refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Besides the obvious, there’s one big problem with being dead: it leaves Patroclus with too much time to think. To ruminate. To overanalyze. That was always his tendency, but at least in life, he had Achilles and the war. There was rarely a stretch of stillness that allowed him to wander so deep in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

Not like Elysium. Patroclus wishes he was more like Ajax, always spoiling for a test of strength against the shades of other legends, or Odysseus, chatting and joking so easily with anyone who will listen. Will they ever tire of it? Meanwhile, Pat still feels like his place here is undeserved. His act of bravery at Troy was a fluke. That wasn’t enough for Elysium; Achilles had to arrange that deal with Hades himself.

And what is he doing with that gift? Whiling it away in a chronically dreadful mood. It’s no surprise Achilles would take another lover. He needs someone more exciting and vibrant. He needs a challenge. Hermes is who he needed from the very start. Powerful, divine, worthy.

Now there’s Lyra, to—a beautiful, perfect child. Hermes can give Achilles anything he wants. What can Patroclus give him? Painful memories. Shame and regret. Achilles never says as much—of course he wouldn’t—but Pat assumes.

He lays sprawled on the spongy ground in the center of a glade, looking up at Ixion and fumbling around the corners of this well-trod maze of thought. Méli has surrounded him in scattered offerings: very fetchable sticks, a sandal, a broken arrow, an old bone. She finally gives up her restless pacing to flop down next to him. She shifts to rest her chin on his chest and sighs emphatically. Her gifts don’t seem to be helping.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good company right now, am I?” he mumbles, stroking her soft ears. He wishes he could be more like her. Living in the moment, not a single worry except what fun will be had next …

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“Truly? He was the first?” Grieving a lover—Achilles knows that pain well. What he can’t imagine is how much worse it would be if he was fully immortal. What would he do if he could never see Patroclus again? Probably do something foolish. Like make an ill-advised charge into the Underworld to retrieve him.

“I hope he didn’t retreat to the stars. I hope he stayed among us.” Epimetheus sounds very like Patroclus—a man who only wants peace and quiet. “The world can always use more flowers … and strange new beasts.”

For a long moment, Achilles watches Hermes and Maia sitting close. A mother made of stars and her child made of sunlight and feathers. “I hope this peace will last. For both of you, for Lyra … for everyone’s sake.”

Maia sighs softly, peacefully. "I hope so too. On both counts." She wonders what this new world will be like under Athena's rule. Athena is the first one to be in charge who hasn't violently put down her opposition. Maybe it isn't wise, or maybe it's just kinder wisdom that the young have learned from someplace other than their elders.

"Maybe Epimetheus will emerge again, now that Prometheus is free. If you ever do meet him..." Maia has a small nostalgic smile as she thinks of her uncles. "Ask him about mushrooms. He gets very excited about mushrooms."

Hermes huffs a little laugh and a smile. "We'll be sure to remember that, Mum. Any particular reason why?"

Maia shrugs. "I never quite understood his work. But he said that they were the only creations he or Prometheus ever made that 'can't die in any way that matters.'"

“Mushrooms are effectively immortal, then?” Achilles gives an appreciative hum. He remembers Chiron’s lessons, and learning about how mushrooms live and reproduce in ways unlike other plants. It’s not a plant at all, the centaur declared.

Achilles learned that, as well as which ones are poisonous, or cause strange visions when eaten. Now he imagines Epimetheus, like his brother, mulling over his artistic vision for this bizarre life form—perfecting its spongy flesh and lacy gills.

“I would like to ask him about onions as well,” Achilles muses, frowning. “What inspired him to inflict such a noxious vegetable upon the world?”

"Apparently. He said that the mushrooms we see are only a small piece of the plant, and the majority of it is actually threads in the dirt," Maia says, still with a nostalgic smile. Reminiscing of her most shy, introverted uncle makes her miss his quirky, artistic demeanor.

Hermes laughs at the comment about onions. "Maybe he'll be able to teach you how to like them, love." He affectionately nudges Achilles with one of the wings at his ankle. "If he's anything like Prometheus, I'm sure he'd talk your ear off about it."

"They've both always been very chatty about their work," Maia says with a smile. "My father was the quietest of his brothers. The rest were very caught up in their arts and sciences and experiments."

