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Nights were the calmest.
Amidst the chaos of war, the Achaeans warriors could only dream of night, the calmness and sense of peace it brought soothing their damaged hearts. Everyone yearned for normalcy - including their kings; though they tried to hide it through bravery and pride, the terrifying war cries of their enemies could never go unnoticed. Ringing in their ears, the dead Trojans reminded them all of their demise, hammering unforgettable memories in the forges of their minds.
So as a blacksmith with divine precision extinguished his fire after a troublesome day at work, so did the Achaean kings gather together with drinks, extinguishing each other’s misery.
“Someone cover his mouth,” Agamemnon groaned as Odysseus returned to the fire with yet another chalice of wine, “he can’t take any more. Neither can I, for that matter.”
“One more sip never hurt anyone!” Somebody yelled, their voice too slurred to truly tell whose it was.
“Are you trying to poison him?” Menelaus scoffed, taking hold of the Ithacan and pulling him closer to his chest. The maneuver proved rather useless, as in just a second the drunk managed to weasel his way out—not without spilling most of the wine on the Spartan’s chiton, of course. “Argh.”
“He’s too smart for you, Menelaus, don’t bother!” Diomedes laughed, his own wine perfectly intact in his hand. “You couldn’t handle him if you tried. He’s for the strong ones!”
“You’re calling me weak now?” Menelaus let out a dry laugh, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I can handle him just fine, thank you very much.”
“Then you should learn to handle his speed, too. He’s already left to fetch more alcohol.”
A groan. “He is insane.”
“You’re telling me.”
The kings snickered around the fire, their laughs mixed with the cold air rising high into the dark sky. Although everywhere they looked could be called enemy territory, Night covered it all with a sense of peace, calming their hearts and dumbing their minds. It was all only for the time which Selene took for her trip across the sky, as a divine gift, a moment to catch their breaths. They deserved the false tranquillity, as she deserved a safe journey.
“He acts almost like a dog.”
“Right! I’ve never seen Odysseus so carefree.” Diomedes laughed as soon as he’d made sure both Odysseus and Menelaus were out of earshot. “Though I s’pose it could be the wine that’s loosening him up.”
“Oh. I meant Menelaus,” Teucer’s cleared his throat. “He seems to follow Odysseus everywhere nowadays — helps him put armor on, gather weapons to clean or sharpen, personally escorts him to our meetings.. Ah, not to mention, they’re inseparable in battle as well! Always fighting side by side; as if they’re one.” He explained, mentally praying nobody asks him just how he knew all of that. “It’s endearing, I think.”
“And damn suspicious!” Another man shouted, clearly on a similar degree of alcohol consumption as Odysseus (gods bless him). “None of ya have seen or heard anything, have you?”
“Nothing that reached my ears.” Agamemnon shrugged, adjusting the ring on his finger. He only wore it at night, afraid to ruin it in battle. “But it is amusing, so I don’t see why anyone should stop them.”
That seemed to lighten up a little torch above Diomedes’ head. He shuffled closer, “and how would you feel about helping them instead?”
Agamemnon mirrored the movement. “Speak,” he muttered, the hint of interest in his voice only audible for those looking for it.
“Ody’s clearly out of mind. He needs someone to care for him, at least for the night, don’t you think?” The Argive spoke with a smile similar to that of Odysseus’. More specifically - a smile he only had on his face when world's dumbest ideas graced his mind. “It would be mighty thoughtful if our leader assigned someone to help him.”
“You’re suggesting I set them up?” Agamemnon scoffed, his brows furrowed. As humorous as it would be to follow through with this, he had appearances to uphold. A wrong move could bring down his image of a leader - and with that, his power. “What, perhaps I should arrange their marriage too? Officiate it?”
“You’re funny.”
“You’re not.”
“Gah,” Diomedes rolled his eyes, “you’re scared. Scared like a lazy man.” He doubled down, “you’re afraid of what might happen.”
Agamemnon’s eye twitched. “I’m afraid? I’m not afraid, it is just, this is none of my concern. As far as I see it, it’s my brother that’s the issue. I’m sure he could have had what he wants by now if he stopped attempting to court that damn liar of a man like a love-stricken maiden and simply asked directly for what he wants.”
