Work Text:
When he and Telemachus finally enter the palace dining hall, more crowded than he expected, Telemachus has to bat off one of the many men to make space for Neoptolemus.
“Can the prince not bear to be separated from his new boyfriend?" the man, who Neoptolemus doesn’t think is in a position to speak to the crown prince like that, remarks, in a — what was the word? — condescending tone. Neoptolemus' hand almost reaches for his sword at the disrespect, only to remember that he'd left it on the ship so as to not seem like a threat. Unfortunate.
Telemachus, admirably, manages to keep his composure. "He's not my boyfriend, Eurymachus," Neoptolemus' heart sinks at that, but he keeps his mouth shut, "he is an esteemed guest and since I invited him, I think he should be sitting next to me."
"I thought you were incapable of treating an 'esteemed guest' well."
"Well, this guest has treated me with nothing but respect since he's got here. That's more than I can say about you, ‘dear friend’ of my father."
It takes much of Neoptolemus' restraint to hide his amused smile.
Telemachus and the man — whose name he has already forgotten — stare each other down before the man begrudgingly retreats to join the rest of his ilk.
"Who was he?" Neoptolemus asks.
"One of my mother's 'suitors', if you can call them that," Telemachus grumbles, taking a seat. Neoptolemus follows suit.
"Can you not kick them out?"
Telemachus' icy gaze meets his own, and Neoptolemus tenses despite himself.
"These men aren’t loyal to my father, in case you couldn’t tell,” Telemachus begins, in a way that makes Neoptolemus want to hit himself. What idiot questions the intelligence of royalty, in their own kingdom, no less? "And my mother doesn’t have the social nor the physical protections to handle their retribution." There's a pause, annoyance shifting to shame. "And it's not like I'd be much help," he mutters.
Neoptolemus frowns. "Now that's nonsense, you're a prince, surely you can do _something_?"
"Pathetic is what I am."
Neoptolemus opens his mouth to protest some more, but is interrupted by the opening of a door. The rest of the room doesn't seem to notice, but Telemachus looks up to the source of sound with a fond smile.
Like a puppy.
Deciding to ignore the odd comparison, Neoptolemus follows Telemachus' eyes.
Making her way to the head of the table, the queen of Ithaca is almost unnoticeable in the chaos of the dining hall. Her sleek black hair is pulled into a bun, pale skin with eyes to match her son.
She pulls out one of the chairs at the head of the table — there are two, Neoptolemus realizes, one for her and one for her king — and sits down. It is only then, with Telemachus and his mother next to each other, does Neoptolemus notice the way Telemachus was always moving. Even now, his leg is bouncing under the table.
He only realizes he's staring when Queen Penelope speaks up.
"Telemachus," she says the name with affection, a small smile breaking through her mask of cool calculation, "is this guest welcome?"
"Of course. I met him in the gardens just this sundown. A prince, he tells me, on a quest for a wife." Any bad mood Telemachus was in seems to have melted away at the mere sight of his mother.
Neoptolemus thinks of his own mother, how she doted on him and fussed over his hair. Pyrrhus, she calls him. Red-haired. His original name — his 'true name', according to his mother.
He forces himself back to reality. Just in time, Queen Penelope had her eyes on him now.
What had Telemachus said, again?
"Welcome to Ithaca, prince of Skyros," she says. Her eyes analyze him, searching for something no one but her is privy to. He can tell why Odysseus was so desperate to return to her, she’s as intelligent as she is beautiful, a trait everyone in Telemachus’ family seems to share.
"It's an honour, your majesty." He gets up, bows briefly, and sits back down.
He thinks he hears Telemachus giggle. Neoptolemus' face does not heat up, and certainly not because he’s flustered.
He has such a lovely laugh.
He has half a mind to curse out Eros and Aphrodite and whichever other god is behind the sudden contamination of his thoughts.
Queen Penelope announces his presence to the dining hall, proclaims dinner has begun, and calls for the servants to set out the food. Her suitors pay attention to exactly none of that, save for the one or two who nod politely. He’s beginning to think that maybe the suitors care less for her and more for her crown, which would have been obvious had he not laid eyes on Telemachus.
Eros is making him stupid.
He swallows his food and clears his throat, looking at Telemachus. Telemachus spares him a glance, an eyebrow raised. He can see Queen Penelope watching him, through his peripheral.
"My apologies if my earlier question insulted you," he says.
Telemachus turns to him fully, eyes wide. He doesn't speak for a moment, but his eyes are scanning his face. "I..." He looks away, "It wasn’t a big deal, I assure you. You couldn't have known."
Neoptolemus nods, and they both continue eating. He feels the queen's eyes on him still, but he doesn't dare look up.
Queen Penelope dismisses the hall, a dismissal the suitors pay no mind to. Neoptolemus is about to ask to stay the night — preferably in a room next to Telemachus — when Penelope gets up.
"Prince Neoptolemus, I assume you are staying the night?"
