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The youth was extremely fair - resplendent in his tunic and armor as he sat under the shade of an olive tree - and though Xystos longed to approach him, he would not. As he had not the previous times the other young man caught his eye; for he knew the name of this youth. Telemachus, brave Prince of Ithaca, son to the Spartan Princess Penelope and great hero and King Odysseus, now miraculously returned home after twenty years gone.
An accomplished warrior in his own right, blessed - some said - by the goddess Athena, as his father had been. Kind and fair to his people, cunning and swift when dispatching his enemies. The pride of all of Ithaca.
Xystos was the pride of no-one, save his own mother. Certainly not his father, who had forsaken them both to become one of Queen Penelope’s many, many suitors. Who had been slain - along with all the rest - upon the King’s return.
He did not mourn his father. Perhaps this was shameful of him, unfilial, but he could not bring himself to grieve a man who had himself acted so shamefully. The suitors - it was said, though never in polite company - had plotted to murder the Prince and violate the Queen. Xystos’ thought that even if that had not been the case, abandoning your wife and son to pursue an already-wed woman was bad enough. So no, he did not mourn his father.
Even so, he shared his blood; and he could not bring himself to approach the young Prince, knowing that. Knowing his own father had plotted to kill the other boy, to usurp his father’s throne.Beyond that, Xystos was no great warrior. He had not the temperament for it; too cowardly, too weak (too gentle, his mother said). Too concerned with art, and music, and the beautiful things of the world.
Beautiful, is what the Prince was. Even his name - Telemachus - so melodious and regal. He had grown from a bright young child eager to prove himself into a confident young man who had done just that; and all the while, Xystos had watched from a distance. As a child he had held dreams of befriending the Prince, foolish dreams of going on adventures together, getting into all kinds of mischief. As the years turned and the suitors grew more impatient, as the Queen and Prince suffered, those dreams turned to dust. Surely, the Prince would never befriend the son of a man who had caused his family such pain.
Still, Xystos could not help himself from noticing the Prince. Though he kept his distance, his eyes continued to stray to Telemachus whenever they could.
Such as now. He’d been on his way back from running errands for his mother when he caught sight of the Prince, relaxing under an olive tree. Slowing his steps, Xystos took in the Prince’s thick, dark curls, his regal nose, the dark gleam of his eyes. Xystos’ hand itched for a brush, or even a bit of charcoal. Such beauty deserved to be captured, and his own memory never quite did it justice.
The Prince’s head lifted suddenly, as if he was aware of eyes on him. Xystos flinched back violently and hurried off down the street, heart pounding. What a fool he was, to stare so openly, so shamelessly. He had to be more careful, lest the Prince think that Xystos harbored ill-intent like his father.
He shook his head, laughing derisively at the thought. As if the Prince even knew who he was, let alone who his father had been. As if Xystos were that important.
So quickly did he run off that he did not see Telemachus, fair Prince of Ithaca, reach a hand out towards him. He did not see the thoughtful frown on the Prince’s face, nor the way the Prince’s eyes lingered on his retreating back.
Xystos did not fear his King. Truly, he didn’t. He respected his King, marveled over the man’s strength, his wit, his great resolve. He loved his King as all of Ithaca loved him, and was truly grateful to see him returned after so long.
If he intentionally made an effort to avoid the King’s notice as much as possible, it was only to be expected. Great Odysseus had been through much hardship - though exactly what, only his family knew - and deserved to spend time with his wife and son without foolish interruption. Especially from the son of a man who had plotted to steal his throne. So Xystos endeavored to stay out of his King’s way and - barring that - make himself as un-noticeable as possible when they crossed paths.
So far, he had been successful. There was little to no reason for him to enter the palace, which the King did not leave for long weeks after his return. When at last Odysseus emerged to walk amongst his people, it was no great feat to avoid his notice. Xystos was no-one of import, after all. The King was attentive to the greetings and concerns of his subjects, and Xystos felt genuine gladness that the rightful King of Ithaca was once more on his throne. Still, he was careful to maintain his distance.