Diomedes raised his brows, his mind desperately searching for the right thing to say. He wished he could blame the stir of his heart on the wine, but Agamemnon had never looked this well up close, and there was no hiding the way it was affecting him. “So—So you value honesty, is that it?” He spoke slowly, with precision in mind.
“When it is the quickest way to achieve one’s goal, yes.” Agamemnon smiled, unaware of his warrior’s feeling (as he often was), just proud his wisdom was finally getting to someone.
“Hah! You have such a way with words.” Diomedes rested his head in his hands. Feigning innocence, as if there ever was a world in which that word could describe him, he put on his best smile to charm the older man.
Agamemnon’s eyes did not leave him for a moment, but before his mind could get the message, footsteps rapidly approaching completely diverted any train of thought he’d had.
“Agamemnon!” Odysseus exclaimed, marching proudly towards his leader. “You need to do something about your brother.” He crossed his arms, attempting to appear intimidating. They both chose to ignore the little height difference they had — despite one of them sitting on a mere log, they saw almost eye to eye.
“Do.. What are you talking about?” Agamemnon tilted his head, subtly taking a look behind the other man. He could see his brother already approaching - breathless and exhausted from whatever workout Odysseus just unknowingly put him through. “I thought you two were getting along.”
“We were, I guess,” he rolled his eyes, his expression much livelier than it ever was sober, “but he isn’t leaving me alone. It’s like..” He leaned closer to whisper, “it’s like he’s in love with me.”
Diomedes, who’d also leaned in to hear whatever his dearest companion had to say, gasped in feigned surprise. “That can’t be! In love with you? But he has a wife…!” With the professionalism of Dionysus’ most skilled actor, he did not react to the elbow he received to his side. “And how do you feel about that?”
“About what?” Menelaus, having finally caught up to the group, rested his hands on his knees as he stood next to Odysseus. Truly, the Fates must’ve had a field day weaving this moment.
“No, nothing, don’t…” Agamemnon began, but paused as Odysseus genuinely seemed stumped by the question. The Ithacan’s eyes slowly travelled up and down Menelaus, giving his heart all the more reasons to beat faster. Then, as if confused by what he’d seen, he reached out and placed a hand on Menelaus’ chest. “...”
Menelaus’ mouth opened to form a little ‘o’ shape, stunned. “I… Don’t mind.” Odysseus spoke slowly. “I think.”
“Huh?” Menelaus mouthed, looking to the other two men for support.
Diomedes came to his senses first. “We asked if he would like it if you took care of him for the night. I mean, look at him — he needs supervision, lest he ends up harming himself.” He spoke, his lying words so convincing they would have made Odysseus proud, had he not been drunk out of his senses. “You’ve already spent so much time with him tonight, he seems to like you.. You’re perfect for the job.”
“Ekhem,” Agamemnon cleared his throat, finally out of bewilderment caused by the play-like scene that’d just unfolded in front of him. “Yes, you… I believe that would be for the best. You certainly could use some company, and he… So could he.”
Diomedes had to put a hand over his mouth to stop any laughs from escaping him. The leader of the Achaeans, suddenly at a loss for words? Hilarious. Remarkable. Charming. He will never let him live this down.
“..uh huh.” Menelaus nodded slowly, his mind still catching up to the current events after the absolute knockout it’d just received. “Right. And this- this is no ploy? I’m supposed to just-” His voice cracked as Odysseus’ hand finally slid off his chest, “uhm, to take him with me?”
“Exactly that,” Diomedes beamed, “surely that’s no problem for you, is it? You’ve been running after him this whole evening anyway. We’re giving you a chance to rest, right now. Just take him with you.”
Whatever god made this opportunity present itself, Menelaus had no idea, but he made a mental note to find out as soon as possible and present that god with offerings they’d never seen before. “Very well. Come on,” he tapped Odysseus’ shoulder, “let’s go.”
*
Their journey “home” proved mostly peaceful. The gods did not feel nearly as generous with its duration, though; it took them about twice as long as it normally would have to get to the tents, all thanks to Odysseus’ pride. Though the man kept swaying from side to side with every step he took, making himself look akin to a dry leaf on a storm’s wind, he refused to hold onto Menelaus for support (despite being offered countless of times, each one more desperate than the last).
