For @messageforyou

[refusetofight]

“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.

Comments

[refusetofight]

"I know it," he says fondly. This must be how a wife feels when her husband is off to war: helpless to do anything but believe in his skill and offer prayers for his safe return. But who does one pray to for a god's safety?

He pauses preening to shimmy over and help Hermes get cozy. Once he's settled, Achilles bows to press a kiss to his forehead. "Yes. Relax. You'll need a well-rested mind to negotiate with your lord uncle."

As he resumes his work, Achilles begins humming a tune and after a few measures, sings the accompanying words—soft and low in case there are listening ears.

[messageforyou]

This is what Hermes fights for. Moments like this, listening to his lover sing a soft love song as he preens him. This--more than sex, more than adventures, more than playful flirting and spars--this is what he wants to save the most.

Hermes keeps his wings spread so Achilles can work, but they relax in his hands. Hermes dozes lightly with a smile on his face, practically liquid in his lover's lap. Hermes rarely gets this comfortable unless he's a cat, but a cat can't be preened so nicely.

Hovering halfway between wakefulness and sleep, Hermes murmurs softly, "I love you."

And he'll tell the world one day, when they can both guarantee no one can come between them.

[refusetofight]

As much as he enjoys his youthful energy, Achilles cherishes these precious times when Hermes utterly surrenders to stillness. When he can stop his constant effort—to please his father, to keep the place that he fought so hard for. A place on Olympus that he still risks losing. Wiggling out of trouble.

Achilles once doubted the shade of a hero had anything worthy to give a god, but now he knows exactly what he can provide: a moment's quiet sanctuary in the midst of a restless existence. Didn't Achilles find himself in need of the same during the chaos of his own life? Hermes is no different.

"And I love you, too." Bracketing a genuine smile, the lines of his face look less weary, more contented. He smooths a palm over Hermes' hair and whispers, "Now, sleep. I'll wake you if you're needed."

[messageforyou]

Hermes is not a god that sleeps often. He usually only sleeps when something's wrong and he needs space to turn off and process it--and unfortunately, that's happened more and more recently ever since his misstep with his rain god cousin.

But here, instead of 'turning off', dozing feels instead like a welcome respite. Like actual rest, rather than shutting down.

Hermes sleeps with a smile on his face, chest rising and falling with soft breathing, his wings spread and relaxed in his lover's hands.

It'll be okay. When Hermes promises it to Achilles, he believes it.

[refusetofight]

Years of standing guard have cultivated a deep well of patience, and an appreciation for small things: how the scratch of Hades' quill telegraphs his mood, how Dusa will practice singing when she thinks no one is listening, or the way Cerberus twitches in his sleep as he has three separate dreams.

In this same way, Achilles watches Hermes' breath grow even with sleep, noting how many of his heartbeats count an inhale and an exhale. He feels his wings slowly lose their constant tension—no longer fluffing and flapping, or pressing against his head in a moment's worry. Hermes looks very much like the delicate, trusting hummingbird he held sleeping in his hands.

Achilles is lost in the moment until distant stirring in the House jars him back to vigilance; reminded that even this quiet arrangement is a risk. Gently, he gathers Hermes up, carries him to bed, and hazards a kiss on the forehead before retreating back to an adjacent chair. Left to his thoughts, Achilles staves off painful memories of the last time a lover embarked on a daring plot.

It won't happen again, he tells himself.