Unfortunately, his luck ran out, nearly a year after the King’s return. Odysseus was changed by the trials he had faced during his twenty-year absence, but he was still a good King. He frequently left the palace to speak to his people, asking after their well-being and listening to their plights. However, these excursions were often sporadic, unpredictable. Truly, Xystos could not be blamed for being caught unawares.
He was sweeping the steps of his mother’s house while she worked the kiln within, humming a melody that he only half-remembered. It reminded him of the Prince, somehow; upbeat and youthful with long, sweeping notes of triumph. The thought brought a smile to his face. His back was to the street, and he startled slightly to hear a throat being cleared behind him. Xystos turned, and froze.
The wise King of Ithaca, master strategist and hero of the Trojan War, smiled warmly at him. He was not a tall man, but his presence felt towering. His posture was relaxed, but gave the impression that he could spring into fluid, deadly motion at a moment’s notice. Xystos dropped his broom - which fell to the steps with a clatter - and bent into a low bow.
“M-my King! Deepest apologies, I did not hear you approach!” He cursed his stammering and the way his voice cracked. He was not afraid, merely surprised.
The King chuckled, the sound rasping slightly but not lacking warmth. “All is well, child; do not fret. Are you and your mother well?”
Xystos straightened out of his bow in shock. The King…knew of them? Or perhaps he had simply caught sight of Xystos’ mother through the open door. But why then had Odysseus not asked after his father?
“I- y-yes, my King. Quite well. Shall I retrieve her?” he asked, internally pleading with the King to say ‘yes’ and allow Xystos to escape from under his gaze. To his quiet dismay, Odysseus shook his head.
“No need, I am sure she is busy. Her pottery is the finest in Ithaca, I would not pull her away from her work,” he said, genuine in his praise. Xystos blinked.
“Thank you, my King. She shall be delighted to hear of your regard.” And she would. While his mother was confident in her skill, a personal commendation from the King was not to be taken lightly.
“And how are you, Xystos? I have not seen you since you were an infant, you have grown into a fine young man,” the King said. Xystos froze, unable to keep the shock from his face.
The King knew his name? Odysseus - heroic and rightful King of Ithaca - had known him as an infant? And he remembered him?
Xystos had been quiet too long. Quickly pulling himself together, he spoke. “I am well, my King. I am humbled by your concern.”
Humbled, and confused. Why would the King concern himself with the son of a traitor? His father had lived and died shamefully, casting a shadow over their lives. He had threatened the King’s own family, his throne. Didn’t Odysseus know that?
Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, for the King’s regal brow furrowed slightly and he asked, “What troubles you, Xystos?”
The youth cursed in his mind, even as he gave up any hope of deflection. The King would only see through it, and the last thing Xystos wanted was to give the King reason to be mistrustful of him. He wrung his hands, fighting to gather his words and his courage.
“My King,” he began, meeting Odysseus’ eyes though he would rather look anywhere else, “my father…he committed a grave offense against you. Against the Queen, and the Prince. I- his blood is my blood. He has shamed us greatly. I am…confused, by your regard. I fear I am unworthy of it.”
Dear Gods, but he did it. His hands shook and - unable to meet the King’s eye any longer - his gaze drifted to his own feet. There came a long, pregnant silence as the King processed his words. Then, at last, The King sighed wearily.
“Xystos,” he said, “I will not - cannot - forgive you father, nor any of those feral dogs which sought to desecrate my throne.”
His heart hammered in his chest. Horrifically, he felt his eyes grow damp and blinked the tears away viciously. He would not weep at the truth. But the King was not finished. “You are not your father, Xystos.”
His head snapped up in shock, once again meeting tired, burgundy eyes. The King of Ithaca gave him a wan smile. “I have not always behaved honorably. To return to my family, I committed many acts that I cannot be proud of. Those acts are mine, and mine alone.”
