Δόξα και Θλίψη

VALERIE | @lostsovl​ 🌊

          “...is that how you do it---  no?”  It’s a genuine question but the girl’s amused laughter peppers the warm salt air with such contentment that he doesn’t have the heart to feel anything but gleeful, a fair freckled hand reaching across to take the trinket from his grasp to fiddle with wiry edges coated in muculent algae, auburn hair fluttering in the wind as she peers downwards at the handful. She was new here and perhaps it’s for that reason that there’s a distinct lack of awareness of the ‘regulations’  that had been stringently put in place, returning to the same spot for the past few days where the once jagged rocks had been smoothed down by the waters of time into a comfortable plateau suitable to perch upon, legs dangling over the edge while the gentle lapping of the waves coaxed at the bare skin of her toes. Motionlessly peering up at her from the water as it comfortably undulates about him, a verdant line of vision traces over a series of deepened abrasions a little further up her calves that are predominantly hidden beneath flowing fabric, scars that she didn’t particularly want to discuss when previously prompted, curiosity that isn’t sated while the conversation was veered towards other fanciful directions.

                    She had wanted to know more about him instead, but that wouldn’t be a discouraged outcome considering he didn’t mind at all, enjoying her company whilst retaining the realistic knowledge that the time shared in one another’s presence would be comparably fleeting. She would be gone before he had a chance to settle into the rhythm of any form of companionship—  days, weeks and months conflating into a blink of an eye by his estimations, yet  (  more likely  )  prior to that she would be given a warning much like the other girls who found themselves dawdling at the shoreline due to the attractive figure that beguiled and drew them in in a manner akin to a beacon. Achilles didn’t have malicious intent but apparently there are stories about his kind  (  as well as him specifically  )  that aren’t in his favour, a reputation decried that he almost childishly clings onto to bring about the misgivings unwantedly doled out to him  (  if vilification is how they choose to portray him, then who is he to deny them?  ).  

It seems he is destined to find out all the ways in which Andreas manages to bring his blood to a boil as he hovers over his friend and bears witness to a maddening display of smugness. Any worries he might have had about offending Andreas with the letter quickly dissipate once he realises the Dane was revelling in the attention and revelation that he had monopolised the forefront of Léo’s mind since very early on. It didn’t matter that the Swiss had been dreaming of how to smother him in his sleep — he was rather more interested in the erotically tragic undertone of the letter: the violent, sorrowful yearning to be acknowledged, to be noticed.

Léo realises a second too late what Andreas aims to do. His skin stings with the residual burn from the snapping elastic, rather unfortunately hitting a nipple and nearly taking him out right there and then. “Putain—!’’ The boy hisses through gritted teeth, the edges of his vision conically burring as he reflexively swats the other’s hand away, not in the mood to receive any form of consolation when Andreas seemed hellbent on playing brat rough and testing his already infamously volatile patience. That same hand instinctively reaches to grab a firm hold of the Dane’s jaw, his nose getting within an inch of Andreas’ vexatiously handsome countenance as he bubbles with the barely concealed desire to castigate him for such waggish behaviour ( and kiss him while he’s at it ). But he reins in it; his grip softens, gaze lingering on the other’s lips before pulling back again, head ducked, halfheartedly fixing the tuck of his shirt. 

Bright red with embarrassment, a stubborn wedge of annoyance and a lamentable surge of arousal ( in sum: positively confused ), the Swiss passes a hand over his face, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose. He can’t lose it with Andreas. It’s not worth it. “C’est ma— that is my letter, same way the drawings you have of me in the shower are yours.” Did Andreas think he hadn’t seen those? He is aware that he admits to flicking through his roommate’s sketchbook ( once, maybe twice, out of sheer curiosity and fervent desire to know the intimate workings of Andreas’ imagination ), but that is beside the point. Back to the current situation. Breathe; focus. Andreas wants to play, Léo wants to lovingly punch him then run straight into the nearest underground hole with a flask in hand, asking the Gods why he had to fall for this one.

