"Hey, hey. It's ok." *Odysseus reassures Polites as he picks him up.* "Captain...?" *Polites asked, in pain and disoriented. It was mostly slurred but Odysseus heard him. He laughs, tears in his eyes.* "Yeah I'm here. Don't talk. We'll get you patched up." *He says, reassuring his friend again.* "It hurts." *Polites complains, on the brink of unconsciousness.* "I know. But don't talk. And don't move either." *Odysseus says, silently praying his friend doesn't pass out in his arms.* "Hey, Ody?" *Polites asked, voice getting weaker.* "Yeah?" *Answered Odysseus.* "I...I love you." *Polites claims right before losing consciousness.*
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"You should teach me," declared Iris, with the full confidence of six years old. She was in first grade! She was learning all sorts of things! And if Gladio could do it, surely it was a thing that kids could learn!
Gladio, already well into another growth spurt and not expected to slow down anytime soon, looked between the sword in his hands and his sister. While it was very, very tempting to just hand the blade to her and let her learn for herself how heavy it was, that seemed like the sort of thing that he'd get in trouble for. If she got hurt, he was the one who knew better.
"You're not strong enough," he said, the full authority of fifteen slightly reduced by his voice breaking.
It was the wrong answer.
Iris pouted. "I am so! Stronger than you!"
Now that was just funny. Gladio planted the point of the blade, standing it aside in a way that their dad would yell about if he saw it. He crossed his arms and tilted his chin. "Uh huh? You gonna prove that?"
"Yeah!" She didn't attempt to wrestle him this time, instead standing upright and bringing her feet together at the heels. "Do this!"
This made no sense to Gladio, but he was curious now. He stood with his heels together, which wasn't right, as Iris then corrected him. Not just heels together, but feet in a line, which left him off balance and struggling because legs weren't supposed to bend like that.
He was about to say that it was stupid, but Iris was already beaming that she'd won, and if he gave up now she was going to say that she'd won, even if she didn't.
"You're still not stronger than me."Â He argued, though his calves were starting to hurt.
"Then do this!" She added, holding her arms out to her sides like she was expecting a hug. When he did nothing, she huffed. "If I last longer than you, you have to teach me to fight and... and..." Clearly she was struggling for more consequences that he would want to avoid. "And you'll have to wear a tutu!"
He was going to ask what would happen if he won, but first he tried to match what she was doing with her arms and it was too much for him to balance when his feet were in a line and his thighs were cramping. He caught himself and pushed himself back into position. She was six, surely he could manage at least until she got tired, right?
His legs were killing him and his shoulders were starting to complain. It was just standing, so why--
"Your arms are dropping!" Iris called out, bright, teasing, and sounding suspiciously like she'd heard the same thing many times before.
Gladio learned two things that day: one, that ballerinas were stronger than he'd given them credit for, and two, when engaged in a contest of strength, to chose the field of competition himself.
Carlos stilled the arm raised above his head and Oscar sighed in relief, lowering the angry finger pointed at him. Until he readjusted his aim and the man screamed as a water balloon hit him square in the chest. Tainting his pristine white shirt pink.
"Carlos!"
Carlos answered the indignant cry with another balloon thrown his way. Hitting him on his hip. It had been Alex's idea. A makeshift substitute. They were supposed to go out to play paintball but the plans had fallen through and they were forced to improvise.
"I think it will really help you two," Alex had told him in private, "get some of that aggression out. In a harmless way of course."
It was after Carlos had confided in him how much Oscar's behaviour bothered him. Sure they had had their differences in the past but enough time had passed, and they had cleared things up.
Still, an awkwardness lingered between them. A deliberate distance. A distance Carlos had tried to close, but Oscar seemed adamant on maintaining. A distance Carlos could no longer bear.Â
Approached Oscar with the last balloon in his hand. This time Oscar had the sense to turn his back on him as Carlos threw the balloon. It hit the base of his neck, eliciting another enraged scream, as Oscar hopped away. Carlos could not hold back his laugh, his whole body shaking with it. He almost doubled up, slamming his knees. Who knew the man the media was hell bent on calling the ice man would be so dramatic. So fun to tease.Â
âYou think youâre very funny huh?âÂ
Maybe it was a bit concerning how attractive Carlos found the tone of his voice. A little pissed off, a bit smug. Smooth enough to make his mouth water. Carlos could feel the annoyance in the tilt of his brow, and retaliation in the smirk curling his lips. Too late he realised Oscar too had a balloon with ice cold water and faint red dye in his hand. Now he stood over Carlos, smashing it on top of his head. Carlos closed his eyes in anticipation, felt the chill of water running down his face. The warmth of Oscarâs hand entangled in his hair.