Xystos could not keep his brow from furrowing, though he cursed himself for it. He did not understand what the King was trying to tell him. Odysseus - seeing his confusion - sighed once more.
“Tell me: would you blame my son for those shameful acts? Does the Prince carry the blame for the betrayals of his father?”
“No!” The word ripped its way from his throat without thought. The Prince was honorable. The Prince was kind, and righteous, and bright. Dear Telemachus, Prince of Ithaca, was the pride of all who knew him.
A beat too late, Xystos clamped a hand over his mouth in horror, eyes wide. He had shouted at the King! He braced himself for the King’s infamous anger, but Odysseus merely smiled. Perplexingly, it was warmer than his previous one. “Why, then, should your own father’s shame fall onto your shoulders?”
Xystos found he could not answer. Surely, it was different. If the King had acted dishonorably, it was only to find his way home; whereas Xystos’ father had no such motivations. He stammered, attempting to give voice to this argument. Odysseus frowned.
Xystos - in a sudden rush of self-preservation - shut his mouth.
“Long has this weighed on your mind, but it is not your weight to bear. Be at peace, Xystos; I do not blame you for the acts of your blood. In truth, I am confident that you shall continue to grow into an honorable, honest man.”
Unable to speak, to voice the myriad conflicting emotions within him, Xystos was silent. Tears welled again in his eyes, and in his shock he allowed them to spill over. The King’s smile seemed unbearably gentle. “Live your life unburdened, child, at least from this. Your legacy and your acts are your own. Remember that.”
Despite his overwhelm, Xystos took this for the farewell it was and bowed once more, tears falling onto his sandals. “Thank you, my King.”
Impossibly, the King reached out to clasp his shoulder, then walked away. It was a long time before Xystos picked up his broom again.
He was still reeling from the King’s words when - a few days later - he once again caught sight of the Prince. Fair Telemachus had accompanied his mother to the markets, their steps no longer hounded by the throng of suitors. Xystos watched from the other side of the street. Though the Prince took after his father in many regards, it was impossible to miss his resemblance to the Queen when they stood together. He had her dark hair, the same gentle bow to his lip, the same flint-dark eyes. They wore matching smiles as they chatted with a fruit-seller, and Xystos found that the sight of the Queen’s happiness warmed him. For twenty long years, she’d had so little to smile about. The expression seemed to light her from within, and in that moment he was certain that his Queen was the most beautiful woman in all the world. It made sense that the King would commit any act - shameful or otherwise - to return to her side.
“Xystos,” his mother said, “take that new amphora I have been working on and give it to them, would you? As a gift.”
He froze. She had caught him staring, then. He turned to look at her, silently pleading. She winked. Sighing, he lifted the amphora gently and made his way across the street. The Prince caught sight of him before the Queen, and Xystos could have sworn his eyes widened slightly before his smile brightened.
Once he reached them, he bowed carefully. “My Queen, my Prince. My mother wishes to gift this to you.”
Xystos’ heart hammered as he straightened and help out the amphora. Telemachus was looking right at him, dark eyes sparkling. The Queen turned, still smiling, and then both their eyes were sparkling at him. He swallowed down his nerves.
The Prince moved to take the pot from him, their hands brushing. Xystos’ skin tingled at the contact, and he felt a mortifying blush rise to his cheeks.
“How lovely! Melitta’s work truly is a wonder. We shall gratefully accept this gift,” the Queen said, examining the glazing on the amphora. The Prince dutifully shifted it in his arms to allow her a closer look, but his eyes were still on Xystos.
“Lovely, indeed,” Telemachus said, “thank you, Xystos; and thank you to your mother, of course.”
He felt suddenly as though Zeus himself had struck him. The Prince…knew his name? Odysseus was one thing: he would not be surprised if the genius King knew the names of all his subjects. But the Prince? What need had he to know who Xystos was?
