Chapter Text
September sixteenth, 2003 - 10:31 PM
“You’re such a gay ashtray, dude. If you’re gonna smoke, take it outside so we can stop covering the damn fire alarm,” Hector said, taking the cigarette out of his little brother’s mouth and stubbing it.
“Smoke alarm,” Paris corrected, out of annoyance.
“Whatever, just don’t smoke in the house. Much less the living room. You remember how annoyed dad gets when he runs checks and finds burns on the good couch.”
“You’re adults.”
“Adults living in a frat house might as well still be fourteen.”
Paris rolled his eyes so forcefully that it could be felt from across the room.
Aeneas yelled at him to tell him to tone down the attitude.
And Aeneas was right. Hector had every reason to be displeased with the eighteen-year-old for having moved into Trojan House only a few weeks ago, and acting like he was suddenly grown. Especially when Hector, who was graduating this year, still considered himself to be quite unknowledgeable about life.
“Fine. I’ll take it outside,” Paris obliged, getting up, “I’m out of milk straws, anyway.”
“Best choice. Much apreesh.”
Once the youngest brother was out the front door [not without several reminders from Hector to get his keys, and his wallet, and to check that he had credit on his cell], Hector got up and wished the other housemates in the living room a good night.
He went upstairs, taking his time with every step to wonder for the last time about whether he’d just committed some grand-scale chain reaction by sending Paris away.
Eh. He hadn’t slept for a full eight hours in… longer than he would’ve liked to admit. He was probably overthinking it.
He walked past Paris’ open bedroom door, and nodded to the old poster from Romeo+Juliet before he closed said door. Paris had a point when he said that Leonardo DiCaprio was hot, but his brother still thought his worship of the actor was a bit much.
No, Hector had not been being homophobic- after all, there was a reason he owned a mug which said ‘Both, both is good’ in pink, purple, and blue. It had been a gift from Andromache. A very accurate one.
He sent his girlfriend a ‘good night’ text before he face-planted into his bed.
/
Across town, a different group of frat boys were in their living room. Four frat boys and a sorority girl, actually. Although, one could be almost certain that Odysseus was already out cold.
One could never tell when the guy was going to sleep. He was always tired, but the only times Odysseus ever slept willingly was if he had a long weekend cleared out on his calendar. Otherwise, his boyfriend slipped melatonin into his coffee every once in a while to make sure he didn’t die of exhaustion.
The boyfriend in question, Diomedes, held tiny Odysseus in his lap while half-listening to Agamemnon’s rant. It had been almost an hour of this.
“It just pisses me off so much-”
“-so much when people misunderstand that identical twins can grow apart in looks and height and weight rather drastically because of epigenetic expression,” Diomedes interrupted, “Yes, ‘Memnon, we’ve all heard it. What is it? Like six times?”
“Six.” Helen nodded.
She rubbed circles into Menelaus’ shoulder.
“Well, that’s not how I phrased it in the slightest. Also, can’t you sit on a couch normally?” Agamemnon asked.
Helen was indeed sitting on the backrest of the couch, something that would have made her boyfriend cringe for the prediction of a head injury if the couch wasn’t put up against a massive window that she was leaning on.
“Can’t you shut the fuck up for once? It’s too late for me to listen to your endless self-important science corrections. It’s too bad that not every romcom was written with the audience of a geneticist in mind, okay?”
“Hey guys,” Menelaus said weakly, “don’t fight.”
Diomedes snorted, rubbing his face.
“Poor guy’s right. As fun as it is, it can border on annoying.”
Agamemnon eyed Helen before Diomedes added calmly, “Nobody’s on your side, by the way. Nobody loves you. You’re going to die alone.”
“Alright, we’re going to take a drive,” Menelaus said, taking Helen’s hand, “You should get Odysseus to lay down properly.”
“I’m awake…” the guy mumbled.
“In what world, pretty boy?” Diomedes asked, already picking him up.
And thus, Agamemnon was left alone. He turned on the news.
/
Helen and Menelaus stopped at 7/Eleven on their drive. He stood and waited outside while his girlfriend went in to get menthol cigarettes and vanilla coke.
Right as the bell rang when Helen went in, it rang again to signify someone leaving. None other than Paris came out, holding a plastic bag.
Now, outside of giving his brother a headache, Paris rarely tried to cause problems, but sometimes he felt he had no choice or fault when problems were caused.
Like last month, when Hector had been too busy to fulfill his part on the committee that chose Professor of the Month, he had entrusted Paris to do it. He later realised he shouldn’t have, because Paris completely disregarded his brother’s ten-page essay about why it could have been Hera from Psychology, or Athena from DT, and instead went for his own favorite, Aphrodite from History.
Paris refused to take the blame when it meant that he had compromised any and all trust the two other women had held in Hector.
So when Paris spotted Menelaus outside of the store, he simply had to talk to him.
There were many reasons why people liked Menelaus Atresides Mycenae. Among them:
- He was soft spoken in the sense that no one had ever heard him raise his voice above 45 decibels.
- He was always polite. Always.
- He had difficulty refusing. Agamemnon once had to EpiPen him in the middle of a family gathering because he drank a cocktail even though he knew he would die if he did so, simply for not wanting to upset his uncle.
