-ˋˏ💫‧₊˚

“you are not,” you accuse, laughing.

he ducks his head, muttering something that might be “maybe a little.” his fingers toy with his napkin, twisting the edge of it. the conversation spills into comfortable little streams, weaving between school gossip and hero stories and stupid inside jokes that only make sense to people who spend too much time in the same hallways.

by the time you leave, the air outside has cooled. the street is quieter, shops beginning to roll down their shutters. a light breeze cuts through the lingering warmth of the day, carrying the smell of rain that's priming to fall.

you walk side by side toward the station, shoulders brushing now and then. each touch sparks something small and electric in your skin.

“thank you for coming out with me…” he says after a moment. his voice is softer than the street lamps. “i know we are both busy and tired and… yeah.”

“izuku,” you tease, bumping your shoulder into his. “we’ve done this like, what, ten times now? are you going to thank me every time we get a drink?”

he tenses and then laughs, a little helpless. “i just… i look forward to it. that’s all.”

your heart somersaults, “me too.”

you reach the station entrance and stop at the bottom of the stairs. people move around you, slipping past with practiced city speed, but somehow there is still this small bubble of space where it’s just the two of you.

“so,” you say, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “this is me.”

“right.” he swallows, bobbing his head. “and i go… that way.”

he points, then seems to realize how ridiculous he looks and drops his hand quickly. his cheeks are that familiar pink again. the alcohol has worn off enough that he is mostly clear, but the warmth still lingers in his skin.

you hesitate. there is something buzzing under your tongue, a question you have been trying not to ask for months.

“hey, midoriya?”

“yeah?” he perks up, eyes bright, always so ready to listen when it comes to you.

“are we…” you lick your lips, suddenly very aware of his focus on your mouth. “do you think we’re… just friends?”

the words hang there, fragile, more vulnerable than you meant them to be.

izuku goes completely still.

you can see the thoughts whirring behind his eyes, the way he spirals inward to analyze, categorize, define. it’s like watching his quirk notes come to life again, except this time you know you’re the subject.

“i…” he starts, then stops. his fingers curl at his sides. “do you want us to be… just friends?”

you exhale, a small laugh escaping you. “that is not an answer.”

“i learned from the best,” he says, a little breathless.

your heartbeat thumps louder. “i asked you first.”

he looks at you like he is standing on the edge of a rooftop again, wind in his hair, whole future hanging off a decision.

“no,” he says quietly. “i do not.”

your pulse jumps. “oh.”

he steps a little closer. close enough that you can see the faint freckles under his eyes, the way they darken in the street lamp glow. his hands twitch, like he wants to touch you but is not sure where.

“i told myself i was being professional,” he confesses softly, words starting to tumble. “we are colleagues, and the students look up to you, and you are so good at your job, and we work together all the time, and i did not want to make things complicated or uncomfortable or ruin what we already have, because it is really important to me, you are really important to me and i thought if i just… kept it to myself, it would be fine but it’s not fine and i keep looking forward to friday nights and your messages and the way your eyes light up when you talk about your class and and and–”

“izuku.”

you reach out and grab his sleeve. gently, but firm enough to halt the spiral.

he blinks down at you, breath stuttering.

“take a breath,” you say, smiling a little. “you’re doing the thing.”

he inhales, slow and shaky. exhales. “right. sorry. i’m just… really nervous.”

“why?” you ask, though you think you know.

his eyes drop to your mouth again. they linger there, heavy and shy.

“because…” he murmurs, “i really want to kiss you, and if you say no, i’ll have to pretend i’m completely fine with that for the rest of my life.”

the world tilts a little.

you could tease him. you could make a joke, deflect, stall. you have done it before with other people. but this is midoriya. the boy who grew into a man who carries entire cities in his hands and still says please and thank you to every person he sees. the man who always walks you to the station and waits until your train actually arrives before he leaves.

so instead, you take a small step closer, until his chest almost brushes yours.

“what if i said yes?” you ask.

something in his expression cracks open. hopeful, disbelieving, almost overwhelmed.

“then…” he says, voice unsteady, “i would ask if i could… if i could really… kiss you.”

“you’re already this far,” you murmur. “finish what you started, teacher.”

his breath catches.

slowly, like he is moving through a dream, he lifts his hands. one hovers near your cheek, hesitant, fingers trembling just a little. he is strong enough to break concrete, but he touches you like you are something that must be held carefully or not at all.

“if i am misreading this,” he whispers, “please tell me to stop.”

you lean into his palm, closing the last gap between his hand and your skin. “you aren’t.”

that is all it takes.

izuku leans down, heart in his throat, and presses his mouth to yours.

the kiss is not perfect. he bumps his nose against yours on the way in, and his hand on your cheek is a fraction too tense at first, like he is bracing for impact. but the moment your lips meet, warmth flares through you like a slow, blooming fire.

he tastes faintly of beer and orchard fruit and something you believe may be his cologne. there is a quiet desperation in the way he kisses you, like he's been imagining this for long enough that the reality is almost too much.

you sigh into him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, feeling the rapid throb of his heart under your hand. that seems to ground him. his shoulders relax, and the kiss melts from careful to tender, from tentative to sure.

when he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. his breath is uneven, fogging the small space between you.

“wow,” he whispers, voice a little wrecked. “that was… um. i’m going to be thinking about that in the staff meeting on monday.”

you snort quietly. “you better not blush when aizawa is going over the patrol schedule.”

“i probably will,” he admits, eyes crinkling at the corners. “and it will be entirely your fault.”

you feel his fingers, still curled in the fabric at your waist, flex slightly, like they aren’t ready to let go yet. his gaze flickers to your lips again, as if he is already wondering when he can do that again without inventing a reason.

✩ katsuki bakugo is already yelling before the door even slams behind you.

you barely get two steps into the locker room before his voice ricochets off the tiles, hot and sharp, shredding through the leftover adrenaline in your veins.

“what the hell was that out there?”

you rip your mask off, toss it at the bench. “wow. so specific. really narrows it down.”

his gauntlets are still on, fingers flexing like he is one second away from detonating the air itself. there is dried soot on his jaw, a cut at his temple, and his eyes are burning holes straight through you.

“you broke formation,” he spits. “i told you to circle left and you went right. you ignored a direct order.”

“your order would have gotten that hostage crushed,” you shoot back, ripping at the buckle of your bracer. your hands are still shaking. from the fight. from him. from both. “you were too busy trying to blow your way through the front line to notice the support beam was about to give!”

he steps closer. the floor hums under his boots.

“i had it handled.”

you laugh, disbelieving. “bakugo, you were one detonation away from bringing the whole damn warehouse down.”

“and you went in alone,” he snaps. “again.”

there it is. the real thing flickering under the smoke.

you yank off your other bracer and throw it harder than you need to. it clatters across the floor, skidding to a stop near his feet.

“someone had to,” you bite out. “you were pinned. the others were spread thin. i saw an opening and took it. that is called initiative.”

“that is called reckless.”

you walk right up to him, chin tilted, nose nearly touching his. the heat rolling off his body is ridiculous, like his quirk sunk under his skin and decided to live there.

“funny, coming from you.”

his jaw works. his eyes drop, just for a second, to your mouth, then snap back up like he refuses to admit it happened.

“why do you never listen?” he groans. “i'm not blowing smoke up your ass when i give you an order!”

“because i am not your trainee,” you fire back. “i am your sidekick, not some kid in your boot camp. i get to make calls too.”

“i am the one with the top billing on the damn agency,” he says. “responsibility lands on my head when shit goes sideways. so yeah. you do what i say.”

“i am not a weapon you get to point!” you hiss, frustration clawing at your throat. “ im not just here to fill in the gaps between your explosions. i think. i see angles you don't. that hostage would be dead if i just stood there and waited for you to notice they existed!”

his hands flare at his sides, tiny pops of light sputtering in his palms. not enough to hurt. enough to make your heart jerk.

“do you have any idea what it looked like,” he says, voice dropping, rougher. “turning around and realizing you were gone?”

you blink. that catches you off guard.

“i told you where i was going...!” you say, less sharp.

“you yelled ‘cover me’ and vanished into smoke,” he snarls. “you think that is a briefing? i saw that beam creak a second too late and you were right under it, and for a full three seconds i thought you were about to be pulp on the concrete.”

something twists in your chest.

“i am fine,” you say, but it comes out weaker. “i made it. we both did.”

“this time.”

the words hang there, bitter.

you throw up your hands. “what do you want me to say, katsuki? do you want an apology for saving someone? for not letting them die while you set up the perfect damn finishing move?”

his eyes flash.

“don’t twist my words.”

“then stop making it sound like i'm the problem whenever i do my job.”

you turn away, reaching for your locker, needing distance, needing something to put between you and that look on his face. your fingers barely brush the metal before his hand slams next to your head, palm cracking against the locker door.

you freeze.

he is right behind you now, chest to your back, heat rolling off him in suffocating waves. his other hand lands on the opposite side, caging you in. the locker room shrinks to the sound of both your breathing.

“bakugo,” you warn, though your voice is not as steady as you want it to be. “move.”

“no.”

you clench your jaw. “this is not how you talk to your sidekick.”

“good thing this isn't about my sidekick then,” he snaps.

you twist, glaring over your shoulder. you end up closer than you meant to be, your nose brushing his cheek. he's breathing hard, teeth bared, eyes fully blown wide, pupils dark and hot like a storm.

“what the hell is that supposed to mean,” you demand.

he stares at you like you're the stupid one. like you have missed something obvious. his fingers flex against the metal beside your head, the faint crackle of sweat igniting, dying just as fast.

“it means,” he grits out, “that it's not just my record that flashes before my eyes when you pull shit like that.”

your throat goes dry.

“cmon, you're being dramatic.”

“you're being dense.”

the words land between you, heavy. your heart starts to thud louder. you can smell smoke on him, and something underneath it that is just him, familiar from too many patrols sharing the same air.

“bakugo,” you say again, quieter. “you’re mad… because i scared you.”

he scoffs, but it is hollow. “i am mad... because you almost got yourself killed.”

“for the job.”

“for a random extra who will forget your name by next week,” he growls. “you don’t get it.”

you turn fully now, your back pressed to the locker door, his arms still braced on either side of you. he is so close it feels like standing in front of a furnace.

“then explain it,” you snap. “because from where i'm standing, you are acting like i betrayed you for doing the same crap you have done a thousand times.”

his mouth opens, then closes. his jaw tightens, then loosens, like the words are fighting to get out. his gaze drops again, unbidden, to your lips. lingers. comes back up, rawer than before.

“you are my sidekick,” he says, like that's the start and end of it.

“we have established that,” you say, irritation flaring again to cover the way your stomach flips at how hoarse his voice has gotten.

his eyes narrow. “that's not all you are.”

the room seems to tilt.

heat rushes up your neck and into your face. you hate that he can see it. you hate that he is close enough to see every tiny twitch of your expression.

“then what am i?” you ask, and your voice comes out so soft it is almost lost between you.

bakugo looks like he would rather swallow a grenade than answer, but he's already too far in.

“the person i am watching every goddamn second,” he grinds out. “the one i'm counting breaths for while i'm blowing shit up. the one i am keeping track of even when i'm not supposed to, because i'm supposed to be focusing on the fight and not on whether you remembered to reinforce your stupid suit before you charged headfirst into a collapsing building.”

your chest tightens.

“you don't have to babysit me,” you say, but your voice is shaky, the anger bleeding into something else.

“i know i don’t,” he snaps. “i know you can handle yourself. that isn't the point.”

“then what is the point?”

“the point is,” he fires back, louder now, “every time you pull some self sacrificial bullshit, i feel like my lungs are gonna blow out of my chest, and i can't do my job if i'm busy thinking about scraping you off the floor.”

you stare at him. his cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, like he' he'd just detonated something big and is still feeling the recoil.

“so you what. suffocate me instead?” you shoot back. “freeze me out of decisions? pull rank and expect me to salute?”

he snarls low in his throat. “i am trying to keep you breathing, dumbass.”

“by boxing me in?”

“by not letting you die.”

the last word tears out of him, rough, like it hurts.

for a second, neither of you moves.

your pulse hammers under your skin. his hands are still beside your head, braced, tense. the air feels thick enough to chew.

“you can't stand out there and blow half the block chasing a villain and then yell at me for taking a calculated risk.”

his eyes flick over your face, taking in every line of it, every crack.

“i can if it's your life on the line,” he says, quieter now, but no less intense. “i will every time.”

you swallow, throat tight. your fingers find the front of his costume without really thinking, grabbing a handful of the fabric just to anchor yourself.

“why?” you ask, and you hate how small it sounds.

his gaze drops to your hand on his chest. you can feel his heart under your palm, thudding hard, too fast. when he looks back up, there is nothing held back in his eyes anymore. it is all just there, raw and bright and furious.

“because i need you,” he says.

the words hit like a blast wave.

you don't have time to process them before something in him snaps.

one second you are staring up at him, chest heaving, words thick in the air. the next his hand tears off the locker to cup your jaw, fingers splayed along your cheek, thumb pressing in under your chin. he crowds you farther into the metal, body flush to yours, and crashes his mouth down onto yours.

the kiss is not polite. it isn't careful, or neat, or anything that could be called gentle. it's teeth and heat and the taste of residual smoke on his tongue as he drags you into it like another battle he refuses to lose.

you gasp into him, fingers tightening in his costume. that is all the opening he needs. he groans, deep and broken, like this is something he's been fighting himself on for a long time, and now that the dam has burst, there is no patching it up.

your back slams against the locker when you melt forward again, chasing him. the metal rattles. his other hand finds your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise, dragging you closer. every point of contact burns.

you kiss him back just as fiercely, all the arguments and frustration and late nights on stakeouts condensing into this one reckless, breathless moment. you taste copper from a split in your lip you didn't realize you had until now, and he swears against your mouth like he takes it personally.

when he finally rips his mouth away, it isn't because he wants to. it's because you both need air.

his forehead rests against yours, breaths harsh, shoulders rising and falling like he just run a marathon. his thumb still strokes the edge of your jaw, almost absent, like he can't think about letting go just yet.

“that,” he says, voice shot to hell, “was me trying not to watch you die.”

you huff, a broken sound that wants to be a laugh. your lips are swollen. “you have a messed up way of doing that...”