“Unlikely,” Achilles huffs. It’s difficult to tell if he’s being playfully stubborn or if onions really are so offensive. “Unless he invents a new kind of onion that doesn’t smell and taste awful.”

It sounds like Hermes didn’t inherit as much from his grandfather’s demeanor as he did from his great uncles. Achilles wants to know more about Atlas, but not at the cost of causing Maia and Hermes more pain. He focuses on the safer Titans instead.

“Lord Prometheus reminded me very much of Hermes in that regard. Chatty, yes. Also very curious and intelligent. Kind to mortals.” He gives Hermes a sidelong glance. “He seems far more patient, though. Sorry, magpie.”

Hermes laughs brightly at Achilles' distaste. It's one of those things he finds delightfully amusing about his lover. How wonderful to disagree about things, even now.

And at the patient comment, Hermes promptly puts his hand to his chest. "Are you calling me impatient, love?"

He flops his head in Maia's lap, gasping loudly. "Mum, I've been betrayed. Are you hearing this?"

Maia laughs, petting her son's wings, and the stars that make her eyes twinkle as she looks at Achilles. "Thank you for loving my son despite his dramatics, Achilles."

Hermes gasps louder. "MUM!"

Achilles almost makes a quip about Hermes’ tendency to rush their more intimate encounters, but he holds his tongue. That’s nothing Maia needs to hear about.

“Impatient. Impulsive. Impish. You’re quite a lot of things, my dear.” Achilles ruffles one of the wings on Hermes’ ankles. Then, his voice soft with affection, he answers Maia: “I love him because of it, not in spite of it.”

Achilles smiles at the god fake-pouting at his mother’s lap. He can’t imagine anyone else—immortal or otherwise—who would be so playfully silly. “After my death—and all that led up to it—I’d forgotten how to smile and laugh as I once did. Hermes reminded me how.”

Hermes makes a faux-outraged noise as he pushes his legs forward to affectionately rest in Achilles' lap. "Mum, are you hearing this? He's being sweet to make me forgive him. And it's working."

Maia chuckles warmly. She pets Hermes' wings, smiling at Achilles, and the stars that make her body seem warmer than stars in the sky.

"I'm so happy you found each other." Maia never fell in love with a man. Maybe she could have, if it weren't for Zeus, but she's long since set any dreams of that nature aside. She's more than happy to witness her son find the love and devotion she never did. "You deserve to smile and laugh. Both of you do."

“You’ve taught me all about the fine art of manipulation,” Achilles laughs, tickling Hermes’ ankles in flirtatious retaliation. For a moment, it feels like they’re boys again—especially compared to the quiet grace of an ancient goddess.

“I’m happy you found each other as well.” Achilles nods his head at mother and son. “It’s been a strange and wonderful few days—stumbling upon Lyra, and now finally meeting you, Lady Maia.”

And poor Hermes was anxious about all of it, even though mother and daughter adore him. The idea of family being so utterly frightening is still a wildly foreign concept to Achilles.

Hermes snickers as his ankles are tickled, spreading the wings on his feet to give Achilles a gentle feather smack on the stomach. "I'm rubbing off on you. Before you know it, the Greatest of the Greeks will be a thief."

Maia stays smiling. There's something deeply healing to her, watching her son be so comfortably silly with a man who's professed such deep love for him. Her greatest fear was that her son would never be cherished like he deserved, and it's a salve on her heart to see that fear laid to rest.

"It's been a very strange few years," she admits softly. "So much has happened, after so long of the same. But I'm hopeful that good things will come to follow. The reign of Olympus was kinder than Kronos, and perhaps this new era will be kinder than the last as well."

And if she thinks about it, she supposes that's a very good thing. She's been afraid for so long, but perhaps fear isn't an inevitable part of being a relatively weak goddess in a world full of powerful gods.

“I think it will—if I know my patron goddess, she will rule with wisdom and honor.” There’s really no other god more suited to rule Olympus, at least through his mortal eyes. If anything, Athena might be too rigid … but that’s exactly what she has Hermes for.

Achilles gives his foot-wings a gentle tug. “And she has an exceptionally kind and insightful advisor.”