“I- I thank you, your Majesties. She shall be overjoyed to hear.” He bowed again, if only to break eye contact with the Prince.
“My son, why don’t you and Xystos take that back up to the palace? I shall finish up here,” Penelope said, a note in her voice that he could not even begin to decipher; not when her words had already sent him into an alarmed spiral. Go with the Prince? To the palace?
“I- I couldn’t possibly, my Queen!” he said, straightening out of his bow in alarm. Penelope’s lovely face shifted into confusion.
“Whyever not?” she asked. Xystos scrambled wildly for a reason, but could find none that did not sound insultingly dismissive. It was not as if he could say that he had been keeping his distance from the Prince his entire life! Telemachus was looking at him expectantly.
“I- well I- I suppose that was foolish of me to say. My apologies, your Majesty,” he stammered out lamely. The Queen only smiled at him.
“Do not fret, Xystos. No harm done,” she said, then pressed a kiss to her son’s cheek. “Go on, son. I shall see you later.”
“Yes, mother,” the Prince said dutifully, then started off down the street. Xystos shot a panicked glance at his own mother - who looked far too happy with his plight - and did the only thing he could do. He followed.
They walked in silence for a while; which was likely perfectly comfortable for the Prince but had Xystos tugging the ends of his hair out of stress.
“I- I can carry the pot, my Prince, you do not have to trouble yourself with it,” he at last managed to say. The Prince shook his head.
“It is no trouble. And please, call me Telemachus.” The very idea was unthinkable, and Xystos looked at him with wide eyes.
“I couldn’t possibly!” he cried, and the Prince looked back at him in the exact same way his mother had earlier.
“Why not?” he asked, and Xystos spluttered.
“You are the Prince! And I am-” Nobody, his mind supplied. “I am just a potter’s son.”
The Prince frowned at him, and the expression on his face was so much like his father’s that it only served to fluster Xystos further.
“But you are not just any potter’s son. Your mother’s work is the pride of Ithaca! And you are a fine artist in your own right, I have seen your murals,” the Prince said. Xystos felt like he had been struck by lightning for the second time that day. The Prince had seen his work? The Prince liked his work? His face felt as though it were on fire.
“E-even so, you are the Prince!” he protested. “An accomplished warrior! I- I am just an artist. I have never even held a weapon in my entire life.”
The last part left his mouth quietly, like the shameful admission it was. What kind of a man was he if he could not even defend himself? Abruptly, the Prince stopped walking. Xystos nearly crashed into him, then nearly tripped and fell in his haste not to.
“I wonder,” the Prince said softly as he turned to fully face him, “what kind of world it would be if more people learned to create, instead of destroy. Empathy is a powerful weapon in its own right, you know. At least, that is what my friend Athena says.”
Xystos could not help it: he stared at him, mouth gaping. Had he just said what Xystos thought he said?
“A-Athena? As in-” Even saying her name made him nervous, and he glanced around the crowded street. The Prince nodded, curls bouncing.
“The goddess. She is very wise, so I usually heed her words. You should, as well,” he said easily, as if he had not just claimed the goddess of war as his friend.
“Of course!” Xystos exclaimed. As if he could do anything else! “B-but you are still the Prince! You claim a goddess among your friends! Your father is King Odysseus! Calling you by name, I cannot- I could not-”
The Prince’s brow knit and he sighed. “So you can say my father’s name, but not mine? Look, it is not difficult: Te-le-ma-chus. Simple.”
“My Prince-”
“Try again. Te-le-ma-chus.”
“I cannot-”
“You can. I would like you to. Come now, you can do this!”
“It- I-” he stammered in frustration. Why could the Prince not understand? This was the first time they had even spoken! He was the Prince, son of Penelope and Odysseus; friend to Athena! Pride of Ithaca! Xystos was the son of a traitor, of a man who had plotted to kill him! He had no right. “My father-”
“Is dead, and you are not him. Did my father not already tell you? None of us blame you for what he did,” the Prince said, voice far too gentle. He stepped closer. Xystos wanted to back up, but found he could not move. The King had told his son about their encounter? Why?