“shut up,” he mutters, but his eyes are on your mouth again, dark and hungry. “you piss me off. you scare the shit out of me. you make me want to blow up every building you walk into so there is nothing left that can touch you.”

you blink. “that's not how saving people works.”

“not the point.”

his hand on your hip tightens, dragging you forward a fraction more, like he's reminding himself you are solid, you are here.

“you gonna listen to me now?” he asks, quieter, but no less intense. “on missions?”

“depends,” you breathe, because you never know when to shut up. “you gonna actually talk to me like a partner, or keep barking orders and hoping i roll over.”

his mouth curves, one corner pulling up in something too sharp to be a smile and too soft to be a smirk.

“hah? we'll figure that out. ”

he leans in again, the space between you collapsing all over.

⋆˚࿔ shoto todoroki has a very specific problem, and the problem is you.

you are his sidekick. you are competent and smart and so cute and so annoying in the way that makes his chest feel weird. you fix his comm when it glitches. you tap his wrist twice before every mission “for luck.” you always order extra portion for the two of you because you found out his hobby is trying new foods. and he is in love with you about it. quietly. constantly. like a background app he cannot close.

he doesn’t say anything, of course, he just… watches.

he watches you tie your mess with your hair before patrol, fingers quick and practiced. he watches you fall asleep on the agency couch, curled under a blanket you claim isn’t yours (even though it always mysteriously shows up when you’re tired). he watches you laugh at something sero sends in the group chat, eyes crinkling, shoulders loosening like someone set you down somewhere safe for a moment. he files all of it away. carefully. respectfully. obsessively.

today has been long. nonstop villain reports, patrol, debrief. the usual. somehow it’s late again and you’re both still at the agency, overhead lights buzzing, the training room you insisted on “one last run” in still humming with residual heat and ice.

“one more simulation,” you said, fifteen minutes ago, hands on your hips, eyes bright. “we need to practice close quarters. you keep freezing the whole room.”

“that’s the point?” he answered, but you were already queuing up the exercise.

it’s supposed to be simple—close combat, minimal quirks, focus on teamwork. it’s going well for exactly thirty seconds.

then the floor moves.

“left!” you shout, darting as the tiles shift. “shoto, wall!”

he pivots, you pivot, and for half a second you’re both trying to read each other’s next step—but the room is faster.

your shoulder slams into his chest; his arm shoots out, catching your waist just as the floor tilts and your balance goes with it.

for one brief, suspended moment, you’re both weightless—falling, colliding, the padded wall slamming into his back and you stumbling full length into him, palms pressed to his chest.

and your mouth lands on his.

it isn’t a neat little movie kiss. it’s startled and off-center, a collision of lips and breath and a squeaky “mmph!” that’s mostly you trying not to yelp into his mouth. he makes a surprised “hn—” noise—more grunt than groan—and you exhale right into it, eyes wide.

for a second, neither of you move.

his hands are still on your waist. your fingers have twisted in his uniform without meaning to. your hearts are thundering loud in the quiet room, adrenaline and something sharp and tender tangled up in your chests.

you try to jerk back, scrambling for space, but he keeps you steady, eyes impossibly wide and blinking.

“ow,” he says softly, like he’s confused he can even feel pain right now.

you sputter, “oh my god. i’m— i’m so sorry, that was— the wall moved, i—”

“it’s fine,” he says automatically, because it is, because he’s only ever wanted to kiss you anyway, and now his brain has finally caught up to his heart and is lying face down on the padded floor, completely useless.

you’re still babbling. “that was— i wasn’t trying to— ambush you, or, or—”

he blinks, his cheeks glowing pink, and suddenly the room goes dead silent as the simulation times out with a cheery little beep.

the floor levels. the lights shift. you are still half in his arms.

it hits him, all at once, with brutal, simple clarity: his first kiss was an accident. with you. in the training room. because of a moving floor.

a frown pulls between his brows as he stares at you, completely earnest, a little lost.

“so…” he says, serious as a fire alarm, “...is that what they call a kiss?”

you stare, then choke, then laugh so hard you nearly lose your balance all over again.

“shoto—”

“i’m asking,” he insists, deadpan, his voice grave, but his face is pink, his lips still parted from the kiss. “for clarity.”

your face is burning. “i—yes? i mean, technically? that was a kiss. i guess? but it wasn’t—like, it was accidental, so—”

he cuts in, voice even softer. “it was my first.”

your brain stops.

for a moment you just gape at him, then burst into helpless laughter—half nerves, half delirious disbelief. “oh my god, todoroki, your first—? because of a training room malfunction? i’m so—!”

“do it again,” he says suddenly, completely, heartbreakingly serious.

you blink, thrown off your axis, but he’s already leaning in, cautious and slow, his hand finding your cheek this time. his palm is cool, his thumb gentle where it brushes under your jaw. he watches your mouth as if he’s a starved man.

“please,” he adds, low, like it matters more than anything else in the world.

so you do.

you kiss him properly this time, soft and sweet, still a little bit laughing. he returns it like he’s been waiting all year, mouth careful, then more sure, tilting his head, letting his hands find your waist again, pulling you close enough your toes almost leave the floor.

when you break away, breathless, he chases your mouth, kissing you again—quick, curious, like he can’t help himself.

you’re giggling, caught between his arms, cheeks aching from smiling as he kisses your jaw, your nose, your mouth again, and then again, like he’s got to check from every angle.

“todoroki— you’re— you’re not supposed to keep me hostage in the training room—”

“for— research,” he says, lips brushing your ear, totally deadpan. “i want to be sure—i understand.”

“you’re so silly—ah!—shoto—!” you laugh, and he kisses you again, a little off-center this time, smiling into it.

finally you try to wriggle free, still laughing, and he only holds you tighter, utterly sincere. “if we’re going to be a couple, i want to be the best at it.”

you lose it, howling with laughter as he keeps you pinned for “research,” dead serious about the whole thing, not letting you out of the training room until you show him “again”—and again—and again.

ᝰ.ᐟ you don’t talk much around toya 'dabi' todoroki

you talk a normal amount around everyone else. your friends at work, the bus driver, the old lady who always asks you to help carry her groceries up the stairs. with them, you are soft but steady, your voice a small river that moves when it needs to.

with dabi, though, your throat always feels a little tighter. not because you’re scared of him. if anything, it’s the opposite. he looks at you like you’re interesting, like you are worth paying attention to, like anything you say is going to be his new favorite thing.

which is exhausting. and a little overwhelming. and confusing in a way that makes you want to hide your face in your hands.

so most nights, you just sit beside him on the roof and let him talk.

it starts off as a weird sort of arrangement. you are not supposed to be here, technically. he is a villain. you are… not. you met on this rooftop by accident, one long weeknight where you needed air and he needed somewhere to smoke.

you remember the first time clearly. you had stumbled out onto the roof, hoodie too big, hands tucked in the pockets, ready to be blissfully alone.

instead, you got six foot something of stitched skin and bored blue eyes, perched on the ledge with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

you froze. he stared. the city hummed on below you both like this was completely normal. “well,” he said eventually, voice low, in a lazy drawl. “this is awkward.”

you should have run. screamed. called someone. instead you had just… lowered your gaze, mumbled a tiny “sorry” and started to back away.

a flash of blue flickered near the door frame, not close enough to burn, just enough to make you stop.

“relax,” he said. “i ain't gonna fry you, quiet girl.”

you had glanced up at him through your lashes. “…okay.”

“you come up here a lot?” he asked, flicking ash off the ledge.

you nodded. “sometimes...”

“hm...” his eyes dragged over you, not in a cruel way. just filing you, curious. “guess we're neighbors now.”

and that was that.

somehow, over the next few weeks, the rooftop became shared territory. most nights you climbed up there after work, shoulders tight, brain buzzing. most nights he was already there, smoke curling around him, blue flames dancing at his fingertips like bored pets.

you would sit a few feet away at first, hood up, knees pulled to your chest. he would talk at the sky, at the city, at you. nonsense, mostly. complaints about people. jokes that landed more than they missed. observations that were sharper than they had any right to be.

eventually, the gap between you narrowed. your knees started to bump now and then. his shoulder brushed your arm when he shifted. you stopped flinching when his flames crackled to life near your feet.

he flirted with you from the first week.

it was not the greasy, heavy kind of flirting you had seen too much of. it was a thin, sharp thing, wrapped in sarcasm, tossed out to see how you would react.

“so, quiet girl,” he would say, cigarette hanging between his fingers, grin tilting. “you come up here to stare at the sky or stare at me.”

you would duck your head, cheeks heating. “...the sky.”

“ouch,” he would chuckle. “cold.”

“you’re always here first,” you mumbled once. “so technically i'm the one invading your staring space.”

“mm.” he let his eyes drag slowly down your face, your tucked up knees, your bare ankles peeking out of your sweatpants. “you can invade me anytime.”

you had choked on your drink. he had laughed so hard he almost fell off the ledge.

you found out he was a virgin by accident.

it was late, even by your shared standards. the city was quieter, the sky a little darker. the neon sign across the street blinked in a tired rhythm. you were half leaning against the wall, half leaning toward him, somewhere in the middle of your usual companionable silence.

he had been on a roll that night. a steady stream of yaping from the city of yappington, easier than usual. teasing you about your hoodie, about the way you hugged your knees, about the way you never answered his flirty comments with anything more than a tiny laugh and a look.

“i think you like it...” he said, watching you through smoke. “me talking to you like this.”

you pressed your cheek to your knee, hiding a smile. “why?”

“you always look at me,” he said simply. “you get all pink and quiet. it's cute.”

you made a tiny noise, more embarrassed than irritated. “i'm always quiet.”

“not like this.”

he was right. you knew he was right. you hated that he knew he was right.

“you flirt with everybody,” you said, voice small but clear. “you call everyone cute.”

“nah.” he flicked ash over the edge, lips curling. “only the ones i want to tease.”

you hesitated. “do you… get far with that?”

his eyebrow arched. “what, you askin' about my success rate?”

you shrugged. “you act like you’re… really experienced.”

his grin broadened. “you interested in references, doll?”

maybe it was the late hour. maybe it was the fact that you had had a drink on an empty stomach. maybe it was just that you were tired of feeling like the only one being tugged around by the tension between you.

whatever it was, it made something reckless slip out of your mouth.

“i think you're all talk...” you said, as calmly as you could manage.

his head snapped toward you. “oh yeah?”

you nodded, hugging your knees tighter. “you say a lot. you… lean in. stare. say things. but you never actually… do anything.”

he narrowed his eyes, amused and offended all at once. “you tryin' t' call me out?”

“a little,” you admitted.

“careful, quiet girl.” his voice dropped, sliding over your skin like smoke. “i might take that as a challenge.”

you peeked at him. his eyes were half lidded, searching your face. there was a spark of something restless there, something almost nervous, buried under all the lazy bravado.

you swallowed. “if you were actually as experienced as you act… maybe you wouldn't have to talk so much.”

the words hung there, softer than a taunt, louder than anything you had said to him before.

for a second, his mask slips. it was quick. a flicker. but you caught it.

his fingers stilled on the cigarette. his mouth parted, then closed. the heat of his flames dropped a few degrees, leaving the air cooler than normal.

“huh,” he said.

you blinked. “sorry. that was… rude.”

“no.” he took a drag, exhaled slowly through his nose. his gaze stayed on the sky, not you. “just accurate.”

you frowned, confused. “what do you mean?”

he rolled the cigarette between his fingers. the ember glowed, dimmed.

“you're right,” he said. “i am all talk.”

you stared at him. “but you…”

“but me nothing.” he cut in, shoulders lifting in a lazy half shrug. “i flirt. i run my mouth. never took it anywhere.”

your brain tried to slot this into the image you had formed of him. it did not fit. dabi, with his sharp tongue and his heavy stare and his casual dirtiness, not taking it anywhere.

“never?” you repeated softly.

his smile twisted. “what, that so hard to believe?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again. “i just… assumed.”

“yeah.” he finally looked at you, head tilted. “everyone does.”

there was no pity in his voice. no shame. just a flat, simple truth, laid out between you.

you felt bad for a second. for poking at him, for underestimating the possibility that he had layers under the flirting, that some of it might be defense instead of hunger.

“…so you're a virgin,” you said, the word feeling strangely big in your mouth.

he snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “say it louder, why don’t ya?”

you flushed. “sorry.”

“relax.” he waved it off. “not a big deal.”

“it isn't,” you agreed quickly. and it wasnt. you meant that. it just… did not match the way he always acted. “so all those lines…”

“practice,” he said. “hypotheticals. wishful thinking. take your pick.”

something in your chest unclenched, slowly.

“so under all that,” you murmured, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “you're just… kinda inexperienced.”

“wow,” he drawled. “really laying into me tonight.”

you risked another glance at him. “you started it.”

“by existing?” he shot back. “which, by the way, would be a lot easier if you didn't look at me like that when i say stuff.”

you blinked. “like what?”

“like i hung the moon or some shit.”

your cheeks burned. you hid your face against your knee again.

“i don't,” you mumbled, voice muffled.

“you kinda do,” he said, amused. “don't worry. i'm into it.”

you hesitated. the little seed of knowledge sat between you now, warm and potent. he flirted because it was easier than admitting he didn't know what came next. he poked at you because it made you react, because it filled the spaces where he didn't want to think too hard.

“so,” you said quietly, words careful. “all bark, no bite.”

he shot you a look. “keep talking, quiet girl. see what happens.”

“you wouldn't know what to do with me...” you replied before you could stop yourself.

the rooftop went very still.

his flames flickered higher for a heartbeat, then settled. he set the cigarette down on the ledge, crushing it out with deliberate, slow pressure.

“you sure about that?” he asked, voice low.

you swallowed. you felt small, tucked up beside him, knees pulled to your chest. but there was something buzzing under your skin now, some strange courage that only showed up around him.

“you're the one who said you've never done anything,” you said, keeping your tone soft, almost sing song. “just talking. no follow through.”

he stared at you, eyes dark in the low light.

“want me to prove you wrong?” he asked.

the words should have sounded like another empty line. they did not. there was a rough edge to them. a nervousness he was trying to smother.

your heart thudded.

you shifted, uncurling your legs, turning to sit cross legged so you were facing him more. your hands smoothed over your knees, something to do.