And despite not knowing any of this, Paris went forward.
They both had seen the other around campus, but only in the way that you know your cousin’s friend’s cousin’s friend.
“Hey, there. Waiting for someone?”
Startled, Menelaus said, “Uh- yeah, actually. I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”
“Ohhh,” Paris mused, “Who’s she, then?”
“...Helen Spartan.”
“Menelaus, then, I take it you are?”
Menelaus blinked a few times.
“...yes.”
“You’re really cuddly looking, aren’t you? Like a teddy bear. I hear girls love that shit. Well, not just the girls.”
Menelaus looked at Paris, not wanting to say too much before he knew where the kid was going with this.
“Why do you stick with Helen, then?”
“Uh… well, I really like her,” he shrugged, not sure what there was to explain. What do you say you like about a person when a stranger asks you? Will they think it’s creepy that you like the way her hair curls, or how she scrunches her nose when she gets an answer right, or that she hates sneaker socks? “She's really, really smart, and she’s going to be staying in state after we graduate because she’s going to get her master’s-”
“A little bimbo like her?”
“...what?”
“I mean,” Paris furthered, not wanting to admit he wasn’t listening, “she has all that beauty, you know? That’s what everyone knows her for.”
“She’s in biology, and stuff. Sorry, I mean…”
“Really? Huh. So she’s smart.”
Menelaus didn’t want to be rude by saying ‘That’s what I just said’, so instead he just sounded, “...uh-huh.”
“No offence, man.” Paris smirked, resting a hand on Menelaus’ arm, just weird enough to make the other guy uncomfortable.
“...none taken. So, listen-”
“But you are pretty nice-looking yourself.”
“Thank you?” Menelaus was getting more than a bit freaked out about Paris’ touchiness.
Helen stepped out then, inspecting the very pack of menthol cigarettes she’d gone in for.
“Hey, they didn’t have the brand you wanted-” She paused, raising her eyebrow slightly when she saw how close Paris stood to her boyfriend, knowing how Menelaus was generally against most kinds of physical touch, particularly of the stranger variety. “Is everything okay?”
Paris remarked, “Oh yeah, totally.”
Helen looked over at her boyfriend for confirmation, pointing ever so slightly at Paris with the hand she had her plastic bag in.
“Is that true?”
Menelaus shrugged.
“Okay, uh- so I guess we’re going. You should go, too… I don’t know your name, but I know your brother, Hector,” Helen said.
“Aw, shucks,” Paris replied. He rubbed Menelaus’ arm again.
For the first time ever, Menelaus spoke up about something.
“Dude, stop,” he said quietly, his expression genuinely repulsed.
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that.”
“Can’t you use the brain cell you must have, or does Hector have some kind of permanent hold on it? Can you just not use it without him? He looks so uncomfortable, man. Just go,” Helen told him again.
“Jeez. Calm down. I was joking.”
“Whatever. This is not worth our time. I need to get back before Pen thinks I’ve been kidnapped again.”
Helen grabbed Menelaus’ hand gently, and they were about to go get back in the car.
“There. That’s all it took, you dumb little bitch.”
Helen blinked a few times to process.
“Excuse me?” She asked calmly.
“You heard me.”
She laughed, though it was so unfunny. Good to know it wasn’t just men in STEM who were like this. Even Agamemnon knew his place, but this kid?
“Baby, can you hold this?” She said to Menelaus in the softest voice before giving him the bag. Turning to Paris,
“Listen here, you freaky little twink-”
And thus, Paris had his lip busted.
/
“You WHAT?” Hector nearly shouted. It was at that moment Paris knew he had beyond fucked up. Hector had the patience of a motherfucking saint when it came to every single one of his younger siblings. Paris especially, since he was the most frequently bothersome. For Hector to shout was a signifier of a horrific moment for everyone involved. But luckily for Paris, he didn't quite shout this time.
As he held the wet compress to his lower lip, the blond boy said, “Uh. I can't really explain myself.”
Hector sighed the most profound sigh, rubbing his face.
“Gaia, give me strength,” he murmured before looking at Paris again.
“Sometimes I think you want me to throw myself in front of a bus. Thank gods you're pretty. You wouldn't get away with half the things you do if you weren't.”
Paris looked awkwardly between his brother and the floor.
“So… what now?”
“I have to clean up your mess. Again. I love you. You make me want to fucking kill you,” Hector whispered.
“You should've just killed him,” Andromache later told her boyfriend when they were on the couch in her sorority, “It would save you a lot of time and stress.”
Hector shrugged. He had gone over there to disassociate from the stress headache he was getting from pacing back and forth in the Trojan House kitchen, wondering if Paris would be his downfall.
“I couldn't do that. He's just learning.”
“He's eighteen, for Eos’ sake. Hector, love, baby, darling, I love you, but you can't parent your siblings forever.”
“I can try,” he said weakly.
“You can try, and I will be there when you fail.”
He rested his head on her pregnant belly. Andromache stroked his hair behind his ears like a cat.
“How much longer?” He asked softly.
“Three weeks, but they say first babies often come late.”
“Aw, man,” Hector murmured, “Come on little guy. I want to meet you.”