Yes, he’ll keep laying the praise on thick; Maia needs to know exactly how good her son is. Hermes might put on a facade of bravado, but he’s far too modest when it comes to his most important accomplishments. Like ushering in an era of peace on Olympus.

Hermes flushes gold, but he smiles, fluttering his foot wings in Achilles' hands. "Well, her advisor does his best."

Throughout the conversation, it's clear that Maia likes Achilles a lot. It's an achievement, considering her skepticism of men, and warrior men particularly. But Achilles clearly adores Hermes, and Hermes adores him, and she can't help but be happy that her son has that.

And before she knows it, the dawn light starts to kiss the horizon. She looks to the sky, already the scant light making her star-strung form fade.

"I should return to my sisters," she says softly before looking to Achilles with a warm smile. "It made me very happy to meet you, Achilles. I would like to meet Lyra soon, too."

Achilles admires the blush of dawn for a moment—it’s a rare sight for a shade. It brings to mind new beginnings, new adventures, fresh starts. None of which he ever expected death to provide.

“I’m eager for you to meet your granddaughter. We must arrange it. She’s so like Hermes.” He laughs and gives Hermes a teasing pinch on the calf. “For better or worse.”

But his smile turns soft and he bows his head respectfully. “It was an honor to finally meet you, goddess. I hope to see you again before you make your journey back to the sky.”

Hermes snickers. "But she gets her nerve all from you, love."

Maia, still smiling, pulls her son into her arms and gives him a hug so tight that he makes a playful 'ack!' noise, hugging her back and fluffing his feathers.

"Goodbye, Mum. I'll make sure to introduce you to Lyra soon."

"Good." Maia pulls away, patting Hermes' cheeks softly before taking Achilles by the arms. "Thank you for meeting me, Achilles. This was lovely."

She leans in and places a soft kiss to Achilles' cheek, then another to his other cheek, patting his arm affectionately before she starts to fade. Already, she's going to her sisters. And yet even in her diminished state, even her soft kisses are like the kisses of stars. "I'll visit again soon enough."

There’s a lingering, gentle warmth where Maia’s starry lips and diaphanous hands touch his shade, as if they are made of like stuff; the bare essence of a god meets that of a mortal.

“Be well, Lady Maia,” Achilles says softly as she disappears into the dawn with the rest of the night’s fading stars. Orange creeps into the horizon, heralding the start of Helios’ journey.

Achilles exhales and looks to Hermes. He didn’t realize how much his nerves were thrumming that whole time. Meeting Zeus was easier somehow. “I dare say that went well.”

Hermes smiles wistfully as his mother disappears. He wishes that she could stay for longer periods of time, but he chooses to be grateful for all the time he has with her that he never expected.

"She likes you. Like I knew she would." Hermes shimmies to move his seat, sitting down finally on Achilles' side of the border between the surface and the Underworld. He loops an arm around his lover's side, pressing a soft kiss to the space where Achilles' jaw meets his ear.

"Thank you." For meeting her. For keeping the peace with Pat earlier. For being so supportive while Hermes struggles to navigate family relationships that don't require he walk on eggshells at all times. "You were wonderful."

“No need to thank me, my dear. It was a pleasure. She’s lovely …” Achilles shifts to face Hermes and cup his face in a calloused hand. He admires the way the dawn light plays in his eyes. “Just like you.”

He traces Hermes’ cheekbone. It’s a shape he’s committed to memory, but there was something special about recognizing its match in his mother’s face. “It’s a terrible thing—that the two of you were apart for so long.”

Achilles leans in and presses a kiss to the center of Hermes’ forehead. The place where his brows once furrowed in worry over opening a simple letter. “But it’s clear to see how much she loves you. How much she’s always loved you.”

Hermes smiles, closing his eyes to better memorize the feeling of Achilles' fingers on his face, the brush of lips on his head.

"I try not to dwell on how much time we lost." If Hermes allowed himself to dwell on all the tragedies of his life, he'd drown in them. And he'd take all the mortals who need his power down with him. "It's much better to think about all that I have now."

Hermes opens his eyes with a smile, leaning in to nudge his nose against Achilles'. "Now, I have my mother, I have a daughter, and I have a wonderful man to raise her with. That's worth celebrating, I think."