Andreas somehow finds a way of making the situation exponentially harder. Less about the letter, more about him. Léo can feel his heart lodge itself in his throat as he furtively watches his roommate expose more of the skin he had merely been teasing the prospect of revealing, the position he adopts carving out tautly defined musculature in a way that is nothing short of mouthwatering disorienting. With his back to the light, propped up on his elbow, a sliver of halo spilling where the sun hits his skull, Andreas looks more like the corporeal manifestation of a wet dream haunting devil than anything human. Mischief wild in that pale celestite gaze, all of him full of provocative suggestions. 

The letter sticks out mockingly in a far away corner. Léo feels the metaphorical wall he has been backed into. His knees widen, his seat sinking between bare heels. Of course Andreas would dangle the carrot and then tell him not to reach.

Though still visibly cross, the brunet deliberately sets his palms on the mattress, one on either side of his roommate’s ribcage. He dives back in, rolling slender hips forward in a tantalisingly soft shift, lining up his crotch with the other’s pelvis and allowing his weight to drop there. His shoulders hollow out as he brings his mouth to the conch of his friend’s ear, tone dropping a pitch, hot breath fanning against the delicate cartilage as he speaks. “Are you sure? I seem to recall you vividly enjoying my hands.” What had Andreas said about their softness last time they’d scurried into the supplies’ cupboard after accidentally getting a little too worked up during class? Ended up bringing back all the wrong shades of green and having to largely improvise. He remembers that afternoon fondly, taking the compliment and wearing it proudly. He was getting good. Improving. Becoming fluent in the language that made his beloved sing.

Léo’s attention travels further south, supple lips grazing milky flesh, doting faint kisses along the left side of the Dane’s neck, drinking in his scent. No marks above the shirt’s collar, that was the agreement. Pearlescent teeth scrape lightly across an exposed shoulder. “Say I do keep them to myself. Then what?”

           He’s enjoying this far more than he should be, a flash of teeth on display that is positively wolfish as he bites back an expulsion of roguish laughter, features aglow in sheer amusement - Léo had a curious way of getting himself a little wound up with the scarcest of prompts, the kindling of an avidly imploring imagination seemingly easily stoked with mere suggestion alone, the elder content to lightly goad and prod to eagerly observe silent cogs slowly turning for an inner reel of imagery to divulge a sensuous journey. There’s the telltale widening of umber eyes and their subsequent diversion, a tension forming against the exquisite canvas that comprises of the other’s features, slender shoulders and chin inching in opposing directions as if tussling with the innate instinct of fight or flight  (  he would hope for the former  ).  Elements of the game are all present, and yet the warmth emanating from the teen’s visage strangely sparks something a little different and... forthright.

                     “I have nothing to hide,”  the brunet responds breezily with a pronounced quirk of a brow in the other’s attempt to instil a hint of shame in him regarding those coveted sketches  (  held og lykke - he has none  ),  a point to be proven as his fair line of vision rolls over the appealing spectacle of his elsker, greedily tracing the fine curves and creases of the respective segments of material that enclose Léo and their corresponding fastenings. Chest, arms, thighs and hips - the gesture on Andreas’s part borders on being lascivious, seeing through the flimsy manmade barrier to coherently visualise the sinuous strain and poise of lithe muscle he had grown used to in their mutual indulgence, the way in which they would beckoningly shudder or conversely stiffen from the pleasurable caress of---  “In fact...”  A purposefully elongated pause ensues as Andreas makes it a point to maintain his glance against the once hidden patch of skin emerging where the arch of the other’s neck dives into the not-so-protective confines of his shirt, the central dip and the way it feels against the tip of his tongue very much on the Dane’s mind. Serenity is reflected as blue eyes flicker up to meet the opposing gaze, an invitation bestowed.  “I was hoping to create some more if you’re up for the challenge.”