/
It was well past midnight when Helen got home. She kicked off her Mary Janes and fixed the thigh-high socks which had ridden down to her knees, and collapsed beside Clytemnestra in the living room.
“What did you do?” Her sister asked without looking up from whatever it was she was doing.
“I punched one of those frat boys.”
“One of the ones at your boyfriend's house?”
“No,” Helen turned over from her face onto her back, “one of the ones from that house down on Ilium.”
“Ah. One of the Trojan House boys. One of the other guys, or one of those boys whose daddy owns the house?”
“Yeah. That. One of the younger ones. I think he shares a name with a city?”
“Paris,” Clytemnestra confirmed, “but that’s not why he’s called that.”
“Why, then?”
“Dunno. I’m not his mom.”
“Wow. Riveting. Thank you, dear sister of mine.”
“Love you, too.”
After closer inspection, Helen realised that her older sister was crocheting. She sat up properly on the couch. And by properly, Helen was sitting on the armrest nearest to Clytemnestra.
“So… why’d you punch the kid?”
“He was being a freak.”
“Try again. How’d you even run into him? You were at Achaean House.”
The younger sister rolled her eyes slightly.
“Your boyfriend was complaining about genetics again.”
“Right.”
“So, Menelaus and I went for a drive, and we stopped by Seven-Eleven.”
“Which is where you ran into Paris?”
“Yeah. I went in without Menelaus, and the little guy started being weird.”
Clytemnestra stopped crocheting briefly to ruffle the blonde’s hair.
“So… you punched him?”
“He called me a dumb little bitch after I tried to de-escalate.”
“Ohhh. Yeah, I see. That makes sense.”
Helen sighed before getting up to stretch.
“Where’s Pen?” she asked.
“Asleep.”
“...how?”
Having gone upstairs herself, Helen took off her clothes gradually while bitterly complaining to herself about her own problems.
What gave that fucking twink the right? Surely, he wouldn’t have heard what her reputation was like before she’d started dating Menelaus? No. Even so, the idea that any man had the right to call any woman, no matter her reputation- a bitch, or dumb, or whatever -was a sad and misguided view of things. As she slipped off the same socks she’d only just corrected (which were already sliding down to her knees again), Helen checked the digital clock.
September seventeenth, 2003 - 1:43 AM
Menelaus’ return was not too different from Helen’s. After she had dropped him off, he found Agamemnon still watching the news. Pretending to watch the news, more likely.
“You smell scared. What’s up?” his older brother asked.
“What on earth does that even mean?” Menelaus sat down beside him, changing the channel to PBS.
“Nothing, man. I just know that you’re scared.”
“Shaken, maybe, but not… scared.”
“Same thing.”
“For someone who practically breathes semantics, that’s very dismissive of you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After some time, Menelaus finally said, “Yeah, something happened.”
His brother got up and went to the kitchen to get a canned IPA. Though this action slightly annoyed Menelaus, he turned the TV off and followed.
“Sorry, I just needed a drink if I’m gonna listen to whatever was bad enough to freak you out. You are the calmest person I know.” Agamemnon opened the can and took a sip.
“Why is that weird?”
“It’s fucking crazy out there.”
“Right.”
“So? You gonna tell me what happened?”
Menelaus stopped staring at the neon decal of the IPA.
“Oh. Yeah. That.” He swallowed softly before continuing, “Helen and I stopped by Seven-Eleven. Some kid was bothering me outside. He said something really rude to her, so she punched him.”
Agamemnon looked at him silently for a moment, the cogs turning in his head. He took another sip.
“Any idea who it was?”
Menelaus shrugged.
“He knew my name. Helen said he had a brother named Hector?”
Agamemnon nodded for a moment, thinking.
“Was he like… twinkish?”
“...Helen seemed to think so.”
“Blond? Somewhat pretty?”
“...well, yeah. I guess.”
The older brother sighed into his hand with a certain discontent that Menelaus had seen several times before.
Notedly at the party where Menelaus had drunk alcohol; when they had discovered Menelaus was allergic to penicillin by complete accident; when Agamemnon was trying to explain the very basics of recessive genes and
punnet squares and why it was very much possible that he himself was a brunet and his brother was a ginger without the involvement of a maternal affair; when Menelaus was compromising his own personal safety for the comfort of others. On countless incidents, really. He could usually predict with a ⅔ accuracy whatever it was that Agamemnon was sighing over.
Unfortunately, right now he had the other ⅓.
“Paris.” Agamemnon said finally, “What the fuck did he say to you that made your girlfriend punch him? Helen doesn’t punch people for no reason.”
“...I wouldn’t repeat it.”
“So he swore? What’d he call her, a bitch or something?”
“...that. She was trying to de-escalate, I think, because she noticed he was making me kind of uncomfortable-”
“My fucking Gods.”
Menelaus winced.
“...I messed up.”
“You didn’t mess up,” his brother told him, his voice softening, “You need to stop thinking that. But that kid fucked up. This is not good. You need to get an apology, or something, at least.”
“...why bother?”
“If the little freak was freaking you out, and he called your girlfriend a bitch, getting punched in the face is subpar when it comes to penance. That’s not penance at all. That’s just something he’s never gonna learn from.”
Menelaus leaned on his brother and sighed to himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. It was instinctive, the only thing he could think of.
