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Ut all started at the party, with a laugh. Odysseus' laugh. Diomedes knows that sound, knows it anywhere. It is her challenging laugh.
It is weird to think about her. She was his girlfriend, and now she isn’t. He prefers it this way. She kissed him less than a week ago. They don’t talk about it.
He goes downstairs anyway. Maybe it was a mistake to go to a party at Agamemnon’s house after they had been specifically warned against it, but really, nothing that bad had happened yet.
The key word, he supposes, is yet.
She is standing in front of Ares, and Diomedes is almost afraid. Ares is as angry as he has ever seen him.
Odysseus can take it, of course. Diomedes could take it. And Athena is right there. But Odysseus’ pupils are blown, and she is swaying on her feet, and now she is insulting Aphrodite.
He freezes, torn between hit him and Odysseus, you idiot.
He steps forward and grabs her arm. She turns fast and almost catches him upside the head.
“Ody,” he says. “You’re drunk.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Ares is watching them. His hands are in fists. He doesn’t hit girls, Diomedes knows. That is the only reason that Odysseus is still standing.
“This moron is being a misogynist,” she insists. “He won’t hit girls. I can take him any day.”
“Not drunk, you can’t.” Diomedes says. Ares scoffs. Odysseus spins back towards him.
“What? Do you have something to say?”
“I said it all already, brat.”
Odysseus looks like she is about to explode. “Fight me!”
“No.”
Diomedes groans. “Come on, Odysseus.” He has to half-pull her away. “As admirable a quality as needing no reason to fight Ares is, you’re going to get pummeled.”
Odysseus shakes her head. “I had a reason!”
“You made up a reason.”
They are outside now, on the porch. He sits down. She sits next to him, staring at the walkway.
“I was gonna get hurt, wasn’t I?”
“Your pride was.”
“Will you help me get him tomorrow?”
“I will absolutely have a hangover.” Diomedes says. “However, after that, sure.”
She laughs and shakes her head. Her curls go flying everywhere. “I can work with that.” She pauses. “I should give you the jacket.”
He shrugs. “Keep it.”
She is studying him. He wants to know what the equation is. She leans forward. Her lips brush his cheek, there and then gone. His pupils are as big as saucers.
“What was that for?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re thanking me?”
She doesn’t have the good grace to look embarrassed. “Would you rather I confessed my undying love, Diomedes?”
“Depends on the kind.”
“The kind?”
“The ancient Greeks had eight types of love,” he says, quoting their freshman year history teacher from about a week ago. “Which one?”
Odysseus pauses, thinking. “Ludus.” She says. It is playful love between children. Casual. Flitting. He watches her.
“We are not children anymore.”
“Phillia,” she decides.
A love of equal terms.
"Phillia is fine," he decides, before he can think better of it.
“What were you hoping I’d say?”
Storge. “I didn’t care.”
She knows he is lying.
“What did you mean?”
“You’re my family,” he says. “That’s all.”
“Storge.” Odysseus says. “That’s what you wanted.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re my brother. I thought you knew that.”
“It’s better to be reminded.
“Se storgo.” Odysseus says. They are drunk. She is literally spouting Greek. Diomedes smiles.
“Se storgo.”
That moment was precious then. It is gone now. Holding onto it is grabbing at smoke.
There and then fleeting, a ghost of a touch, her almost-kiss.