“That’s wise,” Achilles hums. He knows that trap: dwelling on what was lost, what could have been and ignoring all the many good things in front of him. And Achilles only had a short, mortal life. How much grief can an immortal life collect?

He slips his hand under Hermes’ chin and guides him into a kiss—soft, then probing, savoring the bright taste of his lips. Something about it makes him think of not-apples. Cheerful, tart.

Achilles breaks the kiss and runs the back of his knuckles down Hermes’ arm. “And how would you like to celebrate?”

Hermes hums softly into the kiss, smiling as Achilles parts their lips and strokes his arm. For a moment, in the soft dawn light giving Achilles a pink hue, it's easy to be overwhelmed by how much he loves this man.

He takes his favorite seat in the world--straddling Achilles' lap. And he allows Achilles in, letting him feel that love so bright it might burst from his chest.

"I can think of some ways," Hermes murmurs as he leans in to kiss Achilles again. It's slower than his usual kisses, more intent on savoring the feeling of Achilles' lips and drawing the experience out. The last couple days have been emotional--between finding out he has a daughter, having one of his rare fights with Achilles, trying to adjust to the idea of fatherhood--and he'd really like a chance to just resettle himself physically with one of the people he loves the most.

Achilles loops arms around Hermes’ waist to draw him close. He knows how exposed they are, but the secrecy of their relationship has worn so thin, he can’t be bothered to care.

It’s rare for Hermes to be so unhurried with his affection. So often his kisses are hungry. Needy. But this is a nice change and Achilles isn’t in any rush to part their lips.

When he finally comes up for air, Achilles smiles and runs a thumb over Hermes’ brow. “Depending on the ways you have in mind, this isn’t the best place. … As handsome as you look in the dawn.”

Hermes smiles at Achilles, for once happy to just take a moment and memorize his face. It's not the first time he's tried to capture a moment to affix in his mind, and he hopes it's not the last. For a moment, he's unbelievably, overwhelmingly grateful for his role as a psychopomp allowing him to have his lover beyond death.

"Alright. If you insist." But Achilles is right. Besides, so close to the Styx, it's likely that Charon will come and it's just rude to have sex with one lover where another will likely see. Hermes cups Achilles' cheeks, running his thumbs along his cheekbones.

"Would you like to go back to the grove that looks like Phthia? The grove with the statue? Or is there somewhere new you'd like to show me?"

Achilles looks past Hermes at the world beyond—so tantalizingly close. He thinks of the bustle of Athens just beyond Medea’s window. And further in memory, there’s the starry mountaintop, the beach …

He swallows and meets Hermes’ eyes again. “If it isn’t too much to ask, could you take me somewhere? Anywhere at all ...

“It need not be for long,” he adds quickly, feeling a little like a child asking for a treat. Or maybe a shade from a tragic song, begging his lover to bend the rules of life and death—perhaps to their mutual ruin.

“I miss this.” He nods his head at the sky, at Greece stretching beneath it.

Hermes should say no. It's against the rules for a reason, to let shades in and out of the Underworld willy-nilly. It was cruel to keep on dangling life on the surface in front of their faces, just to take them back home in the dark.

But the yearning in Achilles' eyes is so clear as he looks out at the sun. How can Hermes say no? How can he deny one of the loves of his life, one who stood up to Zeus to him, anything he asks for?

"Helios is a snitch." Hermes smooths Achilles' hair out of his face. "But I can take you somewhere he doesn't look. Someplace beautiful that looks like nothing any mortal in Greece would see." He lets his hands rest on Achilles' shoulders. "Pick a color, love. Green, black, or pink."

For a minute, Achilles isn’t sure how Hermes will respond. He knows his lover can’t resist a bit of mischief, but maybe it’s too much of a risk right now? Maybe he’s asked too much.

Achilles gives a rumbling hum and fiddles with one of the wings on Hermes’ ankle as he considers this unusual response. What could each color imply? A lush grove? He’s seen plenty of those in Elysium. A dark cave? That might as well be half of the Underworld.

Ultimately, only one option really piques his curiosity. He smiles at this curious game and finally says, “I choose … pink.”

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