Agamemnon hugged his little brother from the side after setting the IPA down.
/
September seventeenth - 1:39 PM
The latest person now to hear about this spat had been Penelope. Long after she had woken up and brushed out her hair, which was no longer miles long but still took a surprising amount of time to take care of, and long after Helen also woke up, the cousins went for coffee together.
“Damn, that’s a proper white boy if I’ve ever heard of one,” she told Helen on their way out of the coffee shop.
“That Odysseus of yours is also a white boy twink if I’ve ever seen one,” Helen mocked jokingly.
Penelope rolled her eyes.
“Dio is neither of those things.”
“But which one is your baby-daddy?”
“...fair point. Either way, have you talked to Menelaus?”
“I called their house phone, no answer. Tried his cellphone. Also nothing.”
“Hm,” Penelope hummed, “That’s weird. He usually never rejects your calls.”
“Oh, they weren’t rejected. He just didn’t pick up.”
“Did you try Agamemnon?”
“I don’t have his cell. All he said when I called from Clytemnestra’s phone was ‘I’m busy’ and then hung up.”
Penelope rolled her eyes, and took a long sip from her paper cup.
“She needs to dump his ass.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Helen said, “They have some kind of mutual understanding with each other. I don’t get it at all, but good for them, I guess.”
“Regardless, I can guarantee that if they marry, one day, one of them will kill the other.”
“Bold of you to assume they won’t do it before the wedding.”
Penelope snorted, before taking another sip.
The cousins continued their long walk back to the sorority. While Helen still talked extensively about what was either her frustration with Paris or… something else. Pen wasn’t listening.
She was instead focused on their surroundings as they walked. It was a stupidly plain path through a park, sure. But it was always nice at the tail-end of summer. If the leaves had started to turn orange towards the end of August, now most of them had turned or fallen. The wind was faint. The air was still relatively warm.
But mostly, being outside meant a lack of responsibility.
The main reason that Agamemnon had immediately hung up the phone was that he was in a grocery store with his brother. Other than alcohol and penicillin, Menelaus was allergic to just over twenty different foods; he had been since he was seven, but for some reason he still got surprised when touching a banana made his hand itch until he scratched it red.
So, the primary focus of Agamemnon whenever it was their turn to do the groceries was keeping Menelaus out of the produce section.
“Are you going to call your girlfriend back?” Agamemnon asked when they were in the milk aisle, “I got a call from Clytemnestra’s phone, but I know it was Helen. My girl never takes ‘I’m busy’ for an answer without calling me thirteen more times.”
Menelaus opened his mouth, but closed it again when he said nothing.
Finally, he said, “I don’t know. Probably. I just feel weird after last night.”
“Why? You shouldn't. It wasn't your fault what happened.”
“But I didn’t do anything to interfere.”
“No one expects you to do anything, little bro. That’s just how you are. It’s okay to not be all confident or whatever. Helen, of all people, knows that.”
“I know, but like…” he sighed.
Agamemnon rubbed his brother’s shoulder affectionately before kissing the top of his head.
“It’s going to be fine.”
“What if it’s not?”
“It will be.”
Menelaus was quiet for a while. His brother talked at him for a while, but like Penelope hadn’t been listening to Helen, Menelaus wasn’t listening to Agamemnon.
/
September seventeenth - 3:02 PM
“How in the name of the gods are you still upset?” Hector asked Paris, who was still moping about the fact that he had been punched. He had a cut on his lip, which his brother had to keep reminding him not to lick, but otherwise the swelling was minimal and the bleeding had long stopped.
For the afternoon, the house was surprisingly quiet, and the custom Hector had for whenever the house was quiet was to sit at the table and do all of the stupid work he had been putting off for the better part of the week.
Unless, of course, he had to help one of his brothers. And that was inevitably almost every single time.
“I’m not!”
Hector set his pen down. His tone was calm, but even his usually enormous sense of patience was thinning slightly.
“You’re the one who needs to apologise in this case, if anyone needs to apologise at all. You’re lucky we haven’t heard anything yet.”
Paris sighed, crossing his arms.
“Look,” Hector continued, “I’m not asking you to do anything.The point is: you’re fine physically and you’ve not been asked to apologise. These are good things. Okay?”
Right as Paris opened his mouth to speak, the doorbell rang. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“I subtract my statement,” Hector said, resigned, “Go upstairs. I’ll take care of it.”
After greeting Agamemnon at the door, Hector showed the other guy to sit down, where Memnon cut straight to the point. The point being, his demand for an apology. Particularly for Paris to apologise to Menelaus.
The actual conversation began pleasantly, both of the young men discussing their experiences as older brothers.
“He doesn’t argue. I mean, clearly. Two years out, and he’s never even argued with his girlfriend. I mean like, she does get mad at him on occasion, but what can you do? That’s people.”
“He doesn’t get mad at her?” Hector asked.
“He doesn’t get mad. Period. It’s honestly a little annoying sometimes how patient and careful he is, but boy is it good to have a calming presence,” Agamemnon said.
Hector rolled his eyes faintly at the thought of his own brother before rubbing his face.
“I wish I could say the same. Look, I have a lot of siblings. Sure, I love them all, and they all provoke me sometimes, but none quite like Paris.”
