed awe and near-grim joy. “You got to study,” he says, like he can’t (and he should, because he’s spent too many years stalking Patroclus on the holonet and being depressed about it) believe it, “in a university. Like we always...” It’s a small comfort, in the grand scheme of things, that Pat was able to get something from the nothing that Achilles took from him. “Could I — the gardens, your work — could I see it?”

Artemis considers that statement for a moment, fingers tapping against the drier she leans again. “Don’t need a normal amount of sleep, then? Or …” Endlessly curious and never too mindful of people’s boundaries (after all, they had never much minded hers), she cocks her head to the side. “Ah, it’s fine. Worse things in the world than a little stain.” No use in crying over spilled milk, or whatever it was they said.

She watches as he opens the drier, hands her a T-shirt that makes her want to burst out into laughter. Does he know? He couldn’t know. “Thanks.” Artemis looks at Orpheus’ printed face before pulling the shirt on, her spindly limbs swallowed by a shirt made to fit a man at least thrice as muscular as her. She movers underneath the fabric, undoing the clasp of her top and pulling it off. “Of course I do.” She does not. “Or well, I know it’s supposed to be really hard, when it comes to red wine. But not impossible.” Artemis moves towards a washing machine, looks at the size of it compared to her white bikini top. Tosses it in. Thinks it looks rather laughable. “Why, is it so hard to believe that I know a thing or two about laundry?”

🗡🗡🗡

She hands him the bikini top. Sure enough, it’s stained to the Fates and back. It looks like she was stabbed several times while she was wearing it. Or (the more likely option here, even if Achilles doesn’t realize it entirely) it looks like she stabbed someone else several times while wearing it. Achilles looks around the room for laundry supplies. The curse of automation is that everything is dispensed... automatically. Then, in the corner, he catches a glimpse of a box of baking soda. In the other corner, an empty plastic tub next to laundry baskets. A sign in the front reads ‘PLEASE RETURN WHEN FINISHED’. How many people steal laundry baskets?

Achilles collects the basket and the baking soda. He shakes a decent amount of baking soda into the washer, praying silently that it won’t overload the machine when they turn it on. He steps back to let Artemis do the rest, with the plastic tub set off to the side for now. “I didn’t know how to wash my own clothes until I was nineteen.” Granted, they were usually bloody, and buying new clothing all the time is a pain if you don’t enjoy it. Achilles doesn’t enjoy it much; most of his wardrobe comprises of a variation of the same six things, even if splurges every once in a while on new athletic wear. Besides that, Artemis is... what, in her thirties? She’s got to know something. He nods at the machine. “You’re good to go.”