“Still, I-”
“Xystos,” the Prince cut him off. His eyes were imploring. Xystos hated how much he loved the sound of his own name on the Prince’s lips. “I wish for us to be friends, and my friends call me by my name. You can, as well.”
He stared at the Prince, eyes wide. Friends? The Prince of Ithaca wanted to be friends with him? Every childhood dream he had ever had flashed through his mind. But those had been just that: dreams. Impossible, foolish dreams. Yet here the Prince was, standing in the middle of the street with one of Xystos’ mother’s pots in his arms, saying impossible things.
It was too much. It was more than he deserved, more than he was worthy of. Horrifyingly, he felt his eyes dampen. The tears fell down his cheeks before he could stop them. The Prince looked alarmed, eyes wide as he took a halting step forward.
Xystos was not strong enough for this. He choked out an apology, and bowed, and ran. The Prince called his name, and Gods - it had never sounded more beautiful, it had never sounded beautiful in the first place, not until now - but he was already gone.
For days after his encounter with the Prince, he refused to leave the house. His mother did not push, did not ask, but he could tell she was worried for him. Xystos knew, he knew he was being childish; but he could not bear the thought of running into the Prince after his shameful display. He had wept in front of the Prince and the King now, for no reason other than his own fool heart. It was terribly embarrassing, and he could not leave the house because what if he ran into the Prince and it happened again?
On the fifth day of his self-imposed isolation, there was a knock at the door and his mother went to answer. He was helping her clean the workshop, and when he heard her startled greeting he nearly dropped the bowl he was holding.
“My Prince!” she said. Xystos’ eyes darted frantically. There was a window, perhaps he could crawl out and be gone before- “Come in, please!”
Too late. The Prince entered their house behind Xystos’ wide-eyed mother, smiling brightly when he caught sight of him. Xystos’ hands were trembling. He quickly set down the bowl, lest he actually drop it.
“Xystos!” the Prince exclaimed in his lovely voice, bounding over and taking him by the arm. Xystos stared down at where the Prince was touching him - touching him - and wondered if he was dreaming.
“Come, we are going out,” the Prince said, and began to tug him towards the door. Then he halted abruptly and looked to Xystos’ mother. “Oh! Lady Melitta, is it alright if I borrow your son for a while? Do you require any help with the workshop before we go?”
“No, no my Prince; do not worry about me! My thanks for the offer,” she said, still looking startled but with a steadily growing smile. “You two have fun!”
Xystos glared at her, betrayed. The Prince grinned brightly and continued pulling him towards the door. “Thank you, Lady Melitta; we shall!”
“My Prince-” Xystos attempted to protest as they stepped out into the midday sun.
“ Telemachus, Xystos. We discussed this the last time,” the Prince said, still holding onto his arm as he started down the street.
“I do not- my mother-”
“Will be fine, as she said. Now come along, there shall be no good spots left if we do not hurry!” The Prince continued, utterly unaffected by his protest. Xystos sighed in frustration.
“Where are we going?” he asked, quickening his steps to keep up with the Prince. His skin felt like it was burning under the Prince’s touch. The pride of Ithaca shot him a boyish grin.
“Down to the shore! It is a beautiful day for swimming,” he said. Xystos blinked at him, incredulous.
“You dragged me from my house…to go swimming?” he asked, because it truly made no sense.
“Well, I would not have needed to if you had not holed yourself up inside for nearly a week. Such things are not good for you, you know; people need sunlight,” the Prince admonished. Xystos found himself speechless. The Prince had noticed? How? Why?
“My Prince-” he stammered.
“Telemachus.”
“My Prince, I do not understand,”he said, because he truly, truly didn’t.
