refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

“Achilles!”

“Yes, Lord Hades.”

“There are visitors at the gate. See them to the audience chamber.” Hades sets down his quill and pushes up to his intimidating height to head to the chamber in question—an austere and drafty room reserved for private conversations with his fellow gods and artfully designed to honor xenia, while still uncomfortable enough to encourage brevity. Mortal shades and house staff are rarely allowed entry. “And send my wife along as well.”

Achilles bows and strides off to do as he’s told. After his brief infusion of Hades’ power in the arena, he can well imagine the clarity with which his master sees his realm and all that stirs within it. Particularly divine guests at the threshold of his halls, toeing the invisible boundary he placed to prevent gods from entering without his approval. (Shades and other lesser creatures can more or less come and go as they please; he could care less.)

With the grinding scrape of cold iron and stone, Achilles pushes open the House’s gate to behold ...

“Lady Athena, Lord Hermes. Please, come in. Be welcome,” he says after a very brief, shocked pause. He leans on rigid formality to hide his relief at the sight of Hermes safe and well after two months and only one brief letter. This is short lived, quickly replaced by a fresh bout of apprehension; why have he and his sister come to see their uncle?

Once they’ve been ushered to the cavernous audience chamber, Achilles finds Persephone in her garden—with Zagreus—and summons her as well. She smiles, dusts the dirt from her hands, plucks clinging leaves from her peplos and asks her son to continue weeding. Zagreus looks chagrined as he works at a particularly stubborn patch of crabgrass.

After two more short detours—one to task Dusa with preparing guest chambers, another to request food and wine from the chef—and Achilles finally positions himself outside the imposing double doors, ready to receive orders and steer away would-be eavesdroppers. All while he’s desperately straining his own ears to hear snatches of conversation.

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"Competition is fun. But not over you." Hermes gives a little 'hmph' as he kisses Achilles softly, tasting the honey on his lips. "Because Aphrodite would want to sleep with you, and I'd just have to scratch her eyes out if she did. Ares might want to sleep with you too, but I think you'd shove him into the Styx before I could."

Ares, after all, does have a major weakness for the kind of warrior that clogs a river with bodies. Call it a hunch, but Hermes doesn't think that the feelings would in any way be returned.

"And then my uncle would have to deal with the headache of family drama in his halls, and I think he'd sooner throw us all into the Phlegethon than put up with it."

Hermes picks up a date stuffed with goat cheese, wiggling in delight in Achilles' lap as he pops it in his mouth. "Better to spare us all the trouble."

"You've nothing to worry about, love. Even if I was a prize for the winning, I don't see any of your siblings putting in the effort. No whisking me off on a thoughtful seaside excursion." He smiles and gives Hermes a kiss on the temple; that night by the ocean ranks as one of the best gifts he's ever received.

He steals Hermes' abandoned cup, refills it, and helps himself to a sip. He visibly grimaces, not at the taste, but because his thoughts linger too long on sleeping with the likes of Ares. How miserable. Especially if he shares glimpses into his domain like Hermes does. "I suppose if I ever want the very worst sex of my life—or death—I'll seek out Ares."

Hermes laughs out loud, his nose wrinkling and his eyes closing with mirth as he throws his head back. "Oh Olympus, I wish you could say that to his face."

But Achilles should not do that under any circumstances, because Ares would absolutely try to vaporize him. Hermes' least favorite Olympian brother has absolutely no sense of humor about himself.

Hermes keeps giggling as he gets his laughter under control, playing with Achilles' hair affectionately. "I suppose you're stuck with me, then. I don't think most of my siblings even know how to court someone. They're too used to people being starstruck that an Olympian is interested in them."

"Stuck with you? Stop referring to this as if it's some sort of punishment. I have a charming god with a clear, handsome laugh perched in my lap." Who, most importantly, treats Achilles like a worthy equal despite his being a mortal.

No, worse than that: a dead mortal. One who can't even champion Hermes' divinity through great feats or stately temples or lavish sacrifices. Achilles genuinely believes Hermes has nothing to fear from the other Olympians; what could they stand to gain from a dalliance—or even friendship—with a hero's shade? At most, he's a diverting novelty or a passing topic at a feast.

But here is Hermes, always returning like a happy bird to a familiar roost with no expectations besides companionship and intimacy. What a strange and wonderful thing, Achilles thinks. Something he never would have anticipated. A fresh upswell of affection glints in his eyes and he wraps Hermes in an almost painfully tight embrace. "Make no mistake: I'm grateful to have you. And for all of your surpassing kindness."