           Andreas bears witness to the Swiss’s impressive attempts to flip the script despite initially faltering in retreat, Léo’s broiling displeasure manifesting in a more direct approach as the elder finds himself pinned on the spot, lips parting with a hitch of heated breath as desirable friction threatens to pool into and overcome his senses. The other teen is close  (  dangerously so  ),  dark lashes fluttering closed as far from innocent syllables are uttered, the fine hairs upon his nape inevitably prickling with a consequent tremor enrapturing him. The Dane has bitten off more than he can chew but he still wants to see what his friend is capable of, burgeoning warmth rapidly spreading across pale cheekbones and neck, the emergence of a faint moan scarcely held back as the other’s pout teases at him - the tenderness reminds him of the softest of paintbrushes traversing a canvas, mongoose bristles coaxing and daubing to elicit numerous layers, a masterpiece in the making by Léo’s hand  (  or lips, in this case  )  alone. The student swallows hard, the bulbous formation of an Adam’s apple undulating besides the indulgent path, thoughts already commencing to unravel during attempts to focus  (  the letter is but a fleeting memory  ).

Achilles announces his arrival with the grace of an ox breaking into a hay barn. From the metallic clink of the keys tossed in the dish of miscellanea they kept by the door ( an assortment of club cards, coins, old batteries, spare keys… ) to the floppy thud of worn sneakers, to finally collapsing next to his husband on the couch, who avoids spilling his still scorching tea by holding his hand away from his body in anticipation. Years and years of getting used to handling liquids near the flesh-trapped tornado next to him. It does give him a reason to look tense, his focus devoted to the preservation of the beverage and totally not to the fact that, through the mechanics of physics, he had bounced in place when Achilles dropped into the seat beside him, and the motion caused his body to curl up and brace. Now, activating any sort of abdominal and pectoral muscles mere hours after getting his nipples done? Not a great idea.

Patroclus doesn’t say anything; his greeting consists of a hand that naturally falls to Achilles’ brawny thigh, part force of habit and genuine desire to affectionately welcome his partner home, part seeking a sliver of control here ( aka gently pinning him in place, aka please don’t wriggle around too much ). He balances the cup of tea on the armrest while calloused fingers tent over its rim, his gaze pinned to the flat screen. It’s the technical challenge and the contestants are wrestling with the correct meringue consistency to go on the lemon pies. He is perhaps more invested than he normally would have been, especially when this is the time when they usually catch up – but he knows Achilles has been to the gym and all that blood pumping, muscle flexing and resistance training usually gets the demigod’s brain thinking of other, far more enjoyable ways to celebrate his physique. That is what Patroclus is trying to dodge.

Maybe he should have ordered takeout already, that way they’d both be too stuffed to think about any form of acrobatics and rapid hand gestures. Damn it.

“Too much pressure.” The brunet mumbles, thumb idly stroking the top of his husband’s quad, grazing over the sparse, soft golden curls that covered it. “Plus, a camera crew.” He’s allergic to those, thank you very much. Patroclus quiets down again, hoping the volume of the TV is loud enough to muffle the sound of his unsteady heartbeat and that he has managed to sit a little less stiff. Hell, he doesn’t even know if this is how his body usually fits against the couch – he’s being made aware of things, muscles and micromovements he had never paid attention to. Maybe small talk will save him. “Leg day, today?”

          ‘Its popularity won’t last’ - that had been the piece of commentary tossed aside like shrapnel when the TV show from the UK had first emerged  (  of all things, rivalry in baking... really?  ),  gradually laying breadcrumbs in its wake all across the world as a burgeoning fondness developed. It wasn’t necessarily Achilles’s type of show but he wouldn’t mind checking in from time-to-time, the aim of short viewings often growing lengthy with a healthy amount of exclaiming at the telly in a manner that deceivingly led others to think he knew anything about such culinary skills - at best, he was an ardent helper when it came to the mysticism of the oven, but that wouldn’t dampen his competitive spirit. There’s a gentle huff of laughter with the admission from Patroclus, fingertips drawing to the other’s guiding grasp against his leg, the touch initially comfortably resting against the warmth of the brunet’s skin before inactivity inevitably leads to digits dancing along the delicately raised formation of gently protruding green-blue veins.

