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Eurylochus does not sleep. He cannot allow himself to.
It is not that he is incapable. It is cowardice, as much as he tells himself otherwise.
Polites is dead, and Eurylochus cannot bear to face it.
He cannot bear closing his eyes and letting his mind drift, because he knows who he will find within his dreams. His eyes grow heavy. His muscles ache for rest. Eurylochus refuses to succumb to the weariness. He takes up command in Odysseus’s absence, their Captain secluding himself to his private quarters, and does his best not to fall apart. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, but a yawn still escapes him.
Eurylochus blinks for a moment too long. He drifts.
And his lover awaits him there, in his dreams.
Sometimes, he is broken and bleeding, the cyclops’s massive club casting a shadow over his ruined body. Other times, he is just dead, eyes wide and empty. But the worst is when Polites is alive—whole, bright, smiling with dimpled cheeks and warm eyes, the one that always melted something inside Eurylochus. In those dreams, Polites is happy. In those dreams, Eurylochus is almost happy, too. Almost. Because when he wakes, that happiness cuts like a betrayal, that happiness does not belong to him anymore. Not when Polites is dead, ripped from the world with one brutal, unforgiving swing.
He cannot bear to wake up from that. Not again.
So, Eurylochus forces himself to stay awake.
His men know, of course. They are not blind to the grief sitting heavy on his shoulders. Polites had been his lover, and although Eurylochus had not been the most expressive of their union, these men have fought by their side for over a decade. They had known. Perhaps another man could afford to isolate themselves to grief, but Eurylochus is the second-in-command, and he does not have that luxury in Odysseus’s absence. Someone has to be available to lead, and Eurylochus cannot make himself force Odysseus out of his mourning. Even if it comes at the cost of his own.
He manages with difficulty, standing tall, providing assurances.
Men—good men, beloved friends—have been lost to the cyclops. Funeral rites had not been performed in their hasty escape. Eurylochus talks to the crew, offers platitudes of their heart and bravery, even as he finds his own words hollow. What good is honor to the dead? When the dead do not have a coin to cross the river of souls? He does not want to think of Polites in the Underworld, spirit drifting, unable to fully pass on because Eurylochus could not give him the rites he deserved.
Dwelling on that will undo him.
Sleep will undo him. It will drag him into a mirage of the life he and Polites once shared, tricking his mind with the warmth of something that can never be again. Eurylochus can already feel the dream lurking, pulling at his exhaustion, threatening to twist his memories into cruel, perfect visions of the life they could have (should have) had together. His body longs for rest—every muscle aches, his eyes burn—but he will not. He will not let his guard down. He tells himself he will not let the dreams win.
But they always do.
When sleep finally overtakes him, it’s without mercy.
In his dream, Eurylochus is back on the ship with Polites.
Was it not so fortunate that they found so many sheep? his lover will say, with an optimism that had survived a war. That the cave was unguarded? We’re going home.
And Polites will smile at him, glowing in the setting sun, casting a reflection of orange and gold over the sea. Eurylochus will not remember the specific words that had made Polites laugh, but he would remember the sound of it, how it never failed to make his chest tighten with an undeniable fondness. He cannot remember the last time they shared a peaceful moment like this, but it will not matter, because time holds no meaning here.
It feels so real, so perfect, that for a brief, aching moment, Eurylochus lets himself believe it. He holds Polites tighter, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, and he is gorgeous. Eurylochus tells him so. Polites leans in with a softness in his eyes that Eurylochus can never get enough of. He reaches out, fingers brushing against Polites’s cheek, up into his hair, then Eurylochus is leaning down in turn to kiss him. His eyes slip shut. It is perfect. So perfect it hurts.
Polites kisses back with a strangled, desperate, dying sound that has Eurylochus stumbling back. Blood is dripping down his lover’s face, matting his hair to his forehead, almost covering the emptiness in his dark eyes. And Polites is on the ground of that damned cave again, and Eurylochus is always, always too late to save him. He reaches out anyway, screams Polites’s name as though he could drag him back by his side with sheer will—
—and wakes with a start, entirely alone.
His heart pounding in his chest. His hands are shaking. For a moment, he can still feel the warmth of hands, can still hear the echo of his voice, can almost make himself believe that all is not lost, but the moment ends as quickly as it started, and the grief hits him like a wave, so large and all-consuming that it capsizes the ship. Eurylochus presses his hands to his face, trying to steady his breathing, but the tears come anyway, muffled into silence. He can’t do this. He can’t keep reliving the moment he lost Polites, over and over again, in every dream, in every waking thought. But he also can’t afford to break, to fall apart, to crumble to pieces as he so desperately desires. Not now. Not when his men need him. Not when Odysseus is barely holding it together himself.
He wipes his eyes, forcing the grief down, burying it deep where it won’t show. He needs to keep it together until they reach Ithaca. Then, he can hide away. Then, he can break. Then, he can mourn. Until then, he cannot allow himself this vulnerability, especially facing the men on deck that he’s meant to lead until Odysseus can take up his role as Captain once more. Because if he could not get Polites home, then his only purpose is to ensure that no other man is left bereaved as he is.
So, he does not sleep. Eurylochus cannot allow himself to.