#achilles 02

The key to not being turned away at the door, Sisyphus thinks– hopes– is not being at the door to begin with. He’s memorized the Kalavria schedule through sheer unintentional osmosis, what with the weeks of prep and months of planning he was roped into as Pontius staff, so he knows when Achilles is likely out of his room– and likely to come back. He also knows where the master keys are and what his friends in housekeeping will trade for them, all of which leads to him, now, here in Achilles’ empty room. Alone. Sweating. Waiting.

Sisyphus doesn’t sit on the bed because that feels invasive, or... more invasive than he’s already being, instead awkwardly dragging the little chair away from the little desk and positioning it so he’s in view of the door. Then, he sits. Taps out a beat on the armrests. Wonders if Achilles will finally put him out of his misery this time. Who would get billed for replacing the bloody sheets, Achilles or Hades? Who would have to explain–

The train of thought is interrupted by a chipper mechanical beep, and the click of a lock. Sisyphus raises his hands automatically as if to surrender, or field off a blow, even though Achilles is across the room. “Hey,” he says, when he sees his former friend’s face emerge in the door frame. “Hey, sorry, I just wanted to–”