Hermes gives a little noise at being squeezed, almost like a squeaky toy, and wraps his arms around Achilles' neck, smile warming at Achilles' declaration. In truth, Hermes isn't so worried about Achilles' affections being compromised as he's worried about his family's entitled behavior and petty anger at rejection. But it's still very nice to hear one's lover declare that there's nothing 'stuck' about the relationship.

Hermes hums softly, smile softening as he curls his fingers in Achilles' hair. "I'm dearly grateful for you too. I suppose I just wanted you to know that you're also allowed to lose interest one day. I wouldn't be angry." Or petty or vindictive or any of the things his family is unfortunately known for in breakups. Sad, yes, but Hermes tends to sleep when he's upset, not lash out.

Hermes had, after all, once promised Achilles that he wouldn't smite him, even if he did something that Hermes didn't like. Hermes meant it.

His smile falters, just taking in Achilles' face, like he's memorizing it. "Can you promise me something, darling?"

If Patroclus is any indication, Achilles doesn't take love lightly. He's built for devoted endurance: he falls hard and he's in it for the long run.

"You're not the angry sort. I know it well. I wouldn't be here if you were." He'd never put Pat in harm's way (again) by taking up with a jealous, vindictive god, nor would he ever risk bringing messy conflict to his master's house.

Achilles head tilts a few degrees at Hermes' change of tone, and his own smile flattens to match. "Of course." His fond embrace relaxes, fingers laced loosely at the small of Hermes' back. "What is it?"

Hermes takes another moment to avoid Achilles' eyes, to just take in his face instead. The curve of his lip. The arc of his cheekbone. The blue of his eyes.

Then he takes a deep breath and makes eye contact again, serious. "If things don't go well with Pop... Whatever happens, promise me that you won't try to intervene. No protesting, no sneaking around him, no fighting."

As if anticipating a protest, Hermes quickens with followup, "If not for me or for yourself, then for Zagreus. Because he'll want to do something, and he needs someone who isn't his parents to tell him that sometimes the most powerful person in the room makes the rules no matter how unfair they are, and sometimes you just have to follow them."

The dirty secret of Olympus, behind the PR and flattering stories, is that the person who's most powerful is the one in charge. There's no greater justice, no test of worthiness, no due election or code of conduct--Zeus is the strongest, so he makes the rules. And if this treason fails, and Zagreus gives even a hint of being unhappy with how Zeus deals with the traitors, then there will be no mercy.

And there will be even less mercy for Achilles.

A moment's pain twitches across his face. This again.

"Hermes—" is all Achilles manages to say edgewise before the god launches into his usual, frustrating appeal to his better judgement: if Achilles is punished as a traitor, Zagreus could suffer without guidance, Patroclus would languish without his other half—everyone else he cares about and who cares for him stands to lose in some way.

What's more, if Zeus crushes this uprising, many of their allies will disappear with it. Hermes, of course. Athena. Maybe even Poseidon. Anyone left won't have the power, or won't risk suffering the same fate as their brethren. Zeus will become even more vigilant and vicious. Who could Achilles appeal to? Hephaestus? Apollo? Would he defy his father for his beloved younger brother?

The hero's head hangs in thought, the thumbs of his clasped hands strumming at the bands of Hermes' belt. Even if Achilles was in a position to try, he doesn't have a fraction of Hermes' sway over Olympian matters ...

But a shade does have an eternity to stubbornly wait and strike when he spies an opening.

"I can't promise inaction," he finally says with a deep heaviness. He can't bring himself to meet Hermes' eyes. "But I promise that I won't allow rage and grief to make a fool of me."

It's not quite what Hermes wants to hear. Better than nothing, though. Hermes strokes Achilles' hair, allowing him to avoid eye contact. It's not a promise Hermes relishes pulling from him.

"Remember all the other people you love, and who love you," Hermes says. "At his most spiteful, he'll take them all down with you to make an example."

Zagreus has the protection of being the son of Hades and a beloved nephew of Zeus (or as beloved as anyone is). But Patroclus is nothing but a dead speck to Zeus and Hades. Peleus and Neoptolemus still live under Zeus' sky, and Thetis, while able to hold her own, still can't stand against Zeus' unbridled wrath.

Hermes kisses the crown of Achilles' head, resting his cheek against his lover's hair. "Gods rise and fall, my love. Titans, Olympians. The ones who survive are the ones who know how to keep their heads down and adapt when change comes upon them."

People like Aphrodite, who was born just as Kronos dethroned Ouranos. Not that anyone remembers that, when she's so skillfully folded herself into the Olympian family. Of all the gods, Hermes is certain that Aphrodite will emerge unscathed regardless of what happens, because she was clever enough to not gain a reputation for cleverness.

"I know it," he huffs. "Others will pay for my hubris."

Just as they did before.