âOi!âÂ
The chill stung, but Carlos was still thankful. Not just because now he had Oscarâs undivided attention, but also because it might cool down the blush that such attention invoked. Carlosâ was aware of the effect he had on people, so he tried the same tactic on Oscar. Slowly brushed his wet hair away from his face, batting his lashes up at a man who up till now was devoted to avoiding him. Now though, now Oscarâs eyes were not so flighty, now they caressed his face with the kind of dedication Carlos deserved.Â
Carlos took his silence as permission to rake his own eyes down Oscarâs form. His messy, dripping hair, the damp shirt providing a tantalizing view of that sculpted body. A victorious smile, too bright eyes. The freckles standing out like constellations.Â
Carlos was weak for beauty. He saw something lovely and he had to get it in his hands. Not to alter or ruin it. Admire it up close, and then let it go. Never before had he encountered a thing of beauty he couldn't claim. Maybe that was it. It was the chase that kept him hooked, kept him enamoured. Oscar Piastri refused to surrender, to give in. And Carlos refused to give up.Â
âNot so funny anymore, is it?â Oscar breathed out.Â
Soft, without any bite in it. Not as unaffected as heâd like Carlos to believe.Â
âNo,â Carlos agreed. âNot funny at all.â
Because it wasnât. Not anymore. It might have been a game in the beginning. A fun chase. But the longer it dragged on the more it ached, the more it riled him up. Carlos would no longer be satisfied by simply having Oscar for one night. Admiring him wonât be enough. Carlos needed to ruin him. To alter Oscar in such a shape that he could trap him within the cage of his hands. Let Oscar loose but only within the maze of his heart. So that no matter how much he runs, Oscar would never escape him. Would never be able to ignore him, to build any distance between them.Â
âWell,â Oscar said, wrenching his gaze away, ânow weâre even.â
âNo.â
Before Oscar could retreat to the safe distance he loved so much Carlos grabbed him. If he had claws he would dig them into Oscarâs tender skin. But as it was, Oscar came to him easily. Stunned perhaps, or giving in at last. Carlos had his face entrapped within his hands, pulled so close that Oscar had no choice but to look at him. So that his whole world was narrowed down to Carlos. So that he would finally, unmistakenly see the need in his eyes, hunger on his lips.Â
Oscarâs lips were already parted in surprise, letting Carlos lick into his mouth as he pleased. Take what he wanted, what he needed. Sink his teeth into lips that faltered on his name. Bleed them dry. Oscar was sweet, so willing, so malleable in his hands. Fingers scrambling at Carlosâ shoulders, body swaying with every slide of his tongue. Why hadnât he given in sooner if he was not going to fight Carlos at all in the end?Â
âCarlos? We need to get going mate!â
Alexâs call made Oscar push him away. Wipe his mouth, straighten his shirt as the man came into view. Deliciously flustered. Carlos couldnât help but shield him from view. Let Oscar compose himself, let the world continue to think of him as the iceman. This hot and bothered boy, melting in his hands. This sight was for his eyes alone.Â
âThere you two are,â Alex, oblivious and cheerful, âOscar, mate Lando has been looking for you for the past twenty minutes. This place is a maze.â
âYeah we were trying to figure out our way back to you guys too.â Carlos told him. Even if he wouldâve kept Oscar here, in his arms, until the end of time.
Alex was quick to lead them back when George called him. Oscar was eager to follow him, but Carlos pulled him back. Oscar stumbled a bit, but Carlos was only too happy to steady him.Â
âCome to my room tonight?â
âWhy- no.â
âFine, I'll come to you then. Youâre in 302, right?â
âNo.â
Carlos smiled at his attempts to escape. Oscar was putting in commendable effort at keeping his face blank. But his eyes were flitting about in panic.