Once inside, Menelaus instructed Odysseus to rest as he headed on the dangerous mission to fetch them more comfortable clothes from the back of the tent. In a more casual scenario he would have asked a maid to do it for him, but a special occasion called for special action. And, not to add, it felt more intimate that way. Like a wife fetching clothes for herself and her loving husband — just for a moment, he allowed himself to hold onto that selfish thought.
“This place smells weird.”
“Right.” Menelaus groaned, only a little disheartened his fantasy was put to a stop so quickly. Though he never expected to be given the opportunity to dream, he dreamed whenever he could, only to be harshly awakened time and time again. “You sure it’s not just you?” He added, half-jokingly.
Odysseus tilted his head, the playful insult flying right over his head. Which wasn’t much of a feat, really. “N-no..? I don’t think so?”
“Ha.”
In the back of the tent, there stood a big chest containing most of Menelaus’ precious clothes. Garments of various colors and cuts were neatly folded in their place, creating a collage many kings would be jealous of.
But which of them would an Ithacan want? Which of these, in comparison to his own rich clothing, would have Odysseus curse under his breath and wish he could have his beautiful hands on them?
He glanced at the other man. Odysseus sat in place, a dumb look on his face, amused by the way the blanket folded under the pressure of his hand. Ah. Perhaps he was not as difficult to impress as Menelaus assumed.
He bit his lip, his mind still a whirlwind as he eyed the different options before him. He vaguely recalled some of the chitones having particularly low cuts, possibly designed with women in mind, but none stood out as things Odysseus would shine in. Yes, that was what he was missing - a shine. And Menelaus was more than willing to give it to him.
In the end, he settled on a relatively short pink exomis, mentally picturing Odysseus’ wonderful thighs and chest hardly hidden under the short material. Truly a sight to behold; and a sight he would get . Soon. So soon. Mindlessly grabbing another cloth for himself, he turned to face Odysseus again.
“Alright. Here’s the plan.” He waved at the man to come closer. Surprisingly enough, he was met with complete obedience. “We’re going to get you in better clothes, put you in bed, and you’ll have the best sleep of your life.” Menelaus explained with newfound patience and desire (to live), “do you think you can undress on your own?”
“Um,” Odysseus furrowed his brows, his mind working overtime to process the words. “...yeah.”
“Go on then.” He nodded with encouragement.
It was a pitiful attempt at best. Odysseus’ hazy eyes clearly struggled to stay on his chlamys, and whatever his hands were up to could at best be described as fidgeting with the material. Without help, he was getting nowhere.
“Ah. Maybe I could..”
“No, no. I got this.”
He absolutely did not.
Menelaus hummed, both amused and impressed by Odysseus’ drunk confidence. It was all in vain, he was sure, but that did not stop him from finding it downright hilarious. Truly, the gods must’ve been on his side that night, watching over his ability to hold in a laugh.
He graced Odysseus a few more moments of self humiliation before reaching out and gently putting his hands over the other man’s. Odysseus looked up at him, startled, but as he realized what was happening he so generously allowed it. Perhaps his mind was already growing tired and giving up on putting up a fight. Or perhaps he just wanted to see his dear friend take off his clothes for him. Whatever caused that thought to appear.
“There we go,” Menelaus whispered, no louder than the soft sound of clothes hitting the ground. He wasn’t sure why his voice dropped so low; his heart had an idea.
Odysseus yawned in reply, his eyes tired. He glanced down at their bodies, slowly processing the difference between them. “...”
“What? Are you cold? Here, I’ll–” A hand on his shoulder immediately stopped whatever he wanted to say. He’d already discarded the thought.
“We need to be even.” Odysseus spoke slowly, concentrating on his words as if they were the most important decree he’d ever issued. “I’ll… help you.”
Sweet thing.
“Excuse me?” Menelaus snorted, for a moment believing it to be a joke. But no, Odysseus seemed the most serious he’d been this entire night. And he started it sober. “You can’t..” His voice trailed off as warm hands brushed under the strap of his peplos.
“Let me.” He insisted, carefully sliding the strap down Menelaus’ shoulder, then mirroring the action on his other side. “Warm,” he muttered absent mindedly.
“Ah.” Menelaus replied, his mind far from absent. It was as if all thoughts he’d ever had about the man in front of him suddenly came crashing back, more intense and confident than ever. This was happening - in just a moment, they both stood naked in front of each other, in the cold of his tent and the quiet of their breaths.
