Chapter Text
Apollo had long since ceased to be a fan of dreams, though that should not be misunderstood: it was not because of any personal dislike toward Morpheus. Rather, he did not like what his own mind chose to show him.
During his first few decades, he paid little attention to them, until he found himself needing to look into them more closely in order to deliver prophetic dreams to mortals who had earned divine favor or who would need such guidance in the future.
He and Morpheus had only interacted once, and that had been more than enough.
Their conversation had been long, covering several subjects, including the fact that Morpheus had not minded the small intrusion into his domain; he had merely made it clear that Apollo should not tamper with dreams more than necessary.
He had also learned that Morpheus did not truly interfere with the dreams of other immortals, and that what they dreamed were creations of their own minds... The information had been confusing, but Apollo had not pressed further.
After that interaction, he slept for the first time since his birth, much to his father's mild alarm.
As a god of the arts and knowledge, he was deeply curious about what his mind was capable of creating.
At first, he was happy. He dreamed of his family living in happiness for eternity. He revisited that dream three more times afterward, but as he grew older, he stopped returning to it, choosing instead to devote himself to his domains and to his family outside of dreams.
In any case, he was a god; it was not as though he truly needed sleep.
The look of relief on his father's face when he realized Apollo's fascination with sleeping had passed made him feel a little guilty.
After all, it could not have been pleasant to find one of your only children lying motionless and unresponsive after already having lost more than one child in exactly that way.
The important detail was that Apollo had grown, and with him, so had his desires.
It was only a matter of time before the pain of the curse that his wretched grandfather had cast upon the entire pantheon reached him as well.
Foolish and hopeful, he had believed he would share his lord father's fortune and succeed in fathering children.
He tried again and again—with immortals, nature spirits, and mortals alike.
None of those attempts bore fruit.
There had been so many that, by then, he found it difficult to remember them all. In fact, he feared he had already begun to forget some.
Apollo never had any children. The only one of Zeus's children who had been fortunate enough to do so was Hermes, and only once; yet that birth had cost the nymph her life and had nearly claimed Hermes' as well...
After Pan was born, hope had blossomed within him once more.
Only for reality to shatter his illusions again, in the same cruel way it always had.
In his grief, he sought refuge in dreams, hoping his mind would show him the thing whose absence had left a painful void within his existence—one that not even his family could fill.
He slept again...
And it was horrible.
He saw small bodies that did not move, empty shells without the slightest sign of life. At best, they remained motionless; at worst, they crumbled into dust the moment his hands touched them.
The few who were born as adults collapsed like marionettes whose strings had been cut.
He had wanted to wake up, but found himself unable to do so.
When he finally awoke, he decided that dreams were something he would avoid from then on.
.
There were times when he felt lonely. Do not misunderstand him: he had company, he had his family, but there were days when not even their presence could fill the emptiness he carried inside.
He hated Eros...
He hated him for his utterly unsubtle interference in his love life. The wretch had made him feel whole with Daphne, even though it had not lasted a single day.
The bastard had shot her with a lead arrow and him with a golden one.
He had chased after Daphne, and she had fled from him, from his love—which, though sudden, had been genuine. She had filled the void that had consumed him for more than half of his existence.
She was his other half, and she could not understand it because she was under the effects of the lead arrow Eros had shot into her. Filled with an artificial disdain, she had chosen to become a tree instead.
And then the emptiness within Apollo had returned, more painful than ever.
As a token of love and remembrance, he had made her one of his sacred symbols.
He knew, somehow, that Aphrodite had intervened as well, for apparently Eros' original plan had been even more twisted. He had never cared to learn the details; he had been too consumed by the grief of losing Daphne.
The lovers he took afterward followed the same pattern: every one of them ended badly.
One moment he felt whole, and the next, it seemed the void only continued to grow.
Only with time did he come to understand that no matter how much he tried to deceive himself, the love those lovers filled was always hollow.
It was a fleeting sense of completeness, an illusion that vanished the moment he was left alone with himself.
.
It was an entirely ordinary winter solstice.
Satyrs played music, nymphs handed out food and drink, his relatives shared pleasant conversations; honestly, it all felt routine and dull at that moment.
For the past several moons, Apollo had felt a strange heaviness. He had associated it with the emptiness, not unlike the one he usually felt, and so he did what he always did...
He drank until he was sick, downing Dionysus' finest wine no matter how hard his brother tried to make him genuinely enjoy himself.
He could not have described the moment when he went from being in the main hall to lying among the gardens of Olympus, gazing up at the star-filled sky—the same sky where his unborn kin had somehow been immortalized.
Including his children.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to look at those reminders of his failures.
He was the healer. And yet, most of his divine patients died. What kind of god of healing did that make him?
He opened his eyes abruptly when he felt something pressing against his body.