“how?” you asked.

his gaze flicked to your mouth. once. twice. he licked his own lower lip like it had suddenly gone dry.

“you really gonna make me say it?” he muttered.

you let the tiniest hint of a smile show. “maybe i like hearing you talk.”

he huffed, almost a laugh. his hand lifted, hovered for a second, then dropped, landing on the concrete between you. he scooted closer, slow, like he was approaching some skittish animal.

“come here, then,” he said.

you didn't move.

he quirked a brow. “shy now?”

“i'm always—” he cuts you off,

“yeah.” his eyes softened, just a fraction. “that's why i like you.”

the confession sat there, unembellished.

your chest tightened. you found yourself inching toward him without really deciding to. the distance between you shrank until your knees bumped his thigh, until you could feel the heat rolling off his skin.

his hand lifted again. this time, he didn't hesitate as much. his fingers brushed your chin, rough and warm. stitched skin dragged gently along the soft line of your jaw.

“last chance to back out and go back to calling me a liar,” he murmured.

you looked up at him through your lashes. your throat felt dry. your heart had gone all fluttery and delicate, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.

“you're the one who said you wanted to prove it...” you whispered back.

his mouth crooked. “smart mouth for someone who hardly talks.”

“only when it is you,” you said.

that did something to him. you saw it. the way his eyes flared. the way his breath hitched.

“yeah,” he said quietly. “me too.”

his hand slid from your chin to cup the side of your face, thumb resting near the corner of your mouth. he leaned in, slow enough that you could meet him, slow enough that you could pull away.

your eyes fluttered shut as the space between you shrank to a breath, to a heartbeat, to the barest brush of his lips against yours.

the first contact was tentative. unsure. he pressed his mouth to yours in a soft, careful line, test and answer wrapped together. you could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers flexed against your skin like he was holding himself back from bolting or grabbing you closer.

you tilted your head, just slightly, nudging more firmly into him. your hand found his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold on.

he made a small sound into your mouth. half surprise, half relief. it rolled through you like heat.

the second press of his lips was less careful. he angled in, closing the distance fully this time. the kiss stayed slow, stayed tentative, but there was more of him in it now. a hint of teeth when he caught your lower lip by accident. a tiny exhale when you sighed against him, relaxing in a way you had never managed in front of anyone else.

his thumb stroked along your cheek, clumsy and gentle. his other hand, the one on the concrete, crept closer until his fingertips brushed your knee.

you didn't realize you were shaking until he broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours. his breath fanned over your lips, warm and uneven.

“still think i'm all talk?” he asked, voice rough in the quiet.

your eyes stayed closed. you took a breath, then another, trying to get your thoughts to line up again.

“maybe,” you murmured. “need more data...”

he huffed a laugh, low and breathless. “yeah. figures.”

his nose bumped yours. his lips ghosted over your mouth again, a promise, an invitation.

“guess we have time to collect it,” he added, softer.

his hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. there was a faint tremor in his touch, betraying the nerves he refused to admit to. you leaned into it, into him, into the strange, fragile space that had just opened up between you on a rooftop that was suddenly too small for how full your chest felt.

જ⁀➴ (fade to black) you should’ve known keigo 'hawks' takami was up to something the second he texted:

keigo: pack a bag, bestie. international. no questions!

it took three more messages, one very chaotic phone call, and a threat to cancel his hero ranking fanclub before he actually sent the ticket. first class, middle of the week, a hotel you absolutely cannot afford on a teacher salary. and, as the subject line of the itinerary, in all caps:

keigo: BEST FRIEND ANNIVERSARY TRIP!

like he had just invented friendship on his own.

the flight is all soft clouds and his shoulder under your cheek when you doze off. he hogs the window. you hog the blanket. he steals the lime off your inflight drink, winks, says it suits him better, and you throw your napkin at his face. it feels like every other time you've been together, just with more legroom and a language you don't speak waiting at the other end.

the city he takes you to looks like a jewelry box spilled open. sunlit stone in the day, gold threaded through the sky at night. the hotel is stupidly nice, all clean lines and calm music and staff who definitely know who he is but try very hard to pretend they do not.

your room has a balcony.

of course it does.

dusk drapes itself over the city by the time you both end up out there, door slid shut behind you, muffling the sound of the air conditioner and distant hotel tvs. the sky is streaked mauve and orange, the buildings below dotted with lights one by one, like someone is slowly plugging stars into sockets.

keigo is leaning against the balcony rail, wind tugging at his hair and feathers. he looks like he belongs in the air, not pressed against concrete and glass, but he is here, with you, in sweatpants and a loose shirt with the sleeves pushed up, wrists bare, throat exposed.

you are holding two glasses of whatever he sweet talked the concierge into sending up. something sparkling, something that catches the last traces of sun and throws them back.

you pass him one. he clinks the rim of his glass against yours.

“to us,” he says, easy, playful. “longest relationship of my life.”

you snort. “please. you flirt with everyone.”

“yeah.” he tips his head toward you, eyes sliding over your face. “but i only book international trips for one.”

“romantic,” you mutter, taking a sip to hide your face. your heart stutters like it is trying to jump off the balcony. “i feel so special.”

“you should!” he leans his elbows on the rail, wings shifting behind him. “not everyone is brave enough to deal with me this long. i'm a handful.”

“you are twelve handfuls,” you correct. “minimum.”

“wow. you think about my hands a lot, huh?”

you choke on your drink.

he laughs, bright and delighted, eyes gleaming in the low light. “oh, come on. walked right into that one.”

“you are the worst,” you wheeze, swiping at your mouth.

“you love me,” he says, so casually it hurts.

you swallow, throat suddenly dry. you aim for light. “i do...”

his gaze snags on your face at that. there is a tiny hitch, like he caught something he was not expecting. his feathers rustle, soft, unsettled.

“yeah?” he asks. quieter now.

you look out over the city, pretending you do not feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. the breeze lifts your hair, cool on the back of your neck.

“yeah,” you say. “you're my best friend.”

there it is. the line you always nudge, never quite cross. the safe word you both hide behind. keigo takes a slow sip of his drink. his profile is sharp in the fading light, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“best friend,” he echoes.

“that a problem, kei?”

he shakes his head, smiling crooked. “nope. just funny.”

“what's funny?”

“how you say it like it explains everything.”

you frown, turning to face him more fully. “doesn’t it?”

he turns too, so your bodies angle toward each other. his wings shift to make room, red quills cutting the dim. he sets his glass down on the balcony ledge, fingertips lingering on the stem for a second longer than necessary.

“we flirted the day we met,” he says, tone light but eyes very much not. “do you remember?”

you roll your eyes. “you flirted. with everyone. you hit on aizawa.”

“i did not hit on aizawa,” he protests. “i complimented his hair. different!”

“you told him you liked a man with good bedhead.”

he grins, unrepentant. “and he glared at me. which honestly made it better.”

“you're lucky he didn't throw you out the window.”

“i would have flown back up for you.”

your breath catches before you can stop it.

his smile softens, something tender pulling at the edges.

“that first day,” he goes on, voice smoothing out. “you walked into the briefing room late, hiccupped mid sentence, and still had the guts to sass endeavor to his face. i thought, ‘yeah. i could get in trouble with this one.’”

“and you have,” you point out, trying very hard to sound normal.

“mhm.” he nods, lazy. “so worth it.”

the air between you feels different all of a sudden. thicker. charged in a way that has nothing to do with altitude.

“keigo,” you start, warning threaded through his name.

“what?” he asks, all innocence, stepping closer. “i can't talk about my favorite person on our anniversary trip?”

“you keep calling it that like it's a real holiday.”

“it is now.” his grin tilts. “we can make out under the fireworks every year or something.”

your brain snags on make out, sparks flying noisily inside your skull.

“there are no fireworks,” you say, a little too fast.

“not yet.”

you narrow your eyes. “you are being so obnoxious.”

“i am being soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo obvious,” he corrects softly.

you look up at him properly then. really look. the way his pupils have blown just a bit wider. the way his posture has shifted, easygoing slouch straightening into something almost sharp. the way his wings have gradually spread out, tips curving in a little, subtly hemming you in.

“you have been so obvious for years,” you say, heart kicking at your ribs. “nothing ever changes.”

he hums. his hand comes up, slow enough that you could move away if you wanted. fingers brush a strand of hair back from your face, knuckles grazing your cheek, lingering at the hinge of your jaw.

you don't move.

his touch is warm, calloused in places where feathers meet skin.

“are you sure about that?” he asks.

you swallow, the word stuck somewhere between your chest and your mouth. “you're my best friend.”

“i know.” he steps closer again. your backs nearly touch the balcony wall now. “annnnd?”

“and.” your voice thins. you hate that he can do this to you with just a look. “you're a flirt.”

“with you,” he says. “mostly with you.”

“you flirt with baristas.”

“to get free extra syrup!!” he counters. “you get entire vacations!”

your laugh comes out shaky. “this is extortion.”

“this is priority seating,” he says, lips curving. “don’t pretend you don't like it.”

his fingers slide from your jaw to rest under your chin, a light hook, tipping your face up. his other hand plants itself on the balcony railing beside your hip, caging you in even more.

you can see the tiny flaws in him from here. the small scar near his eyebrow. the faint dark circles under his eyes that the world pretends not to notice because he smiles so pretty. the way his gaze keeps dipping to your mouth like he is fighting himself and mostly losing.

your pulse thunders.

“keigo,” you murmur, and it sounds like a question and a warning and something halfway to a plea.

“yeah?” his voice has dropped, roughened

“what are you doing ?”

“collecting.”

you blink. “collecting what?”

his thumb strokes once along the soft line of your chin

“interest,” he says. “on all the things we never did.”

heat rolls through you in a slow wave.

“you're being dramatic,” you manage.

“you flew across an ocean with me for a made up anniversary,” he says. “you aren't allowed to talk to me about dramatic.”

his wings shift again. feathers brush the balcony wall on either side of you, a soft rustle. if you lean back even an inch, you'll feel their edges.

“you could have brought anyone,” you say, quieter now. “you know that.”

he studies you for a long, long moment. the city hums beneath you, lights blinking, traffic a distant ocean.

“no...” he says finally. “i really couldn’t.”

your chest squeezes around the words.

you look away, toward the skyline, because it feels too raw to hold his gaze. his thumb tips your face back insistently.

“hey,” he murmurs. “don’t go hiding on me now.”

“i'm not hiding,” you lie.

“you always do this,” he says. “we get close to the edge and you joke, and i joke, and we dance back. it's cute. i like the dance. but...”

he leans in, until his breath brushes your lips.

“i brought you here because i was kind of hoping we would jump instead.”

your heart flips clean over.

“and if i don't want to jump?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper

he smiles, small and crooked, nothing like the big public grin he wears for cameras. this one is just for you.

“then i'll tease you about it,” he says lightly. “and we'll watch movies in this ridiculously expensive room and eat too much room service and i'll pretend i didn't buy a stupidly nice dress in your size that's hanging in the closet.”

your eyes widen. “you did not.”

“check the tag later.” he shrugs. “or you know. stay in my hoodie. i am def good either way.”

his thumb shifts, brushing the corner of your mouth now.

“i love you either way,” he adds, slip soft.

your breath catches. he freezes like he did not mean to say it that plainly.

there is a tiny beat of silence where you could run. you could laugh it off, shove it back into the box labeled dangerous and pretend you did not hear that shit. it's what you've both done, in smaller ways, for years.

you don't move.

“say that again,” you whisper.

his eyes search yours, checking, double checking, more serious than you think you have ever seen him.

“i love you,” he says. no joke this time. no wink to cushion the blow.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, grabbing at him. “then stop hovering,” you breathe. “and jump.”

something in his expression cracks wide open.

the hand under your chin slides back to cradle your jaw. the other leaves the rail, palm slapping against the wall by your head as he steps fully into your space, pinning you gently between his body and the cool surface. his wings flare and curl in, red and sharp and sheltering, blocking out the sight of anything that is not him.

his mouth finds yours in the next heartbeat.

the kiss hits like that first drop on a roller coaster, stomach swooping, air punched out of your lungs in a single, dizzy rush. his lips are warm, plush, tasting faintly of fruit and champagne and something that has lived in your imagination for far too long.

he kisses you like he's rehearsed it, in daydreams between patrols and in the quiet minutes before sleep. confident, sure, but with an edge of something hungry around the edges, like he's holding back more than he should.

your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, swallowing the small sound he makes when you answer him with teeth, with the pent up push and pull of every flirt that never went anywhere.

his fingers flex against your jaw, angling your face exactly where he wants it. the wall is solid at your back. he is solid at your front. his wings curve around you both, feathers brushing your shoulders, your hair, a soft, enclosing rustle. the outside world blurs to city glow and distant sound.

when he finally pulls back, he doesn't go far. his nose bumps yours, foreheads touching. his thumb traces the swollen edge of your lower lip like he can't believe he did that, like he's already greedy for more.

his pupils are wide, “okay,” he breathes, a little laugh hidden in the exhale. “yeah. cool. that was… that was better than the versions in my head.”

you huff, feeling oddly unsteady. “how many versions are we talking?”

“classified,” he says, grinning, soft and shaken. “hero secret.”

his hand leaves your jaw to cup the side of your neck instead, thumb feeling for your pulse point, like he wants proof you are real and right here and his now, in a way you weren’t before.

“so...” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your cheek as he talks. “this mean i get upgraded from best friend to something with… more kissing?”

“you are still my best friend,” you say, and his smile brightens, quick.

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah,” you confirm. your fingers toy with the fabric at his collar, tugging him just a little closer again. “just with… benefits.”

he groans dramatically, dropping his forehead to your shoulder for a second like he is overwhelmed by the gift he has been given.

you feel him smile against your throat, breath warm where it ghosts over your skin.

“no boyfriend? you're going to destroy me,” he says into your neck, words muffled,

you laugh, a little shaky. “you are sooo needy and for what? you need to be happy i even gave you benefits!”

he pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded, pupils dark and wide. his thumb is still pressed over your pulse, like he can feel each skip.

“oh?” he murmurs, mouth curving slow. “is that an offer?”

your face heats. “keigo.”