This was real, and though he knew this meant nothing, his heart yearned to memorize every second of this .
He never thought he’d find himself bare in front of Odysseus of all people. He’d imagined it countless of times, yes, with every scenario bolder than the last, but he never once thought it would feel so… natural. This was no foreplay, no beginning of the fantasy he often chided himself for—this was, simply, them . An unapologetic and true image of two men, with feelings deep in their hearts and thoughts all across the world.
“Hm,” Odysseus muttered something under his breath, and paused as Menelaus’ body shivered. He glanced down to the clothes they were supposed to wear, long forgotten on the floor, and grabbed whichever caught his attention first. A short, pink exomis. “There,” he shoved it into the other man’s hands, “for you.” He added, as if it was his own clothes he was generously offering.
Once Menelaus accepted the lavish gift (only his hands did, really, as his mind was still stuck on their bare bodies revealed to each other as if it was the most casual thing in the world), Odysseus grabbed a chiton for himself; it was a bit too long, and the cut could definitely use some work — truly, he didn’t need most of his upper chest exposed for the world to see — but the gold-ish color was nice, so he didn’t mind it too much.
Though dressing himself up was a challenge, Odysseus took it head-on, like the proud king of Ithaca he was. The entire situation felt more like a learning experience on how heavy chitones could be than a casual everyday task, but once he'd figured out which hole was meant for his head, everything else went like a breeze.
“I think you gave me the wrong one,” Menelaus finally croaked out, fidgeting with the thin material in his hands. “This..”
“Huh? No. You had the green one before.” Odysseus pointed to the discarded cloth on the ground, making them both look down, making them both perceive Menelaus’ lower body. Gods have mercy. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. “The… pink one is new.”
Well. Hit with that astounding argument, Menelaus had no room left to argue. Forcing the exomis over his head, he definitely learned the hard way the cut was not made for him, but he wasn’t about to back down now. The material, although tight, felt surprisingly comforting against his skin - and without more trouble than he’d already been through that night, he pulled the cloth over the rest of his body.
It was short; embarrassingly so. Noticing the stare Odysseus was clearly giving him (did his gaze leave Menelaus’ legs at all? Only the Fates shall know), he pulled on the material a bit more, forcing it about halfway down his thighs. An achievement he could only accomplish by awkwardly slouching forward, but an achievement nonetheless.
“...there,” he breathed a sigh of relief, which proved a little difficult given his stance. “Now, let’s get you to bed.” He nodded towards the small cot by the other side of the tent. It seemed.. Small, certainly too small to fit two grown men, but with Odysseus’ down-to-earth height Menelaus was sure they could make do.
“...” Odysseus glanced at the bed, and headed towards it with a simple nod. Perhaps he was getting tired himself; by now, the alcohol must’ve had some sort of effect on his body, and even though he didn’t look very exhausted, his actions spoke for themselves. He dropped on the bed as if suddenly his body weighed a total of nothing, and hid his face in the pillows.
To that, Menelaus hummed in agreement. They both had exhausted their limits for the day. As he sat by the edge of the bed, not quite sure if he should step over Odysseus (and risk the other man getting up, and risk.. Oh gods) or just squeeze onto the small space Odysseus left by the edge of the bed, praying he won’t get sent flying off when the Ithacan inevitably moves in his sleep.
He settled on the latter, figuring out the risk of flashing Odysseus was not worth the eventual explanation he’d have to give in the morning (assuming he’d even remember the events of the night) (better not to be too optimistic, though). He laid down, finally, and closed his eyes to sleep.
His ‘sleep’ lasted about three seconds; as soon as his cheek hit the pillow, he jerked up. The thing was— wet? He could’ve sworn he had it washed just a few days ago. Unless…
“Odysseus…?” Menelaus glanced down at the man before him, his face still buried in the pillow. He reached down to awkwardly poke the Ithacan’s back. “Hey-Are you… Are you alright there?”
All that answered him was a muffled sob. “...?” He poked again, this time harder, hoping it would make the other man roll on his side or at least stop him from mildly suffocating himself — but with the Fates seemingly having a vendetta against him, Menelaus received neither of those.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out Odysseus was crying. Other warriors often broke into sobs after just a couple of drinks, it was normal, nobody thought much of it. Usually the men were simply left alone, sobbing into their hands or cups just to drink them a moment later. On rare occasions, their companions would attempt to cheer them up; invite them “on a walk” or hand them another drink.
Menelaus only ever observed those men. It was never expected of him to help — never was he the first person to be looked at for comfort — so he never did, silently assuming he was not who they needed. Every man had his own idea of comfort, and if Menelaus of Sparta just so happened not to fit it, that was fine with him.
But now, deep and weary eyes were staring right at him. It was no longer a question of whether he was needed—it was a direct answer.
“What happened?” He heard himself ask, his voice so distant it felt as though he had his helmet on once again.
“Is…” Odysseus choked, more tears welling up in his eyes, “is this alright? Is this really…” He vaguely gestured with his hand, first towards Menelaus, then himself. “We…”
“We- What…? Why would we not? I’m only taking care of you for the night.” He put on a smile, his mind barring the edges between comfort and disgust of self. “It’s only natural I make sure you sleep well,” he reached out, only to be swatted away.
“Penelope…” Odysseus whispered—mouthed.
“...Penelope?” Menelaus echoed, a poor attempt at encouraging him to speak.
“Penelope used to do that.”
“Oh,” his voice broke.
His chest felt heavy. Unwanted feelings came swarming back; feelings he did not expect to resurface so early in the night. Despair was not a stranger to him, yet, it was not a friend he welcomed with open arms.
Odysseus missed his wife. It was no surprise he did - with the way he constantly talked about his dearest Penelope, faith in and to her was expected of him. The fear of doing something wrong; of making his temporarily estranged lover upset (even though she was not omnipotent; as far as he knew, anyway) must’ve greatly weighed on his shoulders. Even with wine greatly messing his perception of life, his goals stayed clear. His one goal, his one purpose.
Menelaus had abandoned reason so long ago he’d forgotten the taste of it on his tongue. No longer was he a king, using brains and brawn as a way to win his wife back. He was a man, weak and useless as any other, following nothing but his heart. He was no different from that wretched man that’d caused this war in the first place. He was no better than a Trojan; so was it even fair to call himself a Spartan? Would Helen, clever and beautiful, ever want to come back to what was a poor copy of the man that’d caused her so much pain?
Perhaps his feelings for Odysseus were just like that; a shallow copy of what he yearned for. A facile idea of feelings, created for Menelaus by his human heart. None of it was real; none of it mattered; yet it existed within his reach, taunting him and laughing in his face. As a proud hunter traps a wild animal and stands above its lifeless corpse, so did his feelings stare at him as though all his worth lied in his flesh.
Perhaps he was better off dead.
“Mph,” the sound of the pillows shifting under Odysseus’ weight felt so loud it tore through Menelaus’ thoughts. “I wish she was here. I wish I could go to her. I wish I could… Hug her again, kiss her, feel her, ask…” Were they both destined to wish for what they could not get?
Menelaus nodded in acknowledgement. Too afraid to speak, he only stared, desperate to convince himself that Odysseus was just like any other man. That there was nothing special about him. That he was nothing; a nobody.
“But, s-surely you understand. Hah,” Odysseus huffed, “you must miss Helen terribly. All this is for her, after all. The constant battle, the bloodshed, the deaths…”
Voicing it all was torture of the worst kind. It was a harsh reminder of all that’s happened because of him; of his Trojan counterpart; of nothing but him. There was no one else to blame.
Odysseus smiled; a glimpse of light in the mess that was this moment. “Of course you love her. I don’t know why... Why I’d ever think you…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Somehow, that was the worst punishment of it all.
His mind felt lighter than ever before. The burdening helmet had been lifted from his head; all that remained was him, Menelaus son of Atreus, cursed and known as a man he did not recognize.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “I don’t know either.”
“Huh?”
“Hm?”
“What did you say?” Odysseus blinked, ignorant to the way his chiton slid down and exposed part of his chest. “I didn’t understand..”
“...No, nothing.” Menelaus smiled, forcing himself to lie down next to the other man. “It’s alright. Let’s sleep; you’re clearly tired.”
With one hand, he pulled his friend a little closer, enough to protect him from the outside world. Held him close, to hide his chest, lest anyone entered the tent while they slept.
Nobody needed to see.
Nobody needed to know.