âIâll see you tonight then.â
âWhy? What would you even do in my room?â
âWhat I couldnât do here.â
Carlos graced the offended pout with a quick kiss. Jogging away to join Alex before Oscar could come up with a retort. A quick glance behind told him Oscar was still too stunned to move. Face aglow with a furious blush. Then when he did join them, it was on Alexâs other side. Carlos had to laugh, dismissing Alexâs curious eyes.Â
If Oscar really thought he would back down now he was sorely mistaken. Now that he had had a taste, his appetite had grown ravenous. Nothing but completely possessing Oscar would sate Carlos.Â
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Marquis de Lafayette Whump: Lafayette on a British prison ship (373 words)
The little cabin swayed disorientingly. Wind howled through the ropes and masts above, though the sails would have been tucked away for the storm. Lafayetteâs stomach pitched unpleasantly. No one was around to see him hide his face in his arm. Amazing how such a small thing as seasickness could make an already unbearable situation that much worse.
At least he wasnât in a crowded hold. His own stench offended his senses but how much worse would it be if he had to deal with the effluvia of a dozen other inmates?
It was lonely though. Perhaps for his own safety heâd been imprisoned alone. Too valuable a prisoner to risk to fever and death.
Where was the glory in rotting away in the hold of a prison ship? Ice cold rain leaked through the single porthole above him and soaked his clothes. He would almost rather be on some frozen tundra in the north, chained to a line of prisoners and forced to break rocks all day long. At least he would have fresh air then.
The ship swayed and heaved and Lafayette closed his eyes, shivering. He suspected a fever had set in, his thoughts were certainly muddled enough.
He curled in on himself and thought of better times and better places. He imagined himself in a room full of his fellow officers, eating and drinking and laughing with his friends. He imagined himself in an overstuffed armchair, sitting next to a roaring fire, across from his dear general. They would talk all night, and the general would smile his rare smile at Lafayette, and before he left, Lafayette would be permitted to press a kiss to Washingtonâs cheek.
The walls of the cabin creaked and pitched. Sailor shouted up on the deck. Lafayette dreamed of being rescued. A beautiful French frigate, perhaps. She would appear on the horizon bathed in light and bring with her calm waters. She would fire a single cannonball wide across the bow of this ship and the British would strike their colors immediately. George would be waiting on the deck for him, astride the magnificent Nelson. It was nonsensical but Lafayette wanted it very badly.
The fantasies were enough to sooth him to blessed unconsciousness.
Words: nelson, tundra, inmate
[confidential to randomwordgenerator dot net: nelson isn't a real word]
Martha & Lafayette watch George dancing at a ball. (398 words)
Some might have called the affair sad, compared to events Lafayette has attended in the past. Back in France, heâd spent evenings at dances and balls hosted by royalty, where everyone in attendance was there to show off their wealth and status.
Here, the ballroom was small. The men were gallant but not brilliant in their uniforms, the ladies in skirts that lacked the heaps of frothy fabric he might have seen at home.
The band was small but they played a sprightly air. And the real advantage this night had, of course, was the company.
Lafayette bowed as the young lady heâd been chatting with was claimed by her husband for the next dance. He looked across the room and brightened when he saw an opportunity had opened for him. In a flash he was across the room and he sketched a quick bow for Lady Washington before taking the seat next to her.
âGood evening, madame,â he said. âI hope you are enjoying the fete?â
âGood evening, my dear marquis,â she said. âItâs lovely, isnât it?â
Lafayette flushed to hear her use the generalâs endearment for him. He leaned on the edge of his seat. âVery. Can I bring you any refreshments?â
She touched his arm. âIâm fine, dear, thank you.â
He relaxed back again. The chorus of chattering rose higher around them as the dance ended and the couples on the floor prepared themselves for the next dance.
âI would have expected a young man like yourself to be dancing the night away,â Martha remarked. âYou donât care for dancing?â
Lafayette winced. âDancing does not care for me, let us say. I leave it to the more graceful gentlemen, like your husband.â He paused. âUnless, of course, you would like to dance? I would be delightedââ
âNo, thank you. I do enjoy a dance or two, but I find it taxing after awhile. Not like George. He will happily dance the night away, he always has.â Her fondness for her husband was clear in her voice. âI enjoy watching him.â
âI do, too,â Lafayette admitted.
They both watched now. George, tall, elegant, handsome beyond measure, led the lovely Angelica Schyuler through a series of intricate, energetic steps, both of them laughing together.