“no, i just want to be clear,” he teases, leaning in until his nose brushes yours. “first kiss. first time we stop pretending we’re just flirting. first time…” he trails off, gaze dropping to your lips, voice dropping with it. “first time we see where this really goes. that what you’re putting on the table, princess?”

your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. he really is going to be the death of you.

“yeah,” you say, breath catching. “if ... you want it.”

he exhales, like you just handed him the keys to your city.

“been wanting it since before i knew what to call it,” he admits, soft and a little raw. then his grin tilts, wicked at the edges. “best friend anniversary seems like a pretty good excuse to start, don’t 'cha think?”

he barely waits for your huffed laugh before he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, all the careful edges burned away. his mouth moves against yours like he finally let himself be hungry. your back presses harder into the balcony wall, his body crowding in, wings curling tighter around you until the world shrinks to red feathers and the rasp of his voice between kisses.

“we should… probably not make out on an open balcony,” you manage between breaths, though you don’t exactly try to pull away.

he hums against your mouth, obviously not bothered. “worried about the view?”

“worried about you getting us both trending,” you whisper, nipping at his lower lip.

he laughs, low and pleased, and the sound goes straight through you.

“guess we better take this inside then,” he says.

he peels one hand away from your neck just long enough to slide the balcony door open behind you. the cool air from the room rushes out, brushing over sweat-damp skin. his wings shift, folding in enough to let him walk you backward, step by slow step, his mouth never quite leaving yours.

you bump into the little table, into the edge of the plush chair, into his chest when he hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you just enough to set you down where he wants you. each clumsy little collision makes you both laugh into the kiss, heat and fondness tangling up into a bundle of nerves

“finally, finallyyyy, ” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat, his hand splayed warm and steady at your hip.

you look up at him, at the boy who became your favorite person without asking permission, the man who flew you across an ocean just for an excuse to finally stop running from the obvious.

“shut up and kiss me, keigo,” you say, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, feeling muscle twitch under your touch. “or are you all talk?”

his eyes flare, bright and hungry.

“oh, that’s it,” he breathes, laughing, and then his mouth is on yours again, his weight braced over you as the balcony door swings gently shut on its track.

the city lights stay outside, blurred behind glass, while inside the room the world narrows to tangled limbs and soft, breathless sounds, to his hands roaming every part of you like he’s been waiting his whole life to get his dna on you. his hoodie ends up somewhere on the chair, your shirt joins it, the air sweet with hotel soap and his cologne and the warmth of two people finally, finally stepping over a line they drew themselves.

That was when you and your mother arrived at the palace. The queen was in need of a personal handmaid, and your mother, having served as a handmaid in a neighboring kingdom, was sent to Ithaca. She was a trusted woman—regarded as one of the most loyal workers in her homeland—so it didn’t take long before Queen Penelope came to see her the same way.

Along side your mother—was you, you looked around the same age as Telemachus though he never officially met you. It was quite a turn for Telemachus to have another person his age in the palace walls however it only ever remained as that. Just another presence that worked for his family.

In rare events, Telemachus would ran into you while you're helping your mother or the other handmaidens. You stood professional despite you being the same age, it was clear that you were more mentally mature than the prince, heck probably more sensible than any other teen in Ithaca.

𐔌 One time, Telemachus was walking back to his room when he passed by you. Though you were looking out through the open window at the view, you immediately sensed his presence and turned to acknowledge him.

"Good day, your highness. The sky seems to be in a good mood today, isn't it?" That was the first time you'd ever spoken to him beyond simply greeting him by title.

The young prince wasn’t exactly used to speaking with girls his age, so an awkward chuckle escaped his lips as he stepped a little closer to you. “It quite is,” Telemachus replied, his voice slightly uncertain.

You looked out towards the sky "The sky has been gloomy nowadays.. It's nice to see the sun shining more often" You said, he glanced up at the sky then back at you. "Yeah.. It has been awhile since the weather was this calm" He said. "It's quite beautiful, if you look into it"

You visually agreed as you gave a soft smile, "..Do you prefer it like this?" Telemachus asked almost too awkwardly.

“I do,” you answered honestly. “The garden’s easier to work in when it’s not soaked with rain. Besides, the sunlight brings the colors out. It makes things feel a little more alive… even if just for a while.”

He raised a brow, a little surprised. “You tend the queen’s garden?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “Other times, I’m just the one who passes through it delivering things. But I know it better than most—it’s beautiful there, especially with this weather”

Telemachus looked at you curiously, you noticed and only let out a chuckle.

A few seconds of silence were occupied between you two—as he followed your gaze and landed on the palace's garden, and you did not lie—the garden was indeed beautiful with the sun's grasp.

He thought you were about to say something more, your lips just beginning to move, but your eyes flicked to the corner, catching sight of something—or someone.

Before you could continue, you stopped yourself and quickly excused yourself with a slight bow. Curious, Telemachus turned in the direction you left and saw your mother standing a short distance away, wearing an unreadable expression. The two of you greeted the prince one last time before walking off together in silence.

That was probably the last time you made small talk with Telemachus—you didn’t completely brush him off, still greeting him with a soft smile whenever he was around, but there was a quiet distance that formed between the two of you. One he couldn’t quite name, as there was no word in the dictionary existed for it. Still, he noticed. He noticed how you always looked like you had something to say, but held your composure. He didn’t do anything about it—maybe because he barely knew you, or maybe because he assumed you prioritize your duties over forming any friendship.

However he would be lying, if he says it didn't bother him completely.

𐔌 When Telemachus was sixteen, murmurs of concern began to stir among the people of Ithaca. Even though Queen Penelope managed the kingdom just fine, the prolonged absence of a king was becoming harder to ignore. That was when a few suitors began to appear at the palace—coming not out of loyalty, but in hopes of claiming the throne through Penelope’s hand.

Telemachus could smell their dirty intentions from a mile away, and more than anything, he wanted them gone. He hated how easily they assumed his father was dead, as if his memory could be buried so simply. Thankfully, his mother was no fool—Penelope remained clever, holding off every suitor with such grace and patience.

Time passed, and the number of suitors grew—eventually even gaining a leader among them, as if they ever needed one, when all they did was abuse the hospitality of their home. They demanded a new king, insisted the queen to choose a new husband already. Telemachus begged his mother not to lose hope. Fortunately, she was just as cunning as his father and came up with a plan to keep the suitors at bay.

"Today I will begin to weave a shroud for my lost husband, if he is not seen in Ithaca before I finish, I will choose one of you to take his place beside me"

"I will send for maidens to help you" One of the suitors pointed out.

𐔌 A year passed and the presence of the suitors affected not only the queen and Telemachus, but also everyone who served in the palace. You were no exception. Despite holding no grace in your blood, your features carried them all, your presence was warm that drew eyes—an unspoken beauty that didn’t beg for attention, It was the kind of presence that carried itself with dignity, not vanity. Unfortunately, that was enough to catch the notice of the suitors themselves.

"Girl," You could feel their eyes land on you as you tried your best not to take notice, focusing instead on your chores. Unfortunately, you had been tasked with sending something to the kitchen—and that path meant passing by the suitors. You mentally prepared yourself as you stepped forward, keeping your chin up, doing all you could to ignore the lingering stares that followed your every step.

Your attempt to ignore the call quickly backfired when suddenly your arm was harshly tugged by force—it caused you to let out a yelp—immediately stepping back when you saw one of them drawing closer. "Are you deaf in one ear or are we playing pretend?" A mischievous tone of voice rang in the crowd.

You immediately knew who's voice it was—as your face immediately turned sickened.

Eurymachus stood infront of you, his taller figure casting a shadow into you however your glare was no invisible.

"Why are you such in a rush? hmm? you don't have to act like you don't like the attention" Cheers and chuckles of men followed.

"You're interrupting my work, Eurymachus. If you have a shred of decency, you and and the others will move and let me do my job." You spat back—keeping your composure straight, a grin plastering on the man's face causing a churn in your stomach. "Aww, so dedicated, aren’t we? Of course you are—you’re the daughter of the queen’s precious head handmaiden, right? Always so eager" He mocks—stepping closer.

Instead of backing away or showing even a hint of fear, you stepped closer, narrowing your glare at the man. “Instead of insulting my mother, I suggest you to keep your mouth shut. The queen wouldn’t be too pleased to hear such a foul tongue from one of her guests.” Though your words dripped with venom, your eyes held only boredom, and your posture remained calm, unshaken. The way you looked at Eurymachus—as if he was no one to fear—only made his ego swell, stung by the quiet defiance.

The room fell silent at your remark. You turned your back on him, taking a step—only for Eurymachus to seize a fistful of your hair, yanking you back towards him with brutal force. A sharp cry escaped your lips as pain arched through your scalp. You clawed at his hand, but his grip only tightened, making it worse.

“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?!” he snarled. “Don’t forget—you’re just a maid here! the youngest!, you little tramp!" He yelled at your face.

"Since you talk shit with that pretty mouth of yours, why don't we use it for more useful things, yeah?" Eurymachus looked around, asking for validation as the men all around nodded—disgustingly agreeing.

He tugged your hair more as you fought the tears of pain. Eurymachus grin widen.

"Let go of her, in this instant!" Another voice had joined in the chine, everyone in the room Including you, turned to its direction seeing no other than the young wolf himself. An awkward silence followed but then Eurymachus let out a chuckle and his men of pigs pathetically followed.

His laughter rang as he released your hair with a harsh shove. The force of his grip—and the sudden release—disrupted your once-neat bun, sending strands down in disarray. You stumbled back, but quickly regained your footing, eyes locked on Eurymachus as he turned his attention towards the eighteen year old prince

He walked toward Telemachus, who stood in the doorway. Though fear might’ve churned in his chest, his face held firm—brave. Telemachus had happened to pass by when the suitors' unusually loud cheers reached his ears—tones too rowdy, too mocking. Curious, he paused by the door. But it wasn’t until he heard your voice, strained and unmistakable, followed by Eurymachus’s cruel mockery, that something in him snapped. He didn’t think—he moved.

His eyes immediately found you. Disheveled. Hurt. And his face changed.

“Is the young prince trying to cosplay a hero now? Run along back to your mommy’s chambers while we borrow one of your precious maids. Can’t blame us, can we? Your mother’s been taking her sweet time choosing.”

Telemachus jaw clenched but did not flinch as he glared back. “This is my father’s hall,” he said. “And until he returns, my mother rules it. You forget yourselves. No one here—maid or not—is yours to touch, command, or mock." He spat back—his eyes meeting yours.

"Touch (name) again and you will regret it" He said, stepping closer.

You in the other hand, was quite in shock, you sensed more troubles if you simply just stand there.

Eurymachus fell silent for a moment, though the flicker of a thought passed through his eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed…” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard—before suddenly grabbing Telemachus by the collar of his chiton and yanking him forward. The room tensed. Not with fear or shame but with a smile.

“Eurymachus, stop this at once! He’s the prince—you have no right to lay a hand on him!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the heavy air. Without hesitation, you shoved past the suitors, forcing your way toward them,

“Your father isn’t here, boy—he’s nowhere. Dead!" He shouts, Telemachus clenched his fists tighly. Eurymachus whispered, "You don't have to be so greedy.. we can always take turns with her"

Before anyone could react, the prince stepped forward and drove his fist into Eurymachus’s jaw. The force sent the man stumbling back, stunned. Silence followed.

It was the first time Telemachus had ever thrown a punch—and succeeded. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Eurymachus recovered with a snarl and lunged, but before the blow could land, you threw yourself in front of Telemachus, gripping his arm and pulling him back. A ring of shouts exploded from the suitors, feeding off the tension like a pack wolves.

Then the doors slammed open.

“That is enough!” a voice commanded. All eyes turned to the entrance—Penelope stood tall, flanked by guards and, trailing behind, your mother. The queen’s gaze flicked to you, then to her son.

You bowed. “Your Highness, forgive the disturbance. I was only fulfilling my duties. The guests chose to interfere.”

Penelope’s stare hardened, especially as Eurymachus stepped forward, smirking. “Don’t scold the boy, my lady. Maybe he’s just trying to learn how a real man rules a house in his father’s absence.”

Few dared to laugh. Penelope ignored him. “Why are you here, son?” she asked.

Telemachus finally lifted his head. “They were mistreating (name).”

He glanced your way—quick, but meaningful. Eurymachus scoffed and walked off, dragging some of the suitors with him.

A quiet hand landed on your shoulder. Your mother. Her eyes avoided yours.

“I apologize for the inconvenience (name) may have caused, my queen,” she said. Inconvenience. The word stung more than you expected. You bit the inside of your cheek—hard enough that you nearly tasted blood. You could feel it. The way her fingers tensed ever so slightly on your shoulder, the way she refused to meet your eyes. You really should’ve taken laundry duty today, at least clothes don't glare.

"It’s not her fault, by any means. I’m glad both of you stood up for yourselves," Penelope said, glancing between you and Telemachus with a faint, approving smile.

But you barely heard. You only bowed, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Telemachus noticed—how tightly your lips pressed, how closed off you looked.

He hadn’t realized he was still watching until you turned to leave. Your eyes met, just for a second, before the door closed behind you.

“Thank you, my prince,” you said—and then you were gone. The words lingered, quiet as the slam of a heart too full.

The moment you closed the door, your eyes settled on your mother’s back—posture straight, chin held high, hands placed on either sides of her chiton. You couldn’t see her eyes, but you imagined them blank, yet somehow heavy with sentiment. She paused. "I told you to stay out of trouble, the prince will think of you as a hassle with this." she said, her voice flat and distant. Hassle? You didn’t answer. You’d learned by now that it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t really listen.

𐔌 Word had spread among the servants, and many took it upon themselves to spare you from any chores that meant crossing paths with the suitors—you couldn’t have been more grateful. As for the young prince, he too kept his distance from the suitors more than ever, trying to push the whole ordeal to the back of his mind. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t quite forget about you. It had all happened so quickly, yet his thoughts lingered—on your voice, your bravery, the way you stood your ground. That moment clung to him more than he expected.