“You know you don’t have to clean up his mess. Leave him to figure it out on his own sometime.”
“Do you want to be satisfied or not?” Hector asked, “Honest question. Because if you want it, Paris won’t ever give it to you on his own.”
“Right,” Agamemnon sighed with resignation as they shifted back to the original topic. “Look, it can be easy. It really doesn’t have to be hard. Menelaus doesn’t want an apology. He never does. I will ask that he get one. Just ‘cuz… he never asks for apologies. I EpiPen'd him one time when I falsely thought he ate a strawberry, and he still didn’t ask me for an apology. But, Helen will definitely want one. And I totally get why, even in my brazen hypocrisy.”
Hector didn’t say anything for a while. He crossed his fingers together, elbows on the table, chin rested on his thumbs.
After about two or three minutes, he said, “I’ll ask him. If he won’t apologise on his own, I am sorry, even though I know my words are meaningless here. But I will be honest. He probably won’t apologise.”
Agamemnon began to stand, pushing the chair back in before leaning on it.
“Then I’m sorry, but I will have to make it your problem if he won’t apologise. There’s valuable things to learn for you, too. To start: stop picking up after him all the time. Your brother’s problems are not yours. You’re a grown man.”
Hector nodded slowly for a moment- his eyes seemingly far away -biting the inside of his cheek.
“Okay. I get that.” he told Agamemnon apprehensively, “Why don’t you go now? It seems like a good time. Uh- just checking, you live at *********?”
“Yeah. I can write down the house phone number, if you want.”
“No, I’ll just look it up. Thank you, though.”
/
September nineteenth - 4:16 PM
“I can’t lie,” Priam said, still focused on the road as he drove, “that is incredibly stupid and selfish on his part.”
“...why?” Hector asked his father, also looking at the windshield.
Having a conversation in a car has always been a type of confessional, and certainly made talks like this easier. As a father of twelve, Priam had had to learn tools like this early on with Hector, and it had made everyone’s lives easier going forward. If there was ever something the boy, whose worst fear was disappointing someone, could not confess, it was up to the car keys and the long route to the specific store in town that sold a specific type of yoghurt, or something. Maybe it was the lack of eye contact that made this such a good method, but it worked, so the reasons why it worked didn’t matter so much.
It was also not a method that ever became obsolete as children aged.
“He admits that his brother causes him no problems whatsoever, and yet still criticises you- a stranger -for your incessant need to always fix everything. You even apologised yourself! What more does he want?”
“He wants Paris to apologise,” Hector said, “Problem is, that won’t happen. ‘I’m sorry’ is not a huge part of his vocabulary.”
Priam sighed.
“I will say he is right that your brother needs to learn to solve his own problems, but fighting your good-naturedness is not the answer to that. We need good people like you more than ever.”
“It’s not good nature, dad. I don’t like it one bit, but I keep doing it. I can’t stop doing it.”
The father didn’t say anything for quite some time, and Hector almost thought the talk to have ended at that, before Priam asked him,
“But you would be more miserable if you deliberately started doing bad things, right?”
“...yeah. I guess.”
“So in the end, you are more good than bad, no matter how small that amount may be.”
Hector rubbed his face for a bit, as if trying to get both the weariness and the weight of the last few days out of his skin.
“I just feel so guilty.”
“I don’t know a Hector that doesn’t feel guilty.”
He glanced at his son briefly during a steady patch of road, a small smile on his face as he looked away again.
“So how’s the girlfriend?”
This made Hector smile a little as well.
“Two and a half weeks now.”
“Oh, so the doctor says, but you were a week late yourself.”
“I know, you’ve been telling me all year.”
“It’s true, though. Are you excited?”
“I’m desperate is what I am. I just want this to be over for Andy. And terrified. Oh, heck. What if something happens to her?”
“I can’t promise luck, but we can hope.”
/
September twentieth - 8:49 AM
The landline rang over at Trojan house. Hector almost cringed at the almost metallic chime before he went to get it.
“Hello?”
The voice of Agamemnon said, “Good. It’s you. So, nothing?”
“Ah. No, nothing. I did say right at the beginning-”
“Well, tell your brother to get his act together.”
Hector held the phone away from his face for a moment so he could sigh.
“I did. Before you even spoke to me. And again, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Sucks, that.”
And the call ended.
Hector hung the phone up and sank down onto the floor of the kitchen. ‘It’s not even nine. Get your shit together.’ he repeated to himself in his head, fingers threaded through his hair.
Likewise, Menelaus was also slightly past the typical level of dismay.
“I can’t believe you did that,” he said to his brother, “Why would you do that?”
Agamemnon rubbed his face, waiting for the coffee to warm up adequately.
“You need to stand up for yourself.”
“You’ve been saying that since I was seven, and it’s not standing up for myself if you’re the one doing it. Memnon, please, I’m just asking you to be reasonable.”
Pouring his cup, the older brother said to Menelaus, “I just know better about this kind of stuff, okay?”
Menelaus poured his own cup, thankful the gods had not smited him on the matter of caffeine to add to his laundry list of permanent problems. He sighed softly, his eyes still only half-open.