                    “It isn’t so bad. You get used to it if you just ignore them.”  The blond is speaking from the brief experience of once being asked my a local news crew to give his thoughts on the town’s waning economy whilst out jogging, enjoying the attention despite it soon dawning on everyone there that he wasn’t the best of choices considering his daily focus was quite narrow - it was reserved for his husband, acquaintances in their neighborhood, work, and their friends and family, anyone or anything beyond the immediacy of those circles somewhat disregarded unless directly affecting their comfort.  “I’m sure you’d look great though---”  There’s an unmistakable weight placed on the words, humour interlaced as Achilles leans closer to brush the outline of his lips against the apple of the other’s cheek, quietly muttering against him with a soft hum.  “Maybe smear a little flour right here to complete the look.”  The comment is punctuated with the press of a kiss on the spot before the fair line of vision diverts back to the screen to see some meringues collapse.

         Her concern is only that of golden haired Achilles; the rays of shattering white light that announce her arrival compound on one another, forcing his sight on her and her alone. Her body lowers until the light, leather soles of her shoes touch nearly blood-stained ground. Her sharpened spear and aegis shield not yet in her arms, Athena arrives to quell rebellion against the king, Agamemnon, doing mighty Hera’s bidding as it couples with her own. Athena says naught over his treatment of the once-queen Briseis, of the men’s prideful, violent exhibition over a woman with no say in her own, hopeless fate. Her hands rise barely from their place at her side, halting the rush of time, stilling the wind and sprinkle of rain before it dared to fall. A stillness wraps around them, lending silence to allow words to be heard between goddess and mortal man. Her steps are silent but he could see the war-goddess move towards him.

        “Say what you may with your tongue, Achilles, but draw not your weapon. Obey these words, and I promise, and shall make it good..” Her eyes seem to flare, to milky white and back to endless grey, as if daring him to accuse the goddess of justice of lies. She is honorable, true, and voice crystal clear, echoing until her words strike Achilles with their might, as he is only allowed against the coward king. “The great Agamemnon shall pay for his insolence against you, threefold of his treasures shall be yours. Listen well to me, son of Peleus, curb thy wrath.” Or feel her own. “Do you feel as though we do not see? What say you of your companions respect for him, as Apollo fed their friends bodies to the rats? He shall be his own undoing.”

           Despite the prince’s angered  (  & self-centred  )  exasperation, his pointedly guided line of vision instinctively remains on the goddess’s commanding presence, namely falling onto the finery of grasped tokens of battle that only seem to whet his appetite for the possibility of physical confrontation, an act that could counterbalance such injustice disappointingly held at arm’s reach - it doesn’t take a master of forging to note that the splendor of Her spear and shield are unlike any that Achilles has ever witnessed, his own prideful and painstakingly crafted weaponry comparably paltry and put to shame in spite of their elegant composition and frequent devastating use. He ponders over how many mortals  (  or immortals, for that matter  )  have faced Her wrath with a powerful shunt of the aegis or laceration attributed to the deadly honed edge, a fatal and fateful game if one were foolish enough to aloofly engage. The blond has no desire to seek an answer first hand, but his heightened curiosity is piqued nonetheless.

COMFORT STARTERS Persephone | @deadshe​  -  “ just breathe. breathe with me. ”

          As well-meaning as the advice may be to soothe the easily perturbed, there’s an unsuspecting irony interwoven within the words, the departed warrior’s momentarily lowered and hollow line of vision silently peering back to the nigh spectral figure in a moment of clarity - Her bid to assuage him was appreciated despite the demigod’s perception of such comfort to be unwarranted, strong frame shifting as he rights his nonchalant stance, the twitch of his lips gently curving into the semblance of a glum smile that doesn’t quite reflect within verdant eyes.