So much so that Telemachus snapped out of his thoughts, suddenly realizing what he was supposed to be doing. His eyes landed on the scroll sitting untouched on his desk—the one he was meant to deliver to his mother. Panic hit him as he noticed the fading sunlight; the deadline had passed hours ago. He shot up from his seat, hastily rolling the scrolls and rushing out of his room. As he moved quickly through the halls, he mentally scolded himself—he'd been so caught up thinking about you that he hadn’t even realized he collided with someone’s shoulder.

"I'm sorry—" His words cut off as he realized it was you. Telemachus’ eyes widened, a small smile forming on his lips without him noticing. Recognizing the voice before the face—your eyes widened too, but not in the same way as his. "(Name)! Hello—" he started, a bit breathless.

"Excuse me for bumping into you, sire. I need to deliver this urgently," you interrupted with a quick bow. His smile faded into a thin line, blinking at the sudden change in tone. "Oh… yes, you’re excused," he said. You gave a short nod before walking off, leaving the young prince in the hall, scrolls in hand.

He quietly watches you disappear, as he reluctantly walks away himself—reasoning your skeptical hurry as important.

𐔌 "Good morning, (name)," Telemachus greeted one early morning as he entered the kitchen. The suitors were still asleep, and for once, both of your worries felt lighter. Still, you flinched at the sound of his voice, your hands pausing mid-task as you looked over at the prince.

"Your Highness! Uh—good day also. What are you doing—"

"Can I help with anything?" he asked, stepping closer to the counter you were working on. You gripped the edges a little tighter as he neared, your mother words reminding you. "Uh—no! It's no problem, sir, uhm..." you trailed off, clearly avoiding his gaze. "Actually, I think I'm needed in the courtyard this time. Please excuse me."

With a quick bow and a wipe of your hands on your chiton, you hurried off. Telemachus opened his mouth to say something more, but you were already gone. Your rushed steps still in the air.

Did he say something wrong? He wondered—maybe you were just busy. Still, the way your voice tightened and your hands clenched the counter… it left a quiet thought in his chest, though he said nothing and moved on with his day.

𐔌 While walking the palace halls, Penelope and Telemachus paused at an open window. Below, the garden bloomed—olive trees winding along the walls, vines heavy with green. The two spoke softly, their conversation slow and warm, until Telemachus’s gaze drifted downward.

You were there, moving quietly beside your mother, watering can in hand. He watched as you poured water carefully over each plant, steady and focused. “Telemachus?” Penelope’s voice brought him back. She followed his line of sight.

You felt eyes on you. Glancing up, your breath caught—there they were, the prince and queen above. You quickly looked away, heart thudding. “Too much water,” your mother said dryly. You mumbled an apology, hands trembling slightly as you resumed your work.

Still, you kept glancing upward. From above, Penelope’s attention shifted between her son and the scene below. You caught Telemachus looking again. This time, your eyes met—brief, fleeting.

Your mother noticed. She gave your arm a light tap, drawing your attention. Then, with a composed smile, she lifted a hand in greeting. Penelope nodded in return. You followed suit, smiling too—but something about it was off. Too polished. Too faint.

It wasn’t the usual smile he often caught on you. This one looked tired, almost practiced, as you placed the watering can gently on the ground. Maybe it was the contrast—your mother’s expression beaming while yours seemed to just go along with it. You… you looked distant. And you still hadn’t met his gaze again.

His chest tightened. Had he done something? Since the incident, you’d kept your distance—never cold, but never quite open either. Every time he tried to speak, you found a reason to leave. Not angry. Just… guarded. Holding something in.

And somehow, that quiet hurt more than anything else. And for the first time, the young prince began to wonder… did he do something wrong?

𐔌 Telemachus could not sleep that night, the stars and moon hovering the sky—he sighs for the fifth time that night as he pulled himself out his sheets, rubbing his eyes and grabbing a light lantern. He couldn't sleep—so might as well do something productive.

The prince travelled to the palace's library, careful not to make any noise on the way, this part of the palace during the day would often have workers in it as the queen's attendant and scribes would often work their scripts or reports in there.

Telemachus expected the room to be empty and dim—silent, as it usually was at this hour. So imagine the surprise on his face when he sees a source of light glowing from behind one of the tall bookshelves. The prince quietly shut the door behind him, careful not to make a sound, his steps slowing until he was nearly tiptoeing. Who else would be awake so late?

He crept closer, weaving between shelves until he could peer around the corner. And there you were. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, a small pile of books and scrolls at your side, completely absorbed in the parchment in your hands. The soft light of a lone lantern and the moon’s glow through the high windows illuminated your face. Something about the sight—your quiet focus, the shadows gently swaying on your features—stirred a strange pull in his chest.

"Room for one more?" Your head snapped up at the voice, eyes wide in surprise. The paper in your hand trembled slightly, your fingers loosening their grip. Telemachus stood a few paces away, hands behind his back as he made his presence known. "Prince Telemachus! What are you doing here so late-?" You asked trying to cover up the building tension in your hands.

"I could ask you the same thing" He says, you did not answer. "Do you mind?" He asks again with a small smile.

Your eyes start at him as you look away slowly—gripping the paper. It took a few seconds before you deliberately nodded, shifting slightly, making space among the scrolls without saying a word. That was all the invitation he needed.

His eyes drifted to the scrolls and books spread before you. “Do you always stay up this late?” he asked, voice quiet. "Sometimes" You murmured, keeping your gaze to yourself.

An awkward silence followed, you weren't even reading anything at this point as you were still as a rock. Telemachus turned to you—you tensed, he noticed.

"I didn't expect to see you here" he said softly. "You've been.. hard to find recently" The sound of fire from both of your lanterns crackle.

"I was starting to worry that if I did something to offend you" at that, your attention was piqued.

"You seemed to be distant and tensed lately, you were always calm and open most of the time so I wondered if I was the problem" Your head turning to meet his eyes.

"Your highness-"

"Telemachus, we're practically the same age" He corrects.

You blink, "Prin— Telemachus"

He hummed, "I keep thinking back. If I said something wrong or made you uncomfortable last time, if I did then I'm probably stupid for not noticing" He laughs.

Silence followed.

"Who am I kidding, we were never friends.. this shouldn't bother me so much, I'm sorry" He humors with a laugh that seemed forced.

You didn't say anything about his statement for a moment, your continuing silence caused the prince to turn away—debating if he should just excuse himself.

"..You didn't do anything wrong" You finally said, causing the prince to focus on you.

"In fact, I should be the one saying sorry" You started, "You went out on your way to protect me and I did nothing but to brush you off so harshly" you looked down at your palms.

You let out a heavy sigh, your voice soft with concern. "You even punched Eurymachus… dear gods." Palming your face.

Telemachus only laughs "It was a stupid move but i would do it again, he deserves it" He says leaning down the shelf.

...

"I'm sorry for ignoring you, the truth is..." You hesitantly spoke, "I was told to avoid you"

"What?" The prince furrowed his brows. "By who?" He followed

"Not in the way you think! It’s just… my mother believes she was sent here to Ithaca because her service back home wasn’t good enough. She’s afraid that if we make any wrong move, the queen might do the same thing to us." You trailed,

"She told me from the start not to cause any trouble here in the palace. Then one day, she saw me talking to you and completely flipped—said you might take it the wrong way. So, to be safe, she told me not to interact with you at all."

Telemachus stayed quiet for a moment, processing your words, his gaze softening. He hears you continue "It actually bothered me, because I knew you weren't the one to think like that" the prince continued to listen.

"And.. also because a part of me just wanted to talk, which is silly—you’re a prince after all, but most people around here are either much older or… well, a threat. I just wanted someone my own age."

You pulled your knees to your chest, leaning into the motion as your arms wrapped around them—an action you find comfort in. "But I love my mother," you murmured, voice muffled behind your knees. "Even if she can be a handful sometimes… she’s all I have left. So, I just obliged."

"Is that why.. whenever your mother is around you look extra tense?"

You chuckled, “You notice?” you said, turning to the prince. Telemachus turned his head too—now you were both eye to eye.

“Since I was around thirteen,” he said. “You were kind from the start—always composed, more mature than I ever was. And when the suitors came, you stood your ground for you and your mother… I really admired that.”

"Really?" You tilted your head at the prince.

"I never knew my father, but I’ve always heard he was a great man. That’s why it hurts—seeing how easily the suitors dismiss him and disrespect my family. I want nothing more than to put them in their place... if only I were as strong as he was. But you..you’re brave. You stand up for the people you care about. I wish I could do that, too." Telemachus said, turning his head away

“Who says you aren’t brave, my prince?” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet. He turned to look at you, and you met him with a soft, reassuring smile. “You risk getting beaten every other day just by standing your ground. You’ve held yourself together despite your father’s absence. You’ve been there for your mother, defended her name—and your own, even mine… you stepped in when no one else would.”

Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer. “Maybe you haven’t reached yet the place your father once stood… but I think, if he saw you now, he’d be proud. Proud of the way you carry yourself, of how brave and strong you are—every single day."

Telemachus eyes searched yours, as if trying to find something he couldn’t quite name. His lips parted slightly, then closed again. Your words had sink in.

Both of you continued to stare into each other’s irises as a quiet breeze brushed against you. Neither of you noticed how, with every word shared, you had both unknowingly scooted closer—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now, you sat in silence, closer than you had ever been, with no more words left to fill the space.

"That's..." Telemachus searched for the words, "That's really kind of you to say" He worded out.

You laughed, covering your chuckle with your fingers in a soft, graceful way. Telemachus followed with a quiet laugh of his own, the tension between you both slowly melting away. Just a while ago, neither of you could look into each others eyes—now, you were talking like old friends catching up. The two of you shared stories, small memories, thoughts you had never voiced before, as if making up for all the quiet years spent under the same roof.

Telemachus listened closely, learning things he never knew about you. You spoke of how you taught yourself to draw, how creating art gave you peace, how expressing feelings through sketches felt like breathing—and that beauty was your favorite word. He watched you with growing interest, his pupils quietly widening every time you laughed at something he said—whether it was a passing comment or a joke. There was something in that sound that made him want to hear more.

"You want to be a painter?" He asked curiously. You nodded happily, "Mhm! It's been my dream since I was a kid, that's why I'm here at night, to study color theory, and also i can't do it in the morning"

Telemachus raised his brow at this, "Why so?"

"My mother. As always" You started, "She's training me to become a good handmaiden after she retires, which is a long time by the way!" You playfully rolled your eyes.

"Don't get me wrong, I do love helping people and I definitely love tending-"

"The garden, especially on sunny days," he finished your sentence.

You turned to him, your smile widening into a grin. "You remembered?"

He gave a small shrug, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Maybe."

"But yes," you said, a warmth in your voice, "I love the garden… but I love painting a portrait of it even more."

Without warning, you shifted slightly and reached into the pile beside you, rummaging through your books. Telemachus watched curiously as you pulled out a small stack of parchment—each one softly inked with delicate lines and shapes. Drawings. Sketches of flowers, leaves, moments caught in beauty.

He even caught a glimpse of sketches of faces, though you quickly shuffled them to the bottom of the stack. He swore one of the portraits looked familiar.

You cleared your throat softly, holding up a sheet. "Here's one of the garden," you said, revealing a colored portrait. Telemachus leaned in, his mouth parting slightly in awe as he took in the way the colors blended together, how alive the scene felt.

"This is so good—what the hell?!" he blurted, genuine admiration in his voice. You chuckled at his reaction, watching as he carefully began to look through the rest of your work. With each piece, his awe seemed to grow.

"Is this one unfinished?" he asked, pointing to a painting where only a quarter of the paper had been colored.

"Oh yeah, I ran out of pigment," you admitted with a soft laugh. "And getting new ones here isn’t exactly cheap… plus, I haven’t had the time to go out to the market."

Telemachus watched as you started to fix your stuff, "It's getting late, I should probably go" you announced.

He helped you with some of the scrolls, and soon you both were face to face—the two of you looked at each other sheeply before you cleared your throat.

"It was nice getting to know you.. Telemachus" You said, with a bit of hesitation in saying his name bare.

"It's nice to also get to know, (name)" He replied, with a low breath—he brought his hand in front of you. "Friends?" He said with his lips kissing his teeth.

You stared at his hand for a second then back at him—immediately taking his invitation in yours. "Friends!" You grasped.

The two of you exchanged giggles that night.

Being friends with the prince was something you didn’t expect—especially because it was an order by your mother. However, you learned that this small disobedience—was worth it. You noticed how colors seemed more vivid ever since that day.

Your friendship with Telemachus wasn’t loud, at first it only consisted of shared glances, whispering of each other's name and exchanging constant waving like kids in the park.

Then he started to stop by the garden with obvious excuses, "The queen sent me," "I'm checking the vines," "I'm just passing through"—but you both knew better. When you're the only one working in the garden—he’d offer to carry the watering can or sit beside you, tossing small olives at the wall and missing on purpose, just to hear you laugh.

You recently told him how your nose always get itchy whenever you gathered wildflowers, but that you bore through it anyway. The next morning, you found him waiting by the hill, basket already in hand, ready to help you pick them. A small tug pulled at your heart that day.

You started to notice how Telemachus began doing his scrolls in the palace library more often. He used to prefer the privacy of his own room, but lately, he seemed to want to cross paths with you. There were moments when he’d peek around the shelves, tap the top of your head with a scroll, and whisper, “I win,” before settling beside you to read.

He has a habit of randomly scaring from behind, yelling "Boo!" and laughing at himself.

He tried drawing once, because you asked. The sketch was... awful. But you laughed until your stomach hurt, and he looked so proud of it that you kept it tucked between your books.

Though the friendship became something deeper one late night, the two of you were in your usual spot in the library. It was already dark, and only your lanterns cast a glow over the two of you. You tended to ramble about the details of your sketches, and Telemachus listened, his eyes half-lidded but still focused on you.

Then, in the middle of your words, you felt the weight of his head gently fall to your shoulder.

You paused, startled at first, but when you turned slightly, he was already asleep. His breath was steady, calm. The closeness made your heart thump—but you stayed still, careful not to wake him. You didn’t want to wake him, partly because you were embarrassed… and partly because you kind of liked it.

Your heart stopped when you heard him mumble your name in his sleep, did you hear that right?

Then came your 18th birthday.

Birthdays weren’t exactly something you grew up celebrating. At most, your mother and a few kind handmaidens would quietly greet you when the day came, a soft smile, a gentle hug—and that was enough. You were always grateful they remembered at all.

