For a moment his eyes widen-

And then he steps forwards, cutting the distance in between them down to scant inches, close enough now to feel the younger man's breath on his skin, the heat that radiates from him. "No, indeed, you are more skilled in deceit than I by far. I love you." He's so close now, he looms so large he blots out the world -

His heavy breaths are hot, almost feverish, against Aetos’ neck. A crack starts to form in one of the fault lines of his soul – his eyes are wider, wilder.

“How could you say this?”

"Easily. Gladly. Far later than I should have."

“Was this your plan all along?” The tears start to fall then, salt running down perfect skin. “To break me into accepting you? For as Zeus is my witness, broken I am by your hand.”

Without even thinking about it, he lifts a hand and with a calloused thumb wipes the tears away. "If I had had a plan it would not have been so foolish."

He does not flinch, but presses his cheek into the touch without thought.

He closes his eyes like men do before they meet their fates on the battlefield. The tears continue in a steady, silent stream, and their master bears it stoically.

His other hand comes up and he cups the boys face. His cheekbones look so delicate under those strong hands, like glass, or like the last ice that melts in the spring. 

"Can you tell me the truth now? Tears do not flow forever."

He bows his head.

Even closer now, and his hands meet behind the boy's neck, pressing gently the soft skin there. "Answer me."

His lips part, lower lip bruised and trembling.

Can he really? Can he really speak freely, in front of King Aetos of all people?

The words come out in terrible confession before he can stop them.

“You asked me once, at the war’s beginning, what I fear. I fear you. Something lives inside you that I– do not understand. Some– terrifying potential.”

He looks up with the eyes of the boy Aetos knew.

“And yet I find myself wanting to– to reach out for you all the same. For all the pain you have caused, I seek your comfort. For this– sickness of mine– you have undone me.”

His breath shakes.

“I marry tomorrow.”

"You do not need to. You are the King of Pylos, not Diameda. You have the power. You always did. The tragedy of your life, Ophellios, is that at every single point you could have chosen differently and had what you wanted. It would have been better to do so long ago. But you could still do it now."

And without another word he draws him into his embrace. 

Rigid as iron, he bears it. He bears the warmth and the strength and the scent of him; he bears the black memory of the last time he felt those great arms around him.

Over Aetos’ shoulder, the statue of Apollo meets his gaze disapprovingly.

He hides his face.

“I cannot undo what I have done.”

"Nor can I. Nor can I. All I can do is try to make it right. And that begins with the truth."

He draws back a little. 

"If you care for the woman at all, or for honour - you know it would be a lie."

He shakes his head, glassy-eyed, slipping away. “She carries my son. I am bound by duty.”

He shakes him, hard. "I said stop it. I don't care what sort of sacred trance that is, it's still running away, and I never taught you cowardice."

With the sudden jolt, Aetos comes a little into focus.

“You…” He blinks away at the haze. “You have taught me many things. The importance of duty. Were our positions reversed–”

"Indeed I did. But one thing I did not teach you -

- your first duty is to yourself."

He wants to believe it more than anything–

“No. That is not the oath that I swore as king.”

He leans a little closer. 

"Did your oath say anything about truth? About honesty?"

Closer. 

Only ahead. 

Only there 

"Did it, in fact, oblige you to marry at all?"

Closer, and once more he's close enough to touch. 

"Can a king truly have nothing he wants?"

He loses a little more of the battle.

The desire shakes itself loose from its chains, burning away at his cheeks and lips. Ophellios cannot tear his hooded gaze away, entranced.

There are warnings about this, he thinks distantly. Somewhere the gods lie.

“Aetos,” he pleads. One last defence.

"Ophellios," he whispers, and his fingers rise up to tangle themselves in that too-short hair, to expose the golden skin of his throat. 

"Ophellios," he says, like a poem, like a prayer, and kisses him. 

There is no part of him left to resist.

He groans softly and kisses back as though starved, clutching desperately at the other man’s great frame. He hates himself for it.

A red handprint presses itself against the back of Aetos’ neck, bleeding into the edges of his cloak.

And roughly he pulls away, gasping for air, eyes running over Aetos searchingly.

“…One night.” He softly concedes, all but forcing out the words. “Only one.”

His hands shake. He does not notice that they do – but they slowly undo the brooch at Aetos’ broad shoulder, and the cloak falls. They turn next to unfastening the belt at the other man’s hips, and Ophellios’ eyes cloud with something other than ritual.