“You always say that, too. You say I need to learn to stand up for myself, but I just think it’s unnecessary right now, and how will I ever learn if you don’t let me choose to say I don’t want to? A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.”
“Who taught you that?” Agamemnon asked, genuinely surprised by the rationality of Menelaus’ final statement.
“You did. Ten years ago.”
/
September twenty-first, 1:33 PM
The first thing Apollo had said was, “This is really bizarre.” He swallowed his bite of food, setting the tupperware down on his desk.
Hector had come to ask him for counsel over lunch.
Apollo continued, “Why would someone be this angry about something as arbitrary as that? And at you, of all people?”
Hector stabbed a potato that was in his own lunch.
“He said that I need to let Paris figure it out on his own.”
“...so… why doesn’t he go straight to Paris?”
This made the student reconsider.
“...that is a fair point,” he muttered, still a bit spacey, “Damn. Why didn’t I…”
“That would be ideal, I would think. Since… I don’t actually know, I haven’t been a frat boy in a while. Every day something happens, and I get reminded that none of you were alive in the seventies, and I’m just like…”
Trailing off, Apollo noticed that Hector was most certainly not paying the slightest bit of attention, as per when he was upset.
“I see what this is,” he said to his student, “this is just a far crazier version of that thing he did where he made ‘Dite professor of the month and you felt compelled to fix his category-two-hurricane mistake. And what did I tell you then?”
“ ‘I hate my sister-in-law as much as the next guy’-”
“No, the other thing.”
Hector sighed.
“You told me to leave stuff like this alone, because it was not actually my mistake that led here, because I took the precautions to prevent disaster, and it still happened.”
“There. Now more than ever, since this actually seems kind of worrisome. What did your dad say?”
“That I shouldn’t blame myself. Oh, also to straight-up call the police if it escalates beyond the emptier of threats.”
“That especially.”
“I don’t want to call the police. It’s going to seem like I’m making a fuss. Plus, since everyone’s saying this is not my problem…”
“Just know that it is an option. Alright? Safety.”
“Didn’t your younger brother do cocaine in college?”
Apollo could barely resist rolling his eyes.
“Can you ignore my stupid life for just a moment here, Hector?” He asked gently, “I know preaching ‘do as I say, not as I do’ makes me my father’s son, but here we are. I can’t exactly run from it.”
/
September twenty-fifth - 7:22 PM
“What? No-” Odysseus said, slightly startled by the request, “I literally just had a baby. My girlfriend put herself to all the effort of growing my child inside of her-”
“GODS! We know!” Agamemnon interrupted, “But like, that only takes up part of your time-”
“You think? You think that takes up only part of my time? The baby is with me most of the time. Not Penelope, not Dio, but me.”
Palamedes snorted. He wasn’t even part of the conversation. He was just getting a drink from the fridge.
“Honestly dude? Fuck that. Obviously, this is a big deal. You can get your girlfriend to do it for once in her life. I mean, she spread her legs-” He promptly halted that sentence when Odysseus sent him a death glare over it.
“Sorry,” Palamedes continued, hands up defensively, “but like, why do you do the most work? If there’s three of you…”
“Because Ody is fucking crazy and refuses help,” Diomedes had been watching from the opposing counter for a while, slowly draining his can of Pepsi.
“I am not crazy for wanting to watch my baby,” his boyfriend protested.
“You kidding? Most dads at this age don’t even stay. Meanwhile, you’re still building that shrine to Pasta in your closet,” Diomedes threw the empty can away, and went over to snake his arm around Ody’s waist, giving his hip a squeeze.
“First of all,” Odysseus said, “I stopped that. Second, you need to stop telling people that. Third, Penelope said it was fine!”
“Because she loves how you go all manic pixie dream girl over her.”
Agamemnon clapped his hands to bring the attention back to him.
“Let’s focus on the matter at hand?”
The smallest guy in that kitchen- Odysseus -sighed into his mug.
“Alas.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Oh, you’re making me?”
Diomedes ruffled his hair.
“Oh, let up for once,” Dio said softly, squeezing his boyfriend again, “It might even be fun.”
“And if you need any extra motivation, I can get rid of that baby for you,” Palamedes joked.
Everyone looked at him with judgement.
“That’s just not funny,” Agamemnon told him, “it’s fucking weird.”
“Beyond creepy,” Diomedes agreed.
“Enough incentive that I would need to murder you,” Odysseus said, still somewhat calm.
“On a serious note,” Agamemnon asked, “Can’t Dio watch the baby on his own?”
“I’ve been in therapy my whole life for learning how to take care of myself and act somewhat normal around others, and you think I can be left alone with an eight-pound baby?”
“Fair point.”
“Genuinely though, I’m working on it,” Diomedes said, “Who knows? Maybe I will do it soon enough.”
Agamemnon looked back at Odysseus.
“So where do we land?”
The small guy sighed, rubbing his face.
“Fine, fine. I’ll do it.”
When Palamedes left, nothing was said for quite a while. Eventually, Agamemnon told Odysseus,
“Actually, speaking of people joining the effort, I need you to convince someone.”
/
September twenty-seventh - 2:53 PM
“This is so stupid. They're going to know. They're going to know immediately,” Achilles complained to his ex-girlfriend, Deidamia.
