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Neoptolemus had been on Ithaca since sunrise, and had quickly decided that he should leave the following morning. There was nothing of interest there, aside from how little men were on the island. Apparently, they were yet to come back from war. Unfortunate.
As much as he respected Odysseus, he could not help but wonder how his kingdom was on any maps.
Despite his boredom with the sheep and rocks, he still made his way to the palace at sunset. It would be rude not to at least give the queen his greetings, even if he had no respect for the land she ruled.
The palace was the only interesting part of Ithaca, and even it lacked life. Nothing except servants, flowers and that pretty boy in the garden.
Wait.
What?
He'd had many first impressions of many people, but he didn't think the word 'pretty', nor any of its synonyms, had ever passed his mind, especially not upon a glance.
Well, he supposed the description fit.
The boy looked around his age, curly black hair and olive skin, wearing clothes much too nice for that of a servant. No, this wasn’t a servant, couldn’t be. He had to be someone important, and judging by how his eyes scanned the flowers for imperfections and the way he smiled like he knew a secret, there was really only one person he could be.
Neoptolemus ought to kick himself.
How he hadn't figured it out immediately was beyond him, but it made sense. The boy was almost a carbon copy of his father, the illusion broken only by his icy blue eyes and the softness of his features. His mother's gifts, he assumed.
His only real defense was that, when Odysseus had discussed his son — which was nowhere near as often as the man's endless ramblings about his wife — it was of a baby that fit neatly into his arms, eyes wide with wonder and curiosity.
The prince of Ithaca he was currently staring at was far past the age of cradling, and those 'curious eyes' were purposeful, not as calculating as his father's, but just as intense. Neoptolemus wondered if his gaze would be just as unnerving as his father's.
He took note of the fact that he should look away. (He did not.)
And, just like that, his legs were moving, pushing him towards the prince — the prince whom he had decided was 'pretty' on sight, the prince who was the son of the man who brought him to war almost five years prior, the prince who—
...now had his eyes on him.
"Do you need something?"
I need you.
What type of response would that be? Think rationally, self.
"My name is Neoptolemus," he found himself saying, as he had so many times on the trip around Greece he'd found himself on, "son of Achilles, prince of Skyros."
Those eyes glinted with something. Interest?
Gods let it be interest.
Quiet down.
"Telemachus."
What a lovely name.
Was he sick? What was happening to him?
"It's a pleasure—" More than a pleasure. "—to meet you, Prince Telemachus.”
Telemachus raised an eyebrow.
“You are a prince, right? Your father always told me he believed you were destined for greatness."
Another glint. Now that had to be interest.
But perhaps not the kind his mind seemed so set on receiving from this stranger. He needed to ground himself.
"My father?" Telemachus asked, smile shifting from curious to awestruck. It was as if he'd never met someone who knew his—
...Because he hadn't. His father wasn't back yet. Hm.
"Yes, always longing to go home. He brought me to war in the hopes my presence would end it faster, you know." He was fudging the details a little, but there were worse things he could have said. For example, any of the strange, impulsive thoughts in his head.
"Well, if you were coming to Ithaca to see my father, I'm afraid you're out of luck." Telemachus' voice no longer held the airiness it once had, replaced with something like frustration, eyes downcast.
He wanted nothing more than to wipe the frown on Telemachus' face off.
...Well. He could do something akin to that.
"No, nothing like that. I'm well aware of your father's absence, an issue I'm sure will be fixed soon enough, and I just wanted to pay a visit. I've heard wonderous things about your island from your father and his soldiers."
Telemachus' eyes were yet to return to him, but Neoptolemus could not help but notice the slight upward twitch of his lips, as if he'd heard something amusing.
"Is that so? And what wonderous things have you heard of my island?"
Ah. So Telemachus can hear an obvious lie when one is said.
As clever as his father.
Must be genetic.
Still, he was unwilling to admit his lie. He was not about to embarrass himself in front of the only pretty boy he'd ever met.
Gods, he must be sick.
"For one, I heard the wool of Ithacan sheep is the softest in the world—" He's sure Telemachus' hands were softer, "—and the rocks are so sharp you could make knives out of them."
Telemachus stepped forward, and Neoptolemus prayed his face was not as red as it felt. "Is that all?" Telemachus asked, melodic in a way that made Neoptolemus wonder what he'd sound like singing. He swallowed.
"Well, most of your father's ramblings of his home were about your apparently beautiful mother."
Telemachus' smile dropped.
"So that's why you're here," he muttered.
Neoptolemus had to be losing his mind. He wanted to tell the gods to remove his tongue, because clearly it was useless.
If he played his cards right, Telemachus would soon disagree— They should cut out his mind, too, while they’re at it.
He grabbed Telemachus' wrist before he could walk off. "No! Nothing like that!"
Telemachus stopped, but didn't turn.
"I just... Well—" He couldn't very well lie again, could he?
"You see, my mother has been... Insisting that I find a wife." No she hadn't, she'd sooner kill him than see him married, especially after he'd been taken away to war. "And your father's men once told me of how..." Well, he might as well dig his grave deeper, "...Ithacan women's minds were as sharp as rocks and their hair was as soft as wool and—"
"So it is 'something like that'?" Telemachus raised an eyebrow, and those ever-observant eyes were taking him in again. A reassessment.
"...Yes?” Gods above, he needed to say something that wasn’t completely useless. "And... I always thought that if Odysseus’ wife was beautiful, then his son must be breathtaking.”
Why. Would. He. Say. That.
"And did I disappoint?" Telemachus inched closer, a teasing grin on his face.
Neoptolemus' breath hitched. "Not at all.”
Telemachus giggled, stepping back, leaving a respectable amount of space between them once again. Neoptolemus ignored the disappointment that filled him. “Well, it’s a shame I’m not a woman, then.”
If Zeus struck him down this very moment, he'd be thankful.
“I suppose so.”
Telemachus regarded him for another moment. "You know, it'd be rude not to invite a prince for at least one meal."
“Would it?”
“It would! Follow me.” Telemachus pulled at Neoptolemus' hand.
Neoptolemus obeyed in a heartbeat, silently praying for Aphrodite’s mercy.