âIs that how he first caught you eye?â Lafayette asked. âWith his dancing?â He could only imagine what it must have been like.
Alexander Hamilton & Thomas Jefferson & George Washington,
The Fishing Trip, Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson Fight (791 words)
Hamilton fished one of the bait minnows out of the bucket with a grimace. He speared it through the gut with a hook and quickly cast the whole mess over the side of the dock. It landed with a sad plop and Hamilton watched it sink.
A snort came from his left and Hamilton sighed.
âThis sort of thing isnât really your speed, is it?â How Jefferson could fit so much condescension into a single sentence was something to marvel at.
Hamilton wiped fish slime off onto the gaiters Washington had given him to wear this morning. âAs a matter of fact, itâs not,â he said. âQuite frankly I donât see the point of us being out here. Do you?â Surely that was something he and Jefferson could agree on.
âAh, of course. Since you canât make money off of it, I can see why spending the day out on this beautiful river, testing our wits against nature, wouldnât hold any appeal to you.â Jefferson twitched his rod once, twice, and then jumped up, pulling a wriggling fish big enough for an entire meal out of the river. âGrab the bucket.â
He didnât say please, so Hamilton leaned his other hand against the dock and watched Jefferson struggle.
The fish flopped and flailed, twisting the fishing line around Jeffersonâs legs. Jefferson swore, loudly and very ungentlemanly. Finally he managed to get the poor creature into the bucket of water waiting on the dock. The fish thrashed, trapped. Jefferson reached down and yanked the hook from its mouth.
âQuite a catch,â Hamilton observed. âIâm sure the general will be impressed.â
Jefferson narrowed his eyes. âAs long as I live I will never understand what Washington sees in such an arrogantââ His voice rose in volume until he cut himself off, turning his back on Hamilton.
Hamilton jumped to his feet. âNo, go on sir, say what you mean to say.â The temperature was hot, the air was sweltering and Hamilton itched with bites from a dozen crawling and flying insects. He was spoiling for a fight.
But Jefferson strode several feet off, still refusing to look at Hamilton. Refusing to engage, as always.
There was nowhere for Jefferson to flee, now. Hamilton hurried to put himself in front of Jefferson, right in his space. âYou wonât say it to my face but youâll have your minions print it in those tabloid rags. How Iâm driving the country to ruin. How I have the entire government, except for you of course, in my pocket. Iâm cunning and devious and lead Washington around like a horse on a halter. Isnât that what you say? When Iâm not around to defend myself?â
Jefferson sneered at him. âWhat you are is a martyr. Nobody is attacking you. But if your ideas canât stand up to reasoned debateââ
Hamilton spoke over him. âNobody is attacking me?â He poked Jefferson in the chest, taking a step towards him. Jefferson took a step back. âTell me then why my every proposal turns into a battleââ Jefferson took another step back, and knocked his leg into the bucket of fish. His arms windmilled as he fought for balance. He grabbed at Hamilton and the weight pulled Hamilton off-balance as well. Hamilton tried to shove him off. He should have thought that through more carefully because the force of that shove tipped him further off balance and the only place for Hamilton to go was right over the edge of the dock.
He hit the water with a splash. The shock of it took his breath away. He brought himself up to the surface, treading water.
âHamilton!â Jeffersonâs head popped over the edge of the deck. He seemed to relax when he saw Hamilton was in one piece. He laid himself down on the edge of the dock and reached a hand down.
Hamilton spat out a mouthful of river water and contemplated the hand. Reduced to needing his enemyâs help. Perhaps he would rather drown.
âJefferson?â Washingtonâs voice boomed in the distance. âWhat are you doing? Where is Hamilton?â
âHe fell in.â
Rapid footsteps down the wood of the dock, and Washingtonâs head popped over the edge of the deck too. âHe fell in?â Washington reached a hand down too. âCome on son, letâs get you out of there.â
Hamilton clasped their hands and together Washington and Jefferson pulled him out of the water. Hamilton sat on the edge of the dock, feeling like a drowned cat. His only consolation was that Jefferson was busy scraping fish scales off his boots. Washington stood with his hands on his hips. âWould you gentleman like to explain what happened here?â
âNo.â
âNo, we would not.â
Finally, something he and Jefferson agreed on.
Words: reduce, martyr, halter