So imagine your surprise when, early one morning, you stepped out of your room to find a small bundle of color pigments carefully placed by your door. Each one wrapped in cloth, tied with a simple bow.

At first, you assumed the bundle was misplaced—perhaps something meant for someone else—until you noticed a small, neatly folded piece of paper tucked beneath the string. You opened it, and the handwriting was instantly familiar. You’d come to recognize it easily.

Dear (𝒩𝒶𝓂𝑒),

You didn’t mention it was your birthday—figured you wouldn’t. But someone in the staff said a handmaiden turns eighteen today, and I just knew it had to be you.

It’s nothing too grand, but when I saw these, I thought of you immediately. I hope they come in handy... and maybe you’ll let me see what you make with them?

Anyway—happy birthday.

~𝒯𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒸𝒽𝓊𝓈

You stood still for a moment, holding the letter. A small smile crept onto your face. The pigments were ones you hadn’t had in a while—some expensive, some hard to find. He remembered.

You and Telemachus had grown used to meeting in the library, and one late evening—weeks after your birthday—was no different. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes scanned the room, already knowing where to find you. Your back was turned, but without a doubt, he knew it was you. Quietly sneaking up behind, he grabbed your shoulders and “Boo!” with a laugh.

You turned and gave him a look—unfazed, a clear “Hahah, very funny” written across your face.

He grinned as he took a seat beside you.

"I tried looking for you earlier," you added, hands busy with something he hadn’t noticed yet, "but you were nowhere to be found."

"Oh! Sorry about that—I was out for a bit," he said.

You nodded, turning slightly away to focus on what you were doing. Telemachus didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered. He watched the way your hair had loosened, strands falling around your face. Your cheeks were faintly flushed, and something about that made him bite the inside of his lip.

Then, without thinking, his hand moved to tuck a strand behind your ear. You turned your eyes to him just as he blinked, caught in the moment.

"Uh—it was in the way," he mumbled, quickly finishing the gesture. "Sorry."

You only stare at him for a second before cracking a chuckle, Telemachus looks at you as his embarrassment washes away. "I was looking for you earlier because I wanted to give you something" You revealed making him tilt his head.

Then you shift so you can face him properly—your hands behind your back.

"As a thank you"

"Huh? For what?"

"For my birthday last time"

Telemachus' blinks. "You didn't have to"

"Yes but I want too"

"Close your eyes!" You said, "and give me your hand" You added—Telemachus looked at you confused but followed.

He closed his eyes and felt something placed on his palm—for a moment he felt your finger tips touched his.

"You can open them now" You said,

Telemachus peeked open one eye, then blinked fully awake when you brought forward a small clay figure—messy around the edges, a bit lumpy, but unmistakably him. Down to the blue sash, his tousled hair, and the faintest little pout painted on his lips.

He stared. Then blinked again.

"Wait—what—" he stammered, reaching out like it might shatter if he touched it too fast. "Is this… me?"

You nodded proudly. "I used the paints you gave me. Thought it was fitting."

He took it, carefully, like he was receiving some sacred relic from the gods. His ears turned pink. "Why am I… is this how you see me?" He commented

You tilted your head. “Tiny and pouty? Sometimes.”

He let out a loud laugh. “Gods, I love it. He looks like he’s about to cause trouble."

“I was going for princely charm, but that works too.”

Telemachus looked at the doll again, then back at you—his grin stretched wide, but his voice a little softer this time. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” He paused, then gently set the figure beside him. “Except maybe you.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He coughed, suddenly red. “—you because you made the doll!"

You laughed as he buried his face in his hands. "I experimented with clay the other day, this is my first attempt to do something that isn't flower pots" You told him.

"Well you did a great job for a beginner" He joked—earning a slight slap from you, "Excuse you! I've been doing pottery since I was 12!" You hollered.

Telemachus only giggled as he clenched his stomach.

Your shared laughter lingered in those quiet corners of the library that day, soft and light, drifting between the shelves and settling like dust on the edges of old scrolls. It became easy to lose track of time when it was just the two of you—moments folding into each other so naturally that the rest of the world seemed far away. Sometimes you swore the palace looked different. Livelier. Colors warmer. Even the way the wind blew through the halls felt lighter.

But, like most sunny days, it wasn’t meant to stay forever.

It was late morning when you returned from the market, you were asked to fetch some ingredients by your mother, arms filled with your basket and a soft cloth over. You hummed quietly to yourself until you entered the palace.

Before you could even take a step past the main corridor, a pair of handmaidens hurried past, whispering frantically. You stopped them out of instinct, brows furrowing.

“What’s going on?”

One of them glanced at the other, hesitating, then leaned a little closer.

“They say Antonius provoked the young prince during this morning... And he fought back... I don't think it went well.."

The words didn’t register at first—not entirely. You stood there, blinking, as your arms suddenly felt a little heavier.

The halls were quieter. Never in peace—but in tension.

You hurried through the halls, each step making the corridors feel longer, heavier, as you reached the dining hall. The first thing you noticed was the broken table, splintered as if something had been thrown against it—blood staining the wood and dripping onto the floor, enough to make your chest tighten.

Then, in the distance, you saw Antinous and his men laughing. He turned, nose bloodied, wiping it off with the back of his hand. He caught your stare. Your eyes widened. He smirked—slowly licking the blood from his lip in an almost disturbing way.

Your heart dropped. You searched around the room, searching for Telemachus, but he was nowhere in sight. Without a second thought, you turned and hurried through the palace again.

Your heart was pounding through your chest, gripping your fist until your knuckles went white. It was difficult to breathe properly—not when you have no idea where he is—or what had happened. Thoughts kept spinning messily as you almost missed the prince door.

You shouldn’t be in this hallway, especially in broad daylight. You knew staff could pass by any second, their whispers quick to turn into assumptions—worst case, your mother herself might be the one to catch you. But in that moment of distress, none of it mattered. You raised your fist and knocked on the prince’s chamber door—three times.

“Telemachus?!” you called, voice hushed, just loud enough to be heard, not enough to draw attention. You knocked again, faster this time.

The silence after that was sharp, you were about to knock for the last time until, "(name)...?" You could hear him say, so gentle.

“Oh Zeus. Telemachus, are you okay?! I—I heard what happened—are you hurt?!” you stammered, choking on your words, your hand gripping the doorknob. It was unlocked. But still, you waited.

Softly, you heard footsteps approaching from the other side. You bit your bottom lip to steady your shaking breath.

The door creaked open, and there he was—Telemachus. His nose was bloodied, streaks of dried blood smeared across his face and chiton. It wasn’t too bad… but it was enough to almost break you.

Telemachus opened the door wider—quietly inviting you in. You stepped forward, unable to hold yourself back, your movements unsure. Your hands careful to reach for him, He noticed, but before you could pull away, he gently took them in his, steadying you.

"What happened…" you whispered, pulling out a handkerchief you had prepared and bringing it softly to his face. "Antinous" was all he said, sitting on the edge of his bed.

You stood in front of him—noticing the way he kept touching the back of his head. You gently ran your finger through his hair as you touched the back. Eyes widening when you feel a puddle of liquid. "Did you hit your head?!" You asked panicked.

"Yes- but" He stated before taking your forearm away gently— "But please don't panic, It's okay now! I promise, it's dried up blood so technically it doesn't hurt-"

"What do you mean it doesn't hurt?! You're bleeding, you idiot!"

"I know! I know! But seriously! I've met—"

A gust of wind pushed through the balcony curtains. He paused, catching sight of the owl perched just out of reach—watching. But he didn’t say anything about it.

"..I've just been thinking a lot lately," he said instead, voice softer now, more grounded. "About who I am. About who I want to be."

You stayed quiet, listening carefully.

"I want to be more than just… the boy who waits. The boy who watches everything happen around him. I want to be strong. Not for the sake of war or glory—but so that I can protect My mother… you."

The words hung there, gentle but heavy. You blinked, caught off guard.

He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. "I don’t know. Sometimes I think about him—my father. People have all these stories. All this legend. But for me, he’s just… missing. And maybe that’s why I feel like I have to become something better. Not to replace him, but to at least live up to the name. To become someone that matters."

You saw the flicker in his eyes then.

"Because if he really is out there," he added, more to himself than to you, "I want him to come back and see that I became someone more worthy being proud of."

You didn’t say anything—but your eyes, still furrowed and shining with worry, said enough. Telemachus stiffened, afraid for a moment that he’d overstepped, that maybe he sounded foolish spilling his thoughts like that.

But then you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

His breath hitched. His hands found your waist without thinking, holding you close, cautious but sure. You tucked your face into his shoulder—and that’s when he felt it. The soft shake of your breath. The quiet sob you didn’t try to hide.

The boy was stunned—his heart loud in his chest—but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. This was the first time he’d held you like this. Just how he caught himself wondering what it might feel like to pull you close like this, but he always brushed it away, convincing himself he had no right. But now, it felt like a lucid dream.

"You're such an idiot," you murmured, voice thick. "How many times are you going to throw yourself into trouble before you finally learn? I'm glad you're growing, I really am—but that doesn't mean you get to risk your own blood like this!" Your words cracked near the end, raw and trembling.

He starts to hear you cry, and he couldn’t help but hold you tighter. He had never heard you cry before—not truly. The closest was that one time you had an allergic reaction to a wildflower; your eyes were watery and red, yet you were still laughing through the discomfort. But this… this was different. This time, you were crying because of him. Because he got hurt. Because you were scared. Because you cared.

"Don’t ever get yourself in a fight with the suitors no more! And don't ever scare me that ever again!" you scolded, voice trembling as you clung to him.

“I— I will,” he said, only for your grip to tighten with a sharp pinch to his arm.

“Promise!”

“Yes, yes! Promise!” he chuckled softly, wincing playfully as he lifted one hand in surrender. His smile, though bruised, was real—warm for you.

...

When Telemachus was around nineteen, that’s when Athena began training him. It was unfamiliar at first—awkward—but he adjusted quickly, picking up with every training—rather expected knowing he was the son of Odysseus himself.

Around the same time, his bond with you deepened, especially after the incident. Still, he never told you about his secret mentor as per request from the goddess of wisdom herself.

Mornings were reserved for training, afternoons taken by princely duties, and in the quiet of evening, that’s when he’d see you most. You spent your mornings with your chores, so your moments in the day together were often brief, scattered but the type he'd look forward too. Sometimes he'd help you out with your chores, definitely not cause he wants to spend time with you.

The young prince had just finished sparring with the goddess, day by day he felt more and more motivated—despite his limbs would go sore from training, the taste of improvement was enough to get him up, he can now at least defend himself properly against the suitors! Everyday as he becomes stronger and older, the men too get more impatient, wilder and unsafe.

If he wasn’t so smart, he might’ve picked a fight first this time—just to prove something. But he knew better now. He knew he had a long road ahead before he could win like that, and more than anything, he knew you wouldn’t be pleased if he got himself bruised for pride alone. The thought of you made his lips tug into a quiet smile.

“You did well today, young wolf,” Athena said with a proud smile.

“Thank you, Athena,” Telemachus huffed, catching his breath.

“I suggest you run your bruise under cold water before it darkens. I fear your lover might worry, seeing you all battered again,” she added, almost too casually.

At that, Telemachus perked up, his head snapping toward the goddess with wide eyes. "What..?" he echoed, a faint flush rising. Athena looked back at the prince, her face turning flat.

"Your bruise, ran it into cold water."

"No! The thing after that!"

"Your lover?"

"That!"

"Is she not..?" She asked, her tone leaning into a question.

"(Name)?" He choked, "She's— She's my Friend— Did you think we were lovers?!"

Athena lips were a flat line as he looked down at the flustered prince with a look that says "really?"

"My mistake" Was all she said before she morph into her owl form, setting on a near by branch all while Telemachus continued to look at her with red cheeks. "Wait no! You thought of us of lovers- why?" He asked the goddess of wisdom.

Athena only glared at him in her owl eyes, if she wasn't so nice she would have flown away but unfortunately they see each other everyday so she'd had to deal with it sooner again anyways, "You wear your feelings like a garland, young prince. It’s endearing... and painfully obvious."

Telemachus opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Feelings? I don’t— I don’t have feelings for her— I mean, I can see why someone would have. (Name)’s sweet, she’s kind and talented and—” He froze mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly. “Oh gods… do I have feelings for her?”

Athena, still perched as an owl, let out a long, tired blink. “You’re so tristful,” she muttered, feathers puffing slightly in exasperation.

"If you're questioning if you have feelings, then more likely you do."

"But what makes you think I do have them?!"

"Telemachus, you held the girl last time with such care, you immediately fell when she cried out your name. You long to see her every day, and unlike other mortals, instead of making your heart race, she makes it steady. At peace. I think it would be reasonable for anyone to assume…”

She paused "Well, that you already know how you feel."

Telemachus tried to carry on with the day, but the realization sat heavy in his chest—warm. He hadn’t accepted it, not fully, but it kept brushing the edges of his thoughts like a tide refusing to recede. His gaze stayed low as he wandered the hallways, hoping movement would loosen the knot in his chest.

Then he passed by the dining hall.

The door was cracked open, just slightly, and he paused without knowing why. The suitors were never up this early—it was the hour when the servers began preparing for the day’s meals. Quietly, curiously, he glanced through the gap.

You were there.

You hadn’t noticed him. You were speaking with another maiden, laughing softly at something she said, the corners of your eyes creased. And somehow, in the calm of morning, with the sunlight filtering in just right, Telemachus forgot how to breathe.

Your eyes shimmered even from afar, reflecting the dawn like polished amber. Your hair caught the golden rays as if the sun had chosen you as its canvas, and your smile—

Gods, that smile.

You looked so alive in that moment. So real. So effortlessly full of light.

In a way you made the ordinary look sacred.

Had you always been this beautiful?

He didn’t move. He only watched for a few more heartbeats, standing still as the morning slipped past him—and with it, any denial that might have still lingered.

Maybe he did like the way you made the palace feel like a home.

He recalled the moments your presence calmed him, the way your fingertips brushed his skin so gently, The nights spent talking until the stars faded, the laughter, the quiet glances—how it all felt like home. He thought of how often he smiled just being beside you, how the world softened when you were near.

