Menelaus welcomes Telemachus into his home, serves him his finest wines until he's dizzy with drunkenness and feeds him the choicest cuts of meats until he's drowsy and sated. He tells Telemachus that his father was as much a brother to him as Agamemnon had been—he hopes that Telemachus will honor the sentiment of an old man and think of him as family, too.
"I would have thrown myself in front of a blade for your father," Menelaus says brazenly, as if his martyrdom is something to take pride in. "I would say he'd do the same but Odysseus was always the most clever of us all. No doubt he'd find a way out of trouble without any need for sacrifice. But I know he'd do it, for me. He'd fuckin' lay down his life for me and I for him. No fuckin' question about it. That's what family does."
Telemachus laughs, the carefree guffaw of a drunk. He nearly tips over in his chair, only steadied by Menelaus's heavy arm around his waist.
"What of my story is so amusing, little prince?" Menelaus questions, warm and indulgent.
Telemachus shakes his head, breathless from his fit of laughter. His giggles begin to edge into hysteria, bright and loud and uncontrollable.
"Family!" Telemachus slurs loudly, past the point of propriety. "My dad abandoned me for the glory of war the moment he had the chance. My mother wishes I had never been born or at the very least that I had been born a daughter so she wouldn't see my father's likeness every time she looks at me. She would sacrifice me if it meant my father's return. What sort of family do you mean? Is it one that I may learn of?"
When Telemachus's laughter inevitably crumbles into hiccuping tears, the agonized cries of a little boy left all alone and terrified of the world, Menelaus hauls him into his arms and holds him in the fortress of his body, his hulking size and softened bulk finally good for something other than combat.
"Your father and I may as well have been brothers. Our blood must have been made of the same stuff," Menelaus says fervently. "What's mine was his and what was his was mine. Are you not your father's boy? Does that not make you mine by blood right?"
"I have no father," Telemachus bleats, as helpless and weak as a lamb. "I am the son of nobody, for I have no father!"
"Shut your mouth," Menelaus rumbles, unhappy with Telemachus's ungratefulness. "From this day onward, you do. I am yours like you are mine and I will not hear otherwise. Am I fuckin' clear?"
Instead of answering in words, Telemachus wails and shrieks. He writhes in Menelaus's embrace, throws his head back and catches Menelaus's chin and then tries to bite him. A tantrum truly worthy of the Prince of Ithaca.
Menelaus shushes Telemachus, closes one meaty paw around his thin wrists and squeezes hard until he goes still and quiet.
Obedient out of fear, because all he's ever known from older men, his mother's suitors, is hurt. Doesn't know the gentle discipline of a father, loving in its harshness because out of pain comes growth and from growth comes a man. Still the scared little boy wanting his daddy, wishing someone bigger and stronger would protect him.
"Be calm now, little prince. No more tears. Kings do not cry and a king I'll make of you yet," Menelaus soothes. "Hush, little one. You are not alone anymore. There's nothing to be scared of. If there is a monster that scares you, I will strike it down. If anyone harms you, I will have them hung in the palace courtyard. There is nothing that I cannot do for my boy."
Menelaus brushes his lips against Telemachus's sweaty temple, scatters kisses from there to his cheek to the corner of his trembling lips, down to the curve of his neck. Sweetly rubs his beard against his fair skin until it turns red-hot and sensitive and the boy writhes in his lap for nicer reasons other than pain. Claims him in this way, so all who see him may know that he has the affections of the King of Sparta.
Telemachus, son of Menelaus, King of Sparta sounds far more impressive than Telemachus, son of Odysseus, nobody but a ghost.
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