“Hm. I don't know,” Patroclus mused from where he sat on one of the benches in the changing room, not looking up at all from his reading, “You have that very androgynous look about you.”
The blond sighed into his hand. He knew his boyfriend was right, of course. Had anyone else said it, though, they would have gotten punched. Any guy. Thetis would murder him if he hit a woman. ‘That's only a tiny fragment of the reasons why you need to stop calling your mother. Though you shouldn't hit anyone without a reason,’ Patroclus had told him only the week before.
“You haven't even looked.”
After a brief glance, the brunet confirmed, “You look completely fine,” earning an eye roll from Achilles.
“He’s right, you know,” Deidamia said, “Besides, you used to wear dresses all the time.”
Achilles put a hand to his chest in a very clearly exaggerated display of offense.
“That was different.”
“It really wasn’t.”
It really hadn’t been different back when Achilles used to wear her dresses, and let her do his hair and makeup. In retrospect, she had probably always known how fruity he was.
Deidamia finished braiding his hair and took a step back to admire her handiwork. She made a heart with her hands.
“You literally look like a girl, so shut the fuck up and stop complaining. Pat, what do you think?”
Patroclus looked up again, this time putting his book down altogether, and calmly said, “You look hot.”
“Thank you, baby,” Achilles murmured, his demeanour softening.
“It’s gonna be fine.”
“It’s gonna last two minutes before the charade is up.”
“Best two minutes of my godsdamn life,” Deimadia smiled.
“Look at the bright side,” Patroclus told his boyfriend, “If it only takes a minute for them to notice which one you are, then you only have to be seen wearing the cheerleader outfit for a minute. No one else on the pitch will even realise, I guarantee.”
So it was. Achilles, prize runner of their college team, known for how brash he was about his masculinity, was wearing a cheerleader outfit.
Though he would never admit it, the aspect of dressing up in girl’s clothes wasn’t the part that embarrassed him. The part that embarrassed him was that any of the guys he lived with would know.
Okay, maybe not Patroclus. Patroclus was always calm and had the patience of a saint, especially when it came to Achilles. He never once complained about Achilles’ strangeness, even where it was definitely warranted. No, that was the role of various others. Notedly, the beautiful ginger girl who was with them right now. Deidamia had always been very honest in her criticisms of Achilles, and that was the main reason they had stayed friends after the breakup.
Deidamia then started to fix her own hair.
“As sad as your life is right now, you have to simply accept this and move on. You came to me of all people, and now you have to live with the outcome. Otherwise, that's just textbook insanity. You know how I am. You can’t suddenly expect a different outcome.”
“Well, it was my mom’s idea.”
“And another reason to stop calling her,” Patroclus said.
/
September twenty-seventh - 4:09 PM
“We’re not going to be late. Please slow the fuck down. Baby, please.”
Odysseus stopped in his tracks suddenly, allowing Diomedes to catch up. Telemache cooed from his chest. Her father shushed her softly before he spoke.
“You are literally an entire foot taller than me. How can you not keep up?”
“I’m only eleven and a half inches taller than you,” Diomedes corrected, making his boyfriend roll his eyes, “and I don’t know. You break the boundaries of what should and shouldn’t be possible. You never fucking sleep. You weigh less than a thirteen-year-old girl. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve lost more weight since Penelope gave birth.”
“Whatever,” Odysseus said, “Who cares if we’re not going to be late? We’re not here for the race. I just want this to be over with.”
“Can’t we stay for the race?”
For this, Odysseus glared at his boyfriend, who gestured to show his slight annoyance.
“What? I like watching footraces.”
“...okay, fine, maybe.”
“Good boy.”
“Kill yourself.”
The tall guy sighed softly, reaching for Odysseus’ hand. He pressed a kiss to the back of his palm.
“Don’t say that in front of the baby. Okay? I’m sorry. Love you.”
“Dio. I’m not mad. Get some self-esteem, I’m begging you.”
Diomedes leaned down to kiss him softly, still squeezing his hand.
“But are you done being vexed? Because if we keep standing, we are gonna be late.”
Another eye roll from Odysseus later, they were speed-walking yet again.
Odysseus did have a tendency to walk fast (or, in a closed room, pace quickly back and forth) when he was nervous. Penelope sometimes had to physically hold him for a moment or two to make him stop because she was worried he was going to give Telemache shaken baby syndrome. Well, that had only been the past two months. Before, it was more of a concern that he would conk his head against something. Not that the risk was eliminated now. It really wasn’t. If anything, it was worse.
On second thought, Odysseus was always at risk of bumping his head on stuff. It was a constant anxiety that Diomedes had ever since he’d met the guy.
When they made it to their destination, they sat down beside some guy: incidentally, Deidamia’s brother, Lycomedes. Odysseus was closer to the redhead.
Once the guys had stopped fussing over the baby (“Just pass her over. Yes, I can hold her head properly. I hold her every day, baby. For the love of the gods, Odysseus Laertides Ithacan- ), Lycomedes looked over at what the situation was out of curiosity.
“Oh damn, that’s a cute baby.”
The comment made Odysseus, who was now holding Telemache himself despite the better judgement of his boyfriend, smile profusely.
“I know…” Odysseus smiled, “She looks just like her mom.”
“Must be a very pretty girl, then.”