Yet when he did, it was not the stars that greeted him, but a head of wavy golden-blond hair.
Startled, he tried to push away whoever had the audacity to be so close to him.
Only then did he realize that he could not move his limbs, though he had not lost his sense of touch. In a way he still could not comprehend, he felt hands—his hands—curl around the hips of the person he assumed owned that golden mane.
Nor could he look around beyond what he could catch from the corner of his eye.
Wait...
This was a vision.
He felt a little foolish for not realizing it from the very first second. He supposed that wine really was playing a trick on him this time.
Certain now that he was inside a vision, he paid closer attention, limited though he was by his narrow field of view.
It was strange. Normally, he observed his visions as a spectator, but this was like seeing everything through someone else's eyes. He supposed it must be something important.
But why was he seeing this now?
He felt the body lying beside him shift. He also felt his arms tighten more firmly around the warm figure at his side, careful not to hold them too tightly.
The hair still blocked his view, but now he was beginning to believe that it was his face buried among those golden strands.
“You'd better not have skipped your turn to bring up the sun just so you could stay here longer.”
The threat was delivered in the unmistakable tone of someone who had only just left Hypnos' domain.
Bring up the sun?
How could that possibly be?
Apollo was the one responsible for that task!
Then he felt that mouth open, though he still had no control over what it said.
“I didn't. I simply wanted to see the look on your face when you saw my gift,” he heard himself say in a voice dripping with mischief and affection.
That was his voice...
Not the voice of someone committing the blasphemy of imitating him, but his own.
Now Apollo understood that he was seeing everything from the perspective of his future self—one who, apparently, had taken another lover. Having lovers was not unusual for him, but in recent years he had lost all interest in sharing a bed with anyone.
Just as he was still processing that unsettling realization, he felt the room flood with light as his companion abruptly sat upright.
Once he sat up, Apollo could see him more clearly now that the hair was no longer obstructing his view. He noticed that both of their bodies were unclothed and that the only thing covering them was slipping away because of the sudden movement.
Golden-blond hair cascaded over distinctly mortal shoulders—athletic and unmistakably masculine. It would have been beautiful were it not for the incredible number of scars that marked that skin.
And he was not exaggerating when he said there were many.
“What in the name of—Apo...?” he began.
He turned as though intending to look directly at Apollo, but before Apollo could see his face, he felt the vision fade away.
The vision changed.
This time, he first saw a balcony he did not recognize, and in the next instant, he found himself inside.
The sight of an exquisitely decorated room greeted him.
Upon the bed lay a curled-up figure, covered by silk so soft that it draped over the body in a way that made its occupant resemble one of Apollo own sculptures.
The same golden hair spilled out from among the sheets.
The bed, positioned at the center of the room, looked more comfortable than any crafted by mortal hands he had ever seen. It was a chaotic blend of vibrant colors, appearing both impossibly soft and pleasantly cool.
As magnificent as it looked, his nest still appeared—and felt—better than anything crafted by mortal hands.
Apparently, he was going to take a prince as a lover, and judging by the scrolls—possibly poems or paintings—carefully arranged and marked with his seal, this one would be more favored than any lover he had taken before.
Ignoring the clutter, he watched himself lean toward one side of the bed and extend a hand to uncover his possible future lover.
He lifted the blanket slightly from where the man's face rested...
The vision shifted again.
This time, he was above a figure lying face down. The same blond hair, now somewhat longer, was spread across a pillow that seemed strangely familiar to him, though he decided to leave that question for later.
He also became aware of a pleasant warmth and pressure around his cock, a sensation that caught him completely off guard. Had Apollo been able to control the sounds he made, he likely would have let out some noise of surprise at how sudden it was.
It felt incredible and strange in a way he had never experienced before.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm. The mortal seemed to cling tightly to the silk sheets while lifting his hips slightly to settle more comfortably.
After a few seconds, the mortal's body relaxed at the same moment Apollo stopped moving.
Apollo watched himself pull away from the mortal and lie down beside him.
The mortal's face was damp with sweat, causing his soft golden hair to cling to his skin.
He watched his own hand reach toward that face, brushing aside the hair that obstructed his view.
At last, he would be able to put a face to the mortal who had earned his devotion.
The mortal fortunate enough to share more than a single moment with Apollo himself.
And...
Was this his nest!?
Apollo awoke with a start, one hand outstretched beside him, trying to reach for someone who was no longer there. Instead, he was met by the gentle presence of the plants in his aunt's garden.
He stretched his hand farther, touching the empty space as though someone were still lying beside him.
Only then did his emotions erupt like a storm worthy of his king and father.
Disinterest.
Confusion.
Curiosity.
Desire.
Love and devotion toward someone who was no longer at his side.
At least, not yet.