This feeling—this need to be near you, to protect you, to simply hear your voice—it wasn’t fleeting. It was steady, sure. Like the way he smiled whenever you were around. Like the way he cherished every second, every glance, every word exchanged between you.

He admired how you gave kindness freely, yet knew when to draw the line. How you protected those you loved. How you always seemed to know what to say, or when to simply sit beside him in silence.

And as those thoughts wove together, one by one, the answer came to him—gentle but certain.

It wasn’t just fondness. It wasn’t just comfort.

He was in love with you.

Gosh he was in love with you

When Telemachus finally came to accept his feelings for you, the prince tried not to make it obvious—key word "tried" he was a little worried because Athena herself stated that it was painfully obvious. Telemachus could not focus, he kept losing focus and drifting his mind to the thought of you. But this time with his feelings aware.

A blush can't be fought back to his face as he tried to eat his lunch with his mother who took notice of his behavior.

"Telemachus?" Penelope called softly, eyeing her son across the table.

He blinked out of his daydream, his spoon hovering above his bowl. "Yes—mother?"

"You've barely touched your lunch," she noted, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. "And you're smiling into your soup."

Great, now his mother herself is starting to get suspicious, Athena was right—he's so obvious that it actually hurts him.

He quickly straightened, reaching for his cup in a clumsy attempt to ground himself. "Just… thinking."

Penelope watched him over the rim of her cup, a knowing glint in her eyes.

"You know," she began, "when you’re quiet like this, thinking of something you won’t say out loud... you look just like him."

Telemachus looked up, startled. "Father?"

She nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Your father used to sit right there, drifting off in thought halfway through a meal." She trailed, with her smile turning sly.

"Though I’m not quite sure he ever blushed the way you are now."

He quickly looked down at his plate. "I'm not blushing."

"Of course not." Penelope set her cup down gently. "But you do carry him in your face, in your silences, your stubborness."

There was a pause. Then, more softly, she added, "You’ve grown so much. I often forget you were just a child when he left."

Telemachus’ smile faded into thoughtfulness.

"How are you, nowadays mother?" He asked, the queen exhaled a heavy breath, "Still weaving the shroud, unweaving on night.." She confessed.

"And the suitors?"

Penelope almost laughs, "Still here. Still getting louder. Bolder. I don’t know how much longer I can keep them at bay. However I'm still hopeful for your father" She tried to keep her tone even - hopeful but her eyes didn’t lie. His mother was tired and Telemachus knew that.

He had always worn it like a shadow—this echo of a man he barely knew. Everyone had stories: how clever he was, how brave, how fierce. But stories weren’t answers. Stories didn’t explain his absence.

Telemachus looked down, hands clenched against the table.

"I can’t keep sitting here, doing nothing." The words escaped before he could stop them.

Penelope’s eyes snapped back to him. "What do you mean?"

"I need to do something" he said, "seek answers"

"where?"

"Anywhere! To Pylos or to Sparta, Menalaus may have news or Nestor too. Someone out there must know if he still lives—or where he fell." He said, eyes filling hope.

She stared at him, her face pale with worry. "Telemachus, no. Please. The seas are no safer than these halls. You don't need to be lost at it too"

"I’ve lived under his name my entire life," Telemachus said. "But I don't know what kind of man he was. Please mother. To find answers, closure."

"I’ve waited long enough," he said. "If I sit still, I’ll rot here just like they want."

Penelope fell quiet.

"You're all I have left, son" she whispered. "The only piece of him I still wake up to. If you go—"

"I’ll come back," Telemachus said quickly, though the words didn’t feel as certain as he wanted them to. He knew the risks, the danger and the uncertainty. Even so he murmured. "I promise."

At that, the queen embraced her son dearly, arms wrapped around him with a quiet desperation she rarely allowed herself to show.

Telemachus stood stiff at first, He hadn't been embraced like this since he was a child—before he understood what absence meant, before the hall grew loud with uninvited voices and the scent of home was soured by strangers. He held her back, carefully, protectively.

He felt like a child again, embracing his mother for love.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered. "It hurts... But I have to know."

Penelope didn't answer—not with words. Her grip tightened for a moment, then loosened with an aching slowness, as she faced her soon again—her eyes water, letting a choked laugh see how grown and determined her son is. How he looks so much like his father.

Telemachus and his mother shared a quiet moment as he attempted to soothe her worry. Though he would be lying if he said it didn't scare him too.

And in that embrace, Telemachus remembered the last time he'd held someone that closely.

You.

The time you threw your arms around him after the skirmish with the suitors, trembling from worry, your forehead tucked to his shoulder. Your hands, warm. Your voice—shaky, angry, gentle—scolding, and yet he had held you back without hesitation, as if that moment had always belonged to you both, as if you two belonged to each other's arms.

He hadn’t realized, then, how precious that would become. How soon he’d be leaving you behind. Just when he had just realized his feelings for you.

Your laugh. Your smile. Your voice—The way you made his name sound softer, The feelings he had only just begun to accept now felt like something he was being forced to walk away from.

He looks up to his mother. Who he'd be also leaving behind. No one to watch over her, no one to stand for her protection. his chest ached—not from fear of the journey ahead, but from the shadow of leaving. He fears what will happen to both his mother and you.

...

"Telemachus?"

You called out, making the said prince snap back to reality. After his talk with his mother, Telemachus had wandered the palace halls, his mind weighed down with the burden of his decision—until he heard your voice. The voice he now realized he never wanted to leave behind.

He turned, breath catching. "(Name)," he said, almost in a whisper. You had just stepped into the hall, but the moment your eyes met his, a smile lit up your face.

"Are you okay? You seem a little down," you asked, your voice laced with quiet concern.

And gods, how he adored that—you always noticed. Always cared.

Telemachus smiled, a little dazed, a little dumbstruck—like someone falling, no, fallen in love. "I'm fine. Just stuck in thought," he said, shrugging it off.

You nodded, though your eyes drifted lower, catching the edge of his exposed shoulder. A faint purple bruise was beginning to bloom along the muscle.

"Is that... a bruise?" You squinted your eyes, "Huh?" The prince asked confusedly looking at his own shoulder. And indeed there was noticeable bruise forming, a few cuts from probably this morning's training. He mentally slapped himself—completely forgetting his mentor's advice.

"May I?" You asked for permission, well there was no point in denying it now so he simply lets you. You carefully traced your hand to his arm—examining the wound. "Oh dear gods...Telemachus, did you get into another fight with those men?" You asked, shooting an eye to him.

"No! It's just from training this morning! You know... sparing.. with myself..?" He explained a little too unsure. You sighed as you let go of his arm. "You need to be more careful, Telemachus. Are you sure you weren't sparing with an animal?" You voiced laced with suspicion.

Yeah, I was sparing with a literal god..

He nodded as you trail back to his wounds. "Well, I can't have you walk around looking beat up, weren't you in lunch with your mother? Surely the queen noticed your form."

"I think, it wasn't as visible earlier.." He replied, "I'm fine (name), this isn't the first time, you know that" His joke gained a look from you as he only laughs.

"I'll tend your wounds in a second, why don't you wait somewhere so I can prepare"

Telemachus nodded—this wasn’t the first time you tended to his bruises, so neither of you thought much of it. "Is it alright if I head to my room first? I need to change," he said, offering a faint smile. You nodded, returning the gesture with a small one of your own before heading off in the opposite direction, assuming that’s where you’d treat his bruises, like usual.

Unfortunately, neither of you clarified. You assumed he'd be waiting in his chambers, while in his mind, he planned to head back after changing. So, when you pushed open the door to his room—unannounced, as you’d done so many times before—you stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was, chiton half-tossed over, back turned to you, sun catching the gold along his skin. His muscles tensed at the sound of the door creaking open.

"Sorry—I thought you'd be here already dressed."

Telemachus turned, equally startled. "Oh—no, no, it's alright! I just—I'll be done in a moment."

You quickly averted your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek to focus. He was your friend. Your prince. You were here to treat a bruise. Not have your thoughts spiral.

Still, it didn’t stop your heart from thudding louder than it should have.

"Actually… maybe you should keep your top exposed—since I’ll be tending to it," you managed, keeping your voice as steady as possible. A part of you was undeniably flustered; it wasn't every day you saw your closest friend like this. But you reminded yourself—this was routine. You'd tended to his wounds before. It wasn’t supposed to feel different. Just except the fact he's half naked.

Telemachus bit his lips, before clearing your throat, "Right. Of course" He said, trying to be calm cause you were too. Unaware how you're practically dying from being embarrassed.

Sitting at the edge of his bed, shoulder turned toward you, the bruise blooming darker now under the light. Upon seeing his mark, you shook away to begin.

Approaching carefully, you set down the tray beside him, its contents clinking softly. You reached first for the clean, damp cloth, the coolness biting slightly against your fingertips. Without a word, you knelt beside where he sat, your eyes scanning the bruise—a deep, purpling bloom across his shoulder.

You pressed the cloth against it with precision. The moment the cold touched his skin, he tensed just slightly, muscles twitching under your touch.

"Sorry," you said softly, adjusting your pressure, more gentle this time.

Telemachus only hummed, barely reacting, though you could feel his eyes on you. You kept yours trained on the task, determined not to let your fluster show.

"You're being very serious today," he finally murmured, voice low, almost teasing.

You kept your focus. "I'm always serious when you're hurt."

You tried to focus; however, your work did not allow you to, as your eyes wandered. Without his chiton covering him, the young prince was lean, but due to his training and growing years, his body had started to take a more defined shape.

There were subtle lines along his torso, the hints of muscle shaped by sparring and sword work. His skin was tanned, with a few faint bruises and older marks—nothing serious, but they stood out. You looked away quickly, pressing the cloth a little too hard before catching yourself.

"gods, get a hold of yourself!"

You're a professional, you reminded yourself. Even if he is a friend... you're still a professional.

"You've been training too hard lately" You said, as you put away the cloth and started to prepare a salve for his wounds. "It's better than getting bruised from a fight" He said.

"Getting hurt itself is not better" you stated. "You worry too much (name)" Telemachus replied. "Of course I will," You paused briefly. "You may be a prince, but you're also just....you to me. And I care about you" You said, turning to him with the ointment for his wounds.

That was enough to shut the young prince up, as you slowly applied the salve to the various cuts and wounds. This time, your bare hands touched his skin, and Telemachus couldn’t help but shiver slightly. He swallowed hard, eyes quietly watching as you continued, careful and gentle with him.

It didn’t help that he was reminded—this was the same woman he admired. As your fingers moved, a blush crept onto his skin, blooming faintly across his cheeks. He swore he could feel his body grow warmer, though he didn’t know if it was from the salve or simply from you being this close.

"And I think that's it," You concluded, "Please be more careful next time, Telemachus." You told the prince as you whipped your hands through a clean cloth.

He didn’t respond.

You looked up—expecting a nod, maybe a quiet thanks—but instead, he was just staring at you. Eyes soft, a little lost.

You let out a small laugh, trying to break the silence. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he blinked, caught.

"Like you have something to say." You smiled, tilting your head.

You didn't pay as much mind as you cleaned off the tray, you could hear him laugh however Telemachus laughed in worry—reminding of his diplomatic mission.

He didn’t know if he should tell you—considering even his mother was against it. The weight of it sat heavy on his chest, but not heavier than the thought of leaving without saying a word. Of walking away while you were still smiling, unaware, waiting for him?. He wondered if it was better this way—if knowing would only make it harder for you, for him.

His fingers fidgeted against the fabric of his bed. His eyes never left yours. "(Name)," he said finally, voice low, uncertain.

You straightened slightly, sensing the shift in his tone. "Hmm?" You hummed.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then gave a small, lopsided smile. "Thank you. For always patching me up."

A pause. Not a confession. Not yet. But maybe a beginning.

A grin plastered on your lips, "You're always welcome, Telemachus" You beemed.

Yeah. He can't bring himself to tell you

"Athena, what should I doooo..." Telemachus whined the next morning, his feet dragging along the grass as he followed the goddess into the olive grove behind the palace. The sun was shining off the drenched leaves, but Telemachus’ heart felt too heavy to notice the beauty around him. "You’re the only one who agrees with this decision… and you're also aware of the cost of it," he trailed off, his hand raking through his hair.

"My mother… and…" he mumbled.

Athena, still in her human form, walked ahead—then shot him a sharp look over her shoulder.

"You speak as if you have the choice to stay, Telemachus. This isn’t about comfort—it’s about truth. It’s about preparing for what is coming."

He stopped in his tracks, eyes lifting toward the goddess.

"My mother… she’s afraid—afraid I won’t come back. And I fear she may be right. And (name)... gods, (name)... she has no idea. I just figured out what I feel for her, and now I have to leave her—and my mother—here?"

Athena stepped closer, her arms folding as her voice slowly softened, but remained firm.

"You know deep down you must go. You must know what happened to your father—not just for yourself, but for your mother and for Ithaca. The time is coming when luck will no longer protect you."

Telemachus’ lips pressed into a thin line. He knew she was right.

"You said it yourself," she continued, "this place is growing dangerous. Those suitors won’t wait forever. What will you do when they snap—and you’re not ready?"

The goddess’s words landed heavier than he expected. Telemachus felt the ache of them settle in his chest.

"This journey," Athena said, softer now, "will make you ready. I’ll help you. You’ll seek the answers you’ve longed for."

And slowly, Telemachus began to understand. This wasn’t only a search for his father. It was preparation. A storm was brewing in his home—and he needed to be ready before it broke.

"And if they realize I’ve left?" he asked quietly, scared.

"Then let them," Athena said without hesitation. "They’ll see soon enough that you’re no longer a child hiding behind your mother’s grief. You are your father’s son. You just need the chance to become him in your own way."

Telemachus took a slow breath, but the ache in his chest didn’t ease.

"And what about (name)…?" he asked in a whisper, his head bowed.

Athena didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, there was a trace of sympathy in her voice.

"If she’s truly who you believe she is, she will understand. And she’ll wait."

The wind passed silently through the olive trees. Then Athena added, almost gently,

"Or… if you find the words too difficult to say—perhaps it’s better not to say anything at all."

Telemachus turned to her, startled. "You mean—leave without telling her?"