But all this talk ignites that very same pride; his voice grows hushed and vehement, and his hands grip into fists around the folds of Hermes' tunic. "What is the point of survival, if it's only to spend one's existence with a bowed head—standing by like a coward as others suffer under the whims of a tyrant?"

He shakes his head grimly, twisting his curls. "That is why I can't promise more, Hermes. To do so would mean surrender."

Hermes breathes an exasperated, but unsurprised sigh. "Oh, my stubborn hero. Won't you ever tire enough to lay down your arms?"

If Achilles ever does tire enough, it certainly won't be in this century, Hermes can tell. He cups Achilles' jaw, tilting it up to make eye contact. In this moment, despite his youthful face never changing, Hermes' eyes look very, very old.

"If you can't promise me inaction," Hermes says, "then please, promise me this: that you'll act with wisdom and cunning, and you won't be too proud to do what you must to win. You won't have a chance to act again if you fail once."

Were Achilles Odysseus, Hermes wouldn't ask this promise. He'd know that he would just find the cleverest way to get things done. But Achilles is himself, born a demigod prince and still devoted to the honorable principles taught to him, and Hermes fears that Achilles would stick too rigidly to those principles and Zeus would cut him down. Achilles is not the sort of person used to bending his personal rules to do what must be done.

"Just as you were born for godhood, I was born for this." He meets Hermes' ageless eyes with his own, piercing and determined. "I cannot set aside my nature anymore than you can shed your divinity."

For a time, Achilles thought that the last of his heroism had drained with his lifeblood. His grief was so great that he welcomed death and its numb rest. But only the anxiety over his own legend, all of his greed and selfish pride had been purged, not his drive to action. His service to the House of Hades infused him with a new, durable sense of purpose.

"On my honor, I promise you that I will act with care. I won't waste any chance I have to set things right." He moves a hand to hook around the back of Hermes' neck, heavy and beseeching. "And you—promise me the same."

Well, Achilles has got him there. He was born for great deeds and glory, and if anything, death has forged his resolve into steel without the distractions of greed and vainglory.

Hermes closes his eyes and nods. "I'll take it." He opens them again, still cupping Achilles' face in his hands. "And I--I promise you I'll act with care, cunning, and sure feet. I'll do everything I can to win, and with as little blood shed as possible."

He leans in, sealing his promise with a kiss that tastes like the thudding of one's heartbeat in anticipation of the biggest competition of their life. "I'll do everything to come back to you, my love."

That sense of anticipation is one that he used to enjoy often, but this isn't a game or a simple match of strength against a strong opponent. Achilles returns the kiss with steadying thoughts of a sheltering shield, raised in the midst of battle so an archer might draw and aim his bow with confidence.

"The future we've dreamed up today—hold it close." Achilles tugs him in tight for another kiss, fingers buried in the back of his hair, and an arm firm around his waist. This time he imagines the relief of a triumphant return from a battle decisively won, then parts his lips enough to breathe, "Listen for my prayers."

Hermes takes a moment to savor the feeling of being so safe and loved in Achilles' arms. It's not a feeling he gets to have nearly often enough. Achilles holds him like he can't stand to let him go, not because of what he can give but because of who he is.

"I'll listen." Hermes clutches Achilles, straddling his hips so it's easier to look him dead on in the eye. "And one day, we won't sneak around to kiss in secret. And you'll crack open that library when my curious fledglings sneak past Cerberus."

Hermes says it like a blessing. And maybe it is. Gods have power, and the limits aren't always clear. Hermes leans in and presses another kiss to Achilles' lips, savoring his lover. "I love you."

"And I love you." For a moment, Achilles wants nothing more than to underscore this statement with action: to carry his lover to bed and spend the rest of his visit tangled together. His eyes wander over Hermes' youthful face and hands instinctively search for warm, bare skin beneath his chiton.

But Achilles thinks of inopportune knocks at the door or listening ears and forces himself to stop. He blinks and swallows back his desire.

It will have to wait. Achilles releases a long exhale and straightens the hem of Hermes' tunic with a weary smile. "When next we meet."

The hands against his bare skin don't surprise Hermes in the least, because his thoughts go in much the same direction. But Achilles has more self control than he does. Hermes sighs, part in frustration and part in resignation, as Achilles straightens his clothes and returns his hands somewhere more polite.

"Next time." Hermes kisses Achilles softly. It's a brief, chaste kiss. "Next time, you'll see stars and it'll look like a wildcat mauled you."

Hermes' flashes a cheeky smile before reluctantly moving off of Achilles' lap. It'll just be all the more tempting to throw caution to the wind if they're on top of each other, and at a delicate time like this, Hermes doesn't want to risk rousing Hades' ire now. "We ought to do better at eating this food, or the Chef might think I don't like it. Far be it from me to insult them so."