“What is there not to understand? You need to get out of the house, and it is a perfect day for swimming,” the Prince replied, like all of this was totally commonplace.
“Alright, but why am I going with you?” Xystos asked, still hopelessly confused. The Prince stopped walking and frowned at him - his father’s frown - eyes suddenly hesitant.
“Do you not… want to go with me?” he asked. He looked hurt, as if Xystos not wanting to spend time with him was some great issue; and not the absolute opposite of the actual problem. Xystos panicked - utterly unable to see that look on the Prince’s face, knowing he had put it there - and shook his head violently.
“O-of course I do! I just-”
“Great!” the Prince brightened, and continued to pull him along. Xystos felt like he was going mad, like all of this was some kind of phantasia. It certainly did not feel like reality.
“B-but my Prince,” he stuttered.
“Telemachus.”
“Why do you want to go with me?” he asked, cutting to the actual issue. It made no sense. Surely there were many, many other people the Prince would rather spend his time with. Why him?
The Prince glanced over at him like he had just said something absurd. “I told you, I wish for us to be friends.”
Like it was that simple. Like Xystos was someone worthy of even being glanced at by him, let alone befriended.
“Why?” he asked again, shaking his head. The Prince looked over at him again, now clearly confused. As if Xystos was not losing his mind with confusion.
“Because I like you? What other reason is there?” he said. Xystos stopped walking, rooted to the ground in shock. The Prince - still holding his arm - halted as well.
“B-but you are the Prince! You are friends with a goddess! I am-” Nobody.
Telemachus turned to him, one hand letting go of his arm to plant on the Prince’s hip. “What, I am the Prince so I cannot like you? That makes no sense.”
It made perfect sense! People like Xystos - with traitorous fathers and no great accomplishments - were not meant to be liked by Princes! Not meant to even be noticed by them!
“You do not know anything about me,” he pointed out, but the Prince only scoffed.
“Yes, I do! I know that you are a good son and a good artist; that you are kind, and loyal to my family. I know that you think too much, and you cry easily when overwhelmed; and that your eyes are b-” The Prince went suddenly quiet, face reddening for no discernible reason. Xystos’ brow furrowed. Yes, his eyes were blue, but anyone could tell that by looking at him.
“Anyway,” the Prince said, clearing his throat, “I know plenty about you. And what I do not know, I shall. That is the point of being friends.”
“My Prince-”
“Te-le-ma-chus.”
Xystos sighed in frustration. “I just do not understand why you would l-like me. It is not as if there is anything remarkable about me.”
The Prince just stared at him. “That is the biggest lie I have heard anyone tell all week. Now come along, all the best spots really will be taken if we do not hurry.”
He continued to tug Xystos down the street. Xystos was too busy blinking in shock to put up much protest, and it did not seem as though the Prince would listen, anyway.
He went.
They did manage to find a good spot close to the water, and Xystos inhaled deeply as he looked out at the glittering sea. It really was a perfect day for swimming. He turned to look at the Prince, then quickly averted his eyes, face burning.
“M-my Prince!” he squeaked. The Prince had wasted no time in stripping off his armor and tunic, and now stood completely naked on the shore. It was not as if Xystos had never seen naked men before; but the Prince, he was-
He was beautiful. Even in his armor he was beautiful, Xystos knew that; but stripped of it he was all toned muscle and tanned skin, sporting the lean build of a warrior. If Xystos did not know otherwise, he would say the Prince was blessed by Apollo, or Aphrodite, instead of Athena.
“What is it?” the Prince asked, and his hand came down lightly on Xystos’ shoulder. “You can swim, right?”
Xystos could not look at him. He kept his eyes to the sea, face aflame. “O-of course I can!”
“Then what is the matter? You are not going to swim in your clothes, are you?” the Prince asked.