Diomedes scoffed softly, though smiling, going to squeeze the little guy by the hip like always.
“I dare you to ask him about her,” he said to Lycomedes, “She’s his favourite thing to talk about. Always. All the godsdamn time. It drives me fucking crazy.”
Yet another Odysseus eye roll.
“You love it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Diomedes moved his arm from around his boyfriend to squeeze the baby’s tiny hand- to which she giggled. “Your daddy won’t shut his bitch ass up, and sometimes it makes me want to eat him alive.”
“You need to stop swearing around the baby. Especially to the baby.”
Lycomedes observed this interaction with a slight question on his mind. He thought best not to ask for now.
“Then I guess it would be really bothersome if I did ask about the mother,” Lycomedes answered, a sheepish grin on his face.
Diomedes shook his head slightly as he sighed, knowing every word Odysseus was about to say, but he made peace with himself not to argue about it for now.
“She’s honestly the best thing that ever happened to me. You know? I love her so much. I don’t think I could say it enough times if I tried. Just, I am so blessed for her to have carried my baby. And so blessed to have this little one,” he babied his voice at the last sentence.
“Aw,” Lycomedes sounded.
“She carried your baby because we were nineteen and stupid,” Diomedes interrupted his boyfriend’s fawning.
“No,” Odysseus said, “you were twenty.”
Lycomedes’ mind was not put at peace. He had to ask. But how do you politely ask what the ‘situation’ is between people? He ended up just staring awkwardly for a little while.
“If it annoys you so much, why did you suggest I talk about her?” Odysseus asked after a period of quiet bickering.
“Because every time you do, it makes me come closer to fucking killing myself of boredom, but I bite the bullet like a true godsdamn masochist.”
Lycomedes looked between the couple with concern.
“Don’t worry,” Odysseus told the redhead, “He says that all the time.”
Out on the pitch, Achilles was still suffering out the hour and a half that he’d been dressed in Deidamia’s cheerleading clothes. He had felt completely fine until they had stepped outside, and now suddenly it was like all of his worst fears were being thrown back at him.
“Pyrrha, it’s fine,” Deidamia whispered. It had always been what she called Achilles when he was dressed as a woman.
“It’s not fucking fine,” he hissed, “I can literally see them.”
He gestured in the general direction of Odysseus and Diomedes. It wasn’t even the fact that they were beside Lycomedes that gave them away, it was just very difficult to ignore the sight of a guy as tall as Diomedes.
“Oh, shush.”
Patroclus spoke up then. He was on the bench beside them again.
“For the record, it’s not like anyone else from the frat is here. That’s gotta be good, right? I’ve said this before.”
Achilles simply pouted again.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“It’s true,” Deidamia told Achilles, “you are a very unlikeable person.”
“Well, at least it’s almost over,” Pyrrha said.
“That’s the spirit.”
/
September twenty-seventh - 4:30 PM
Diomedes leaned over to his boyfriend and said quietly, “...I can’t tell a godsdamn difference between any of them. Fuck.”
“Good that you don’t have to, then,” Odysseus murmured.
To be fair to Diomedes, with the cheerleaders moving quickly, and Achilles’ androgynous looks, it was very difficult to tell which one was him. Several of the girls were also blonde, and relatively tall, and definitely strong. Odysseus was just more experienced in telling gender expression ambiguity. Mostly since almost every picture ever taken of him or Ctimene had at some point been mislabeled as the other twin, except maybe the ones he had recently developed. Yearbooks were always a rough time for both of them.
Diomedes was also just not good with faces, or with telling what gender people were presenting as. Sthenelus had noted this about him in his files way back in 1990. So there was that.
Beside them, Lycomedes knew immediately what Pyrrha looked like- he had walked in on Deidamia doing Achilles’ makeup enough times in his life to know. Though he didn’t know that Odysseus and Diomedes were actively trying to spot Pyrrha. Otherwise, he might’ve helped them for shits and giggles.
Diomedes, knowing Odysseus’ tendency to jump when he spotted something, took the baby into his own arms. She was being blessedly quiet.
Then it was: the routine. Achilles knew all the footing, that wasn’t the problem. He just had the barely suppressible urge to run to go along with it. Not run in the sense of flee, but as Odysseus had said- this was a race; Achilles was a track runner. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to run in his normal clothes.
He had never gone outside dressed as Pyrrha. Never, ever, would he have dared to do so on his own. If he didn’t know any better, he would think this to be an intentionally humiliating scheme. He was barely okay with doing it in front of Deidamia, and, well, she’d been right in the trenches with him. She would both paint his nails and then remove the polish an hour later, rarely judging how often he used the ‘f’ slur in demeaning talk, or how he acted all edgy and downright juvenile most of the time. It was both empowering and confusing.
Achilles looked back at one of the nearby stands, where Patroclus had gone to spectate from.
Patroclus, as chill as he was, had the slightest bit of strangeness about him as well.
Who the fuck does pre-med?
More genuinely, though, the only strange thing about the mostly normal guy was his very conscious awareness that his boyfriend was a douchebag.
On more than one occasion, a very much sober Patroclus had been quoted as having said something along the lines of, “Achilles is the worst guy I know. I fucking love him.”
No one, in truