Work Text:
Sol stared at himself in the mirror.
Nothing had changed.
The glow in his blue eyes had not dulled.
Nothing had changed.
He gently touched the speaker nestled in his neck, his mechanical fingers brushing against the metal.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing had changed, other than his long, blue curls being a bit messy, and his blue lipstick smudged a bit.
He glanced down at his arms-mechanical and covered with small scratches. He winced.
He was exactly 20 days clean. He was proud of that.
He wished he was proud of himself.
He was so strong. He’d gotten through so much. He’d had his arms ripped off and lived. He’d been shot and lived.
Nix made sure to let him know he was proud of him. He’d heard “I’m proud of you, Apollo” so many times.
And yet he didn’t believe it.
There was nothing to be proud about. He was arrogant, self-centered, he was the cause for most of his and Lune’s fights.
And his body…
Briefly, he lifted up his shirt and binder and stared at the scars on his chest.
He was faking it. All this time he’d just wanted to be a man. A real man, even if he was an automaton. No one had a problem with it.
So why did he?
He’d gotten surgery on his chest in the first place, changed his voice output just to sound like one, for Harmonia’s sake.
And yet he didn’t feel like a real man.
But there was one thing he knew.
His crown…
He took his crown off his head and held it to his chest, staring at himself in the mirror again.
The crown itself was small, made of blue metal and studded with red, blue, and purple gems. He’d always had it. And he always would have it.
He was their ruler, their king. He was the ruler of everything. And he always would be.
But there was one thing he wondered. Something that had remained in the back of his head.
What makes a true king?