Neoptolemus scrambles to get up, earning yet another giggle from Telemachus. "You would be correct, your majesty."
She hums, motioning for him to follow her as she makes her way to the door. He hears Telemachus move to get up, but she looks his way and shakes her head. He sits back down wordlessly. Some part of Neoptolemus tries to delude him into thinking Telemachus seems disappointed — projection.
He follows the queen through the halls, the noise of the increasingly drunk suitors drowned out by the distance until no sound remained, save for their footsteps and the occasional whispering of servants.
They stop in front of a painting. A family portrait, a younger Queen Penelope and King Odysseus, a baby Telemachus in the former’s arms. Queen Penelope does not even glance at it, focusing entirely on him.
Neoptolemus shifts uncomfortably, trying his best to maintain eye contact. Even when Telemachus was staring daggers at him, Neoptolemus could not find the will to look away. With Queen Penelope, he isn’t quite so sure how to feel. He ignores it, because he was once a soldier, and he can handle looking at a queen, no matter how intimidating she seems.
Queen Penelope hums, breaking the silence between them. "Contrary to what some may expect, I am no fool, and I'm much too exhausted to act as one. My son is too polite to point out all the absurdities of your story, but I have spent too much of my life being nice.” Oh. That doesn’t sound good. “I am well aware that any self-respecting young man looking for a wife would look elsewhere, and I know my kingdom is known for nothing at all. So, prince of Skyros, what is it you really want from Ithaca?"
Well then. He understood… Most of that, and it seems like she’s suspicious of him. No matter, if he just thinks through his answer, this should all be—
"Your son," he blurts out.
...At least he managed an honest answer for once?
Still, he claps his hands over his treacherous mouth and tries not to think of how red he must be right now. "My sincerest apologies, your majesty. I didn't mean to— That's not—" He restrains the urge to swear.
Penelope sighs, long-suffering and tired.
"Calm yourself, Achillides." Neoptolemus' back straightens at the title, son of Achilles, a name of respect. "I could infer your... intentions with my son. Once again, I am no fool. I could see the way you looked at him. While I am undecided on whether I would approve that union just yet, that is not my concern. My concern is that you could have come here for any number of reasons and I am sure that marriage is not one."
Neoptolemus looks away.
Gods save him, he didn’t want to admit this. Especially not to Telemachus, whom he wanted to impress. It's a blessing that Telemachus is likely still in the dining hall, handling the suitors.
"You see, your majesty," he begins, trying to find words that would make this sound less humiliating, "my mother…” Never a good place to start, but there really is nowhere else to. “She worries for me. She says I'm too young to be so serious, and insisted I travel the world so I can ‘see life outside of the army’."
A prince practically kicked out of his own home because his mother deemed him boring and sad. How embarrassing. He'd lied to every other ruler he'd met so far, claiming he wished to meet those who knew his father so he could better understand him and grow to be as great as he was.
Unfortunately, he was thoroughly caught in his lie, and all it took was a couple, miserable attempts at conversing with a singular pretty boy.
Queen Penelope smiles, mirthful. It doesn't help Neoptolemus' embarrassment. "You're a soldier? So young?"
"Since I was ten, your majesty."
"Hm. No wonder." She does not elaborate, but he can make a guess.
I never should have let you leave for Troy, his mother had said, brushing his hair away from his face, You were too young. It ruined you.
He brushes the memory off.
"So... May I stay?" he asks, hopeful.
Penelope regards him, analyzing him once again. He still isn't sure what she's searching for, but she seems satisfied with what she finds. "You seem like a nice man. You respect your mother, my son seems to like you—" Neoptolemus tries not to jump for joy, "—and you have manners... Most of them, anyway. If you remain respectful, you can stay as long as you like."
Neoptolemus opens his mouth to thank her—
"I'm not done yet."
—and then shuts it.
"If you truly wish to court my son, I will not stop you. I only ask you treat him as your friend first, and a romantic prospect second." Her eyes soften as she turns to look at the family portrait still towering over them. "He needs it."
"Of course," Neoptolemus says, "it would be my greatest honour."
Penelope hums once more, and gestures to a door a little ways off. "Your room," she tells him, and walks off back to the dining hall.
He opens the door, breathing in the air. It’s perfectly unlived in, sparse decor that hasn’t been touched in what must be years, the window revealing the beach. The same as his room back home.
Be his friend first, Penelope had said. He needs it.
In the back of his mind, he could hear his mother's disappointed sighing.
"Pyrrhus, won't you at least try to talk to one of them?" she gestured to the group of noble kids, around his age, talking in the corner. "The girls are lovely, I hear— The boys, too, if that's what you want."
Neoptolemus didn't respond, taking another bite out of his food. When was this? Two, three years after he returned from war?
His mother put her hand to his shoulder, to which he looked up. "Please, Pyrrhus. At least make a friend. You need it."
His mother ought to be really proud of him when he gets home.