"You said it yourself. Your mother is against this. You fear what will happen if she finds out. I understand that. But if you linger too long, doubt will start to drown out your resolve. And if this must be done… delaying it will only make everything harder."

Telemachus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to argue. He wanted to call it cruel. But even as his heart fought it, something in him knew Athena was right. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was wisdom. Or maybe it was the quiet, selfish hope that this would all be over soon.

The sooner he left, the sooner he could return. And maybe—just maybe—when he did, he’d finally have the courage to say what he couldn’t now.

"I guess..." He made up a decision. "We sail as soon as possible."

...

It was a quiet evening—a little too quiet for your liking. The palace was never truly silent, not with 108 men lounging about. Yet tonight, the usual noise were strangely absent.

Curious, you peeked into the main hall. A few men were still awake, but most were drooping in their seats, heads nodding, goblets slipping from loose fingers. Some had already passed out where they sat.

“Odd...” you thought, tilting your head slightly. Still, it wasn’t unheard of. Wine often dulled the edge of their unruly energy.

You turned away, feet light as you walked through the corridor toward Telemachus’ room. Maybe he should know about this—just in case.

A few knocks on his door echoed softly. No answer.

You frowned slightly. “Maybe he’s already asleep?” you murmured to yourself. But... that wasn’t quite like him. Not lately. Now that you thought about it, you hadn’t seen him around much at all these past few days. He wasn’t avoiding you—at least, you didn’t think so. Just... missing.

It hadn’t bothered you before. You were busy. He probably was too. But now, standing outside his quiet door, a small nudge of confusion crept in.

After a short pause, you turned and made your way to the library.

Maybe he was there already.

He often found comfort in quiet spaces.

You were hopeful.

Though a wave of despondency quickly humbles you when the eerie silence of the place meets you. You still tried to look around—maybe to soothe yourself, though like you expected, there wasn't any trace of the prince.

A long sigh escaped your mouth as your back rested against the library door. "Maybe tomorrow," you told yourself, deciding to just head to bed early today. You didn't really find any motivation to do anything right now—maybe because your inspiration was nowhere to be seen.

You weren’t really paying attention to your surroundings. For one, you were too deep in your thoughts, and two, you didn’t expect anyone to be around at this time. So you were a bit startled when you bumped into someone.

"My apology—" you quickly said, then blinked in confusion. "Nurse Eurycleia! Good evening," you greeted.

Nurse Eurycleia was the palace nurse. You were in good terms with the old madam, often offering your hand whenever you could, especially as you were also learning the art of healing.

"Nurse Eurycleia?" You called out again when the older woman did not answer.

Brows furrowed, the older woman was not facing you—which you found odd.

You shifted slightly, eyes drifting to where she had come from—the main exit of the palace. Your brows furrowed at the sight. "Nurse Eurycleia, did you go out around this late? That isn’t really safe for you to be outside. May I ask what you were doing there?" you asked softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

As you stepped closer, something under the folds of her peplos caught your eye—a small bundle, oddly shaped, like it had been tucked away in haste. You recognized it as a bag. Your confusion deepened.

The old nurse gave a weak chuckle. "Ah, just gathering something I left earlier. Nothing important, dear."

You narrowed your eyes just slightly, trying not to sound accusing. "Do you happen to know where the young prince is? You had a conversation with him earlier, yes?," you said casually, watching for her reaction.

Eurycleia froze and you immediately knew. Her body still.

"Nurse..?" You blinked.

She didn't speak. Your heart gave a light thud. “You know where he is,” you said, almost in disbelief. “Don’t you?”

Still, she said nothing—but her silence was all the answer you needed. "Where is he?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What's wrong?"

Eurycleia looked at you then, her face lined with worry. "He… didn’t want you to worry," she said quietly, her voice trembling with guilt.

You stepped back, your breath catching in your throat.

"The young prince went to sail" she finally admitted. "On a diplomatic mission. To Pylos. Then to Sparta."

Your eyes widening as realization struck you harder than lightning. "What..?" You murmured, you couldn't find the words, you had a million questions yet none escaped from your lips.

"The young prince... ordered not to tell anyone but..."

Suddenly, Eurycleia reached out and held your hand, gently, urging you to meet her eyes, while yours were still wide with confusion and dread.

"He may still be out there, (name). I don’t know exactly what you and the young prince share, but I do know this—he did not want to leave without saying anything. I saw it in his eyes, he was torn"

You froze. The weight of her words hit you like a wave—confusion, shock, a swell of emotion you couldn't place. But there was no time to sit in it.

"Go. While there may still be time," she urged.

You didn’t waste a second. With a silent breath of thanks to Eurycleia, you took off—racing out of the palace as your heart pounded faster than your legs could carry you.

Your thoughts were a whirlwind. Why is he going? Does he not understand how dangerous this is? Why didn’t he tell me? A flood of questions tangled in your mind, but none of them slowed your steps.

You didn’t know exactly where he would be—but your instincts pulled you toward the shore.

You prayed—to the gods, to fate, to anyone listening—he couldn't leave. Not like this. You had almost gone to bed tonight never knowing he’d already left the island of Ithaca.

The wind bit cold against your skin, but you didn’t care. You had to find Telemachus.

Then you saw him.

His back was to you at first, feet planted on the shoreline where a single ship was moored. The waves lapped quietly at the sand, and the few men aboard moved like shadows—final preparations nearly done.

He didn’t see you right away. His eyes stared off into the horizon, somewhere far, far away. He looked dazed, torn. A deep frown settled on his lips, like the weight of everything he carried was pressing him down.

You saw him.

"Telemachus," you whispered—too soft, as if your voice might shatter something.

Then louder—your breath catching before it came out.

"Telemachus!"

His body stiffened. Slowly, he turned. His wide eyes met yours. Shock to see you.

"(Name)." He mouthed your name.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning, not just from the run but from the ache building beneath your ribs.

Both of you did not move at first, the distance between you too was filled with tension that if one were to go past it they would feel it.

You two stood facing each other, eyes locked, with the moon high above—glowing behind the other's light, as if the sky bent itself to reflect a single moon for two souls.

You couldn’t hold it. What started as a step turned into a run—unthinking. Telemachus watched, frozen, as you closed the distance. He knew he should have gone sooner to spare you both the pain, it was the safer option.. Right..?

But he didn’t move away.

In fact, he stepped forward too—slowly, deliberately. His fingers reaching out for you, and until he finally caught you.

Though he didn't quite prepare himself, as he fell backwards with you—landing on the soft sand.

His arms were around you now, steady even as his heart pounded. The scent of salt and night air clung to both of you, but neither of you move yet.

Your hands clutched the fabric of his cloak, your brows knit together.

You two slowly rise to sit up on the sand, eyes still into each other. You didn't know what gave you the right to launch yourself to the prince but at that moment, you knew him as your Telemachus.

“Why are you leaving?” you finally asked, your voice breaking halfway through. It wasn’t loud, but it hurt to say. Telemachus looked away, the guilt on his face showing.

“I knew you were on to something…” you murmured, "But I didn’t think that it was a diplomatic mission from across the sea."

He hesitated. “You don’t get it, (name).” You blinked, pain flaring in your chest. “It’s complicated,” he added, his voice quieter, as if trying not to lose you further. “You wouldn’t get it.”

You stared at him. “Well of course I wouldn’t get it,” you snapped, the edge in your tone cutting sharper than you intended. “You never said anything.”

"I'm sorry.."

"Sorry isn't going to answer this, Telemachus."

Telemachus flinched, eyes darting to meet yours, startled. You rarely ever raised your voice—only when something truly hurt.

It's kind of an irony, because the only time you ever raised your voice was all because of him. When you defended him and now.

"I had to go. I had to." Telemachus inhaled shakily. "Ithaca won't wait forever. The suitors—they're becoming bolder. My mother can only do so much. And my father… If he’s out there, I have to try."

"I tried to tell you" he said, finally, voice soft, raw. "I really wanted to tell you."

"But how could I? Every time I tried to look at you, I wanted to stay. But I knew I couldn't. I kept thinking maybe… maybe if I just left, it’d be easier." He broke, gripping your fingers gently.

Silence fell again. You felt it in your throat, in your chest, in the way your body refused to pull away from his.

“I would’ve tried to understood, you know,” you said, quieter now. “If you told me. If you trusted me.”

Telemachus grew closer, his voice low. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.“

You kept your eyes at him, your hand still intertwined. Your heart was beating, eyes starting to water.

"I was afraid," Telemachus finally said, his voice trembling like a string pulled too tight.

You blinked.

"I was afraid that if I tell you what I really felt for you... it would've made it harder—for both of us."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Tell me what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, a broken whimper escaped him. His shoulders shook as his head dropped low, forehead pressing to your shoulder, his hands gripping the fabric of your sleeves and your hands like he was afraid you'd vanish.

"That I am in love with you, (Name)."

Your heart stopped. The world fell still—except for the quiet, ragged breaths of the boy in your arms.

"I love you, (name). Maybe I’ve only just come to understand it fully, but the gods know—from the moment we first spoke, I was meant to fall for you."

For the first time, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind went completely blank. Words slipped from your grasp like water through trembling fingers. You were never like this—never speechless, never unsure. But maybe that was because you had never let yourself be this close to something so raw… so real.

You stared at him.

Telemachus, with his tear-streaked face pressed gently against your shoulder, hands clinging to your sides. His confession still echoed in your chest, stirring something terrifying and warm all at once.

You breathed in, slowly.

"If what you said was true, then why leave without saying goodbye?"

"...I thought it would hurt less," he admitted, voice breaking. "For both of us."

You looked at him, truly looked—and then, without thinking, your hand reached up and brushed a thumb across his cheek. "It hurts more," you said quietly, "not knowing."

The space between you felt fragile. Yet somehow, even now, there was comfort in it.

You then started to stroke his head almost pulling him closer, Telemachus hesitantly looked up to you. A chuckle escaped your lips. The same laugh he loves.

"Remember when I told you my mother was worried that talking to you might make you think the wrong thing?" you began, your voice soft. The prince tilted his head, slightly puzzled, but nodded.

"Well... the truth is, long before that, I already liked you," you admitted, eyes dropping for a moment. "Talking to you wasn’t just a coincidence—it was my way of trying to get to know you."

Telemachus' eyes widened, stunned.

"My mother said feelings like that would lead me nowhere. She said, 'Who are you compared to him?' That you'd probably find it strange... or laughable. So I grew up thinking I’d never mean anything to you."

He opened his mouth to speak, but you gently cut in before he could.

"I started to believe, by default, that love just wasn’t meant for me. So imagine how surprised I was... when you said you wanted to be friends."

Telemachus stepped closer, the moonlight catching the hurt and wonder in his expression. His voice broke gently through the silence.

"When I said I wanted to be friends," he said, voice low, "it wasn’t because that was all I wanted. It was because I knew, i wanted to begin somewhere with you."

Your breath caught again,

"From the time we’ve spent together.." He trailed off "You were nothing but more than I ever thought I was allowed to want. And maybe I don’t know exactly what I’m doing—gods know I’m still figuring it all out—but I do know one thing."

He reached for your cheeks, gentle.

"I want whatever this is. Even if it’s uncertain. Even if it’s slow. I want it… with you." He said.

You couldn't help but lean into the warmth of his hand, your heart thudding louder with every inch that closed between you. His touch was tender. Your faces hovered close, breaths mingling in the quiet. Telemachus’ thumb brushed your cheek, then paused as his gaze flicked down—hesitating on your lips.

"May I?" he asked, barely above a whisper, like he was afraid to break the moment.

As you gave a quiet nod, he leaned in—and when your lips met, it was like the world stopped.

His lips were soft, warm, hesitant at first, then a little more certain as you didn’t pull away. You could feel the faint hitch in his breath, the way he carefully pressed in closer, and you welcomed it.

It wasn’t overwhelming. But it was enough to have you melt.

His hand traced the line of your jaw, then settled lightly at your waist, fingers trembling slightly. Your own hands moved instinctively, one curling over his shoulder, the other slipping slowly to the back of his neck.

He pulled away for only a moment, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. Then, without a word, he kissed you again—deliberate this time.

You were getting kind of jazzy by the second, but your body refused to pull away as the kiss deepened.

Telemachus finally broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. His arms remained around you as he buried his face in your shoulder—hiding, maybe, from how deeply he was blushing.

“Did that just happen…?” you said aloud.

The way he held you tighter made it real. He kissed you. And you kissed him back. A quiet settled between you as your fingers gently combed through his hair.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured, making you glance down at him. “You have no idea.”

A soft chuckle escaped you. “I don’t want you to leave either,” you admitted. “But we both know how important this is.” He stilled. Slowly, he pulled back—though his hands still lingered on you.

A part of you wanted to be selfish, to beg him to stay. The sea was no safer than the palace. But you knew better. And you hated how much you understood.

“Don’t make this a goodbye,” you whispered. His eyes lifted to yours, glossy with emotion. “Make it a promise. Promise me you’ll come back safe.” He didn’t speak right away, only nodded—your smile softening as you held onto that small piece of hope.

“I promise to come back to you,” he said. “I'll come to pursue you.” You blinked, heart skipping. “Pursue me?” you echoed, voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a shy nod "I want to come back when I can be officially yours. Right now, I’m not the person I want to be yet… but maybe, by then, I’ll be closer to the man I should be—with you."

The confession hung gently in the air between you. You stared at him for a long moment, then smiled—not the polite kind, not the practiced one—but something small and real, like a promise unspoken.

“Then I’ll be right here,” you said, “when that time comes.” Telemachus leaned in again—not for another kiss, but to rest his forehead against yours. You stayed like that, wrapped in the hush of something tender, as the world around you blurred into silence.

Just for this moment, the future didn’t scare you. Because he would carry your words across the sea. And you carry his promise in your chest until the tides brought him home.

You could only pray the gods of Olympus would guide him safely across the sea. Unbeknownst to you, Telemachus offered his own prayer—that you, and his mother, would remain safe within those palace walls.

Neither of you knew what the days ahead would hold. And all that stood between was faith—and hope. But those two aren’t known for handing out happy endings. Not without a price. Not every time.

here is the 14k fic!! part two coming :DDD this was a pain to publish beacuse of how long it is, i had to transfer to my old laptop but im glad its finally done!!