"If you return safely, you can do anything you'd like to me," he says casually, with the briefest of winks—just in case all the wholesome incentives aren't enough.

He finds Hermes' neglected cup and tops it off from the amphora, stealing another sip before passing it along.

"It doesn't take much to please the chthonic natives, but the chef frets about impressing Olympians with only the best surface food." Achilles peers at the non-sweet offerings and helps himself to a tiny round of bread heaped high with mushrooms and—

The Greatest of the Greeks suddenly wrinkles his nose in clear revulsion. He quickly offers the morsel to Hermes instead, pinching it between thumb and index finger like something dredged from the bottom of a satyr's sack.

A combo of wholesome and sexy incentives are always better than only one.

Hermes accepts the cup, then laughs at Achilles' reaction to the little snack. "Don't like mushrooms, my love?" Hermes sips his wine before accepting the bread. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it for you."

Hermes pops it into his mouth, humming softly as he chews and swallows, washing it down with more wine. "I don't blame your chef for fretting, but if you think they'd believe you, do let them know that I enjoy their food greatly and they shouldn't worry."

He chuckles softly as he picks up a little pomegranate treat for himself. "Besides, they've learned my preferences well. I do have a weakness for sweets."

"Onions. They were mixed in among the mushrooms. Didn't you see? Can't stand the rotten, smelly things." Achilles turns away and flaps a hand in front of his face. He can't even watch Hermes eat them with such nonchalance. "No more kisses for a while."

He only turns back when Hermes tucks into the sweets. Achilles thinks of the dream and the tiny hummingbird asleep in his palms. His smile returns and he pinches a stray pomegranate seed from the platter, rolling it between his fingers before popping it in his mouth. "The chef will be pleased to hear your praise."

"Onions? You're so upset about onions?" Hermes laughs brightly, popping a pistachio in his mouth sticky with honey. Evidently, he has no trouble with onions at all. "Darling, I think you just haven't had them cooked right."

But far be it from Hermes to force onions upon his beloved. Especially when there are plenty of other treats to nibble on. He is indeed still a hummingbird under it all, looking for ever more sugar.

"I hope so. I know I still make most of the staff nervous. I'm never sure if that means I should try to be more or less friendly." With someone like Dusa, it seems like more friendliness just makes her expire faster.

He rolls his eyes and harrumphs like the stubborn old man he should have become.

"Do you know how many people have told me exactly that while they pushed every fiendish kind of onion on me?" Red, white, yellow, green. Pickled, caramelized, roasted, stewed.

He pops an olive in his mouth, deliciously salty with brine. "It was testament to Pat's devotion that, from the time we were boys, he ate every last onion that tried to spoil my food."

Hermes laughs, resisting the urge to kiss Achilles' nose with how grumpy he looks. "Are you sure he didn't just enjoy onions?"

He nibbles on a piece of cake, happily swaying in place in delight as he bites into it. Yum. Fruit and honey.

"You know, there are places out there where all they can eat are onions because they're so easy to grow, and the nobility take everything else. Onion soup all day, every day. Maybe with some mutton if they're lucky."

"Maybe. But isn't it more romantic to think of it as a sacrifice he made on my behalf?" As if it's on par with donning Achilles' armor and trying to singlehandedly sack Troy.

"Don't invoke such horrors under this roof, lest your uncle take note," he says, giving Hermes' leg a chiding kick. But the talk of such dismal mortal societies brings with it another thought. "Aside from those doomed to eat onion soup, how is the surface?"

Achilles rolls another fig between his palms, and his fleeting silliness gives way to his usual sober tone. "The mortal world suffered while you slept. Have you been able to help them? Or would that risk your father's notice?"

Hermes giggles, nose wrinkling, at the little kick. But he sobers again at the question, his lips pressing together in thought.

"...A lot of my help is unconscious. If Pop's noticed, he hasn't said anything. He might just assume that's mortal society righting itself somewhat and adjusting to my absence."

Hermes sighs through his nose. "But it's not great up there, even so. When there's unease on Olympus, there's unease on the surface. The roads are treacherous. The sea is unsafe. The woods are hostile. Plague is threatening to spread. Wine turns to vinegar and too many people are getting mind-sick... But soldiers and warmongers seem pleased with their lot."

Of all his siblings, Ares has been affected the least by his absence, it seems. It makes sense, he supposes. Diplomacy is often in direct conflict with war, and as diplomacy breaks down, war gains power.

"Luckily, Aunt Demeter and Aunt Hestia have carried on as normal. If they didn't, I don't know how the humans would feed themselves."

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