“N-no, I-”
“Well get to it, then. Come and meet me when you are done,” he said, and ran into the water with a loud cry, as if he were instead running to battle. Xystos snapped his eyes from the sea to the shore as the Prince came into view.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, he set about stripping off his own clothes. Once he too was naked, he swallowed thickly and turned to wade into the surf. The Prince watched him with an unreadable expression, eyes slightly wide and face flushed from running. When Xystos came to meet him - carefully looking at his face and not the tanned expanse of his chest - the Prince blinked and smiled at him when their eyes met.
“Hello,” the Prince said, and then splashed sea water in his face.
Xystos spit salt from his mouth. “ Telemachus!”
The name left his mouth before he could think about it, and they both froze. The Prince stared at him with wide eyes, and then a grin lit up his entire face.
“You said it! You said my name!” he exclaimed, throwing his head back with a laugh of pure joy before he pounced and tackled Xystos into the waves.
Xystos let out an oof at the impact, then immediately began stammering with panic as the Prince’s body pressed up against his own.
“M-my Prince!” he cried, hands clutching at the youth’s bare shoulders on instinct. He quickly jolted back as if burned. Moving to put distance between them, he cried out again as strong arms locked around his waist, holding him there.
“Oh no, you shan't get away that easy! You said my name, I heard you, so you cannot go back to calling me ‘Prince’ now!” the Prince said, arms tightening as Xystos struggled. Panicking, Xystos splashed him.
The Prince blinked as water dripped from his hair, and Xystos froze. A devilish smirk stole across the Prince’s face.
“So that is how you want to do this, is it?” he said, low tone sending a shudder through Xystos’ body that had nothing to do with the water’s chill. The Prince finally released him, backing up a few steps; and began vigorously splashing at him, ignoring Xystos’ squawks of protest.
A furious battle followed.
“My Prince-”
“I am going to keep splashing you until you say my name again!”
“My Prince, please-”
“That is not my name, you are getting splashed!”
“My Prince, stop-”
“Absolutely not.”
“ Telemachus.” It came out as a breathless, pitched whine. The Prince froze, panting, and a strange look stole across his face as he stopped splashing and moved towards Xystos.
“Was that so hard?” he asked in the same low tone as before. He stopped before Xystos and laid a hand on his shoulder, close to his neck. “Say it again.”
Xystos shivered. “M-my Prince…”
The Prince shook his head, moving - somehow - closer. “My name, Xystos. Say it again.”
“T-Telemachus,” Xystos whispered, spellbound.
“Again.”
“Telemachus.” Louder this time, but just as breathless.
“Once more,” the Prince said, dark eyes half-lidded and boring into him.
“Telemachus.”
“Gods,” the Prince breathed, then surged forward to crash their lips together.
Xystos gasped against the Prince’s mouth, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. He could not bring himself to pull away. Telemachus’ lips were slick with sea water and saliva. Xystos whined into the kiss, utterly overwhelmed; and his heart only raced faster as the Prince growled back, so like the wolf his title suggested. Xystos thought - half-mad with shock and sensation and yes, desire - that he would not mind being devoured by this man.
Telemachus certainly kissed him like he was starving; frantic and insistent, his tongue slipping into Xystos’ mouth. He gasped again. Whined again. Telemachus pulled away enough to mutter, “Fuck, the noises you make…”
Then he dipped his head, mouthing across the curve of Xystos’ throat.
“T-Telemachus!” he keened, and the Prince hummed against his pulse point, nipping lightly at his skin. Xystos panted, one hand going from the Prince’s shoulder to tangle in his wet hair.
Telemachus hummed again, leaning up to growl against his ear, “Oh, you like that, do you?”
Then he nipped him again, tugging at his earlobe. Xystos startled, and gasped. “Oh Gods-”
The Prince chuckled lowly into his ear. “No, darling, just me.”
“Fuck, Telemachus,” he panted. His mind felt like he was thinking through syrup. He felt drunk. Still, there was one question he had to ask. “You - ah! Why-”
Telemachus growled and kissed him again, and he stopped thinking of anything other than the way the Prince’s lips moved against his own.
After a while, the Prince pulled away and rested their foreheads together. They were both panting, breath mingling in the space between them.
“Sorry,” Telemachus said softly, “I was not planning to do that, but the way you said my name…” He cursed again. “It drove me a bit mad.”
“Why?” Xystos managed to ask, voice equally soft.
“You-” the Prince sighed, but he was smiling. “You truly have no idea what you do to me, do you?”
“I- I do not-”
“I have noticed you watching me,” Telemachus said, and Xystos tried to take a step back in his alarm. The Prince’s hands went to his hips, keeping him in place. “No, listen to me. For years I have felt your eyes upon me, but you never approached. When I met your eye, you retreated. Why?”
“I…” What does he mean, ‘why?’ It should be evident. “It was not my place.”
Even to look upon him was not Xystos’ place, but he was weak, and the Prince was so very beautiful. He had not been able to stop himself.
“Not your place? Says who?” Telemachus asked, and if this were any other man Xystos would fear he was being mocked. But the Prince’s dark eyes held only confusion, and Xystos could still feel his lips tingling from where he had kissed him. Besides, Telemachus was not the mocking sort; too honorable, too good.
He sighed. “It was not something that needed to be said. I am no warrior, I have no great accomplishments; and my father-”
“I do not give a damn about your father,” Telemachus cut him off with feeling, then softened as he caught Xystos’ startled flinch under his hands. “Sorry, but it is the truth; and there are more than enough warriors in the world. You are an artist. That is a far greater accomplishment than fighting and killing. I do not understand why you feel that you are unworthy of my company.”
Xystos scoffed, frustrated. “You are the Prince. Pride of all of Ithaca, a warrior blessed by a goddess …and you say you do not care about my father, but I do. I am the son of a traitor, a man who tried to kill you! There is absolutely nothing that I have to offer you that you do not already have, nothing I have that is worthy of you.”
Telemachus stared at him, surprise written in his eyes. He blinked, and one of his hands came up to rest against Xystos’ cheek. Xystos’ own body betrayed him, leaning into the touch. The Prince smiled, and asked, “What about you?”
His brow knit in confusion. “...What?”
“What if it is you I want? If I asked for your heart, if that is what I wanted, would you give it to me? Worthy or not?”
Xystos stared at the Prince for long moments, face flushing. If this was a dream, it was more shameless than any his mind had ever come up with. If this was a dream, he did not ever wish to wake from it. At last, he summoned his courage enough to say, “As I said. There is nothing I have to give you that you do not already possess.”
Telemachus’ eyes went wide, genuinely surprised. Then he laughed, joyous, and leaned in once more to kiss him. It was different than before: slower, more gentle. Something about it made Xystos want to weep. When they parted, Telemachus muttered against his lips, “Since when?”
“Since when have I loved you?” Xystos clarified. The Prince nodded, eyes sparkling at the words. Xystos thought about it; about his foolish childhood wishing, how his gaze had haunted the Prince’s steps from afar. He smiled bashfully, and shrugged. “Since forever.”
Telemachus looked once again taken aback, then smiled at him, almost wonderingly. In an unbearably soft tone, he asked, “Truly?”
Xystos nodded. “Even though I was unworthy of it…even when I thought merely speaking to you was an impossible, foolish dream. I could not help it. My heart has always been yours.”
Telemachus smiled, lit from within. “Could you say it again? My name?”
Xystos did not think he could deny him anything, like this. Not when the Prince’s hands were warm against his skin, not when his sparkling eyes were so close that Xystos could pick out each warm shade of brown within them.
“Telemachus,” he said, and even to his own ears it sounded like a prayer.
“Xystos,” came the answer, in the exact same tone. “Again?”
“Telemachus,” he repeated.
“It sounds so lovely when you say it,” the Prince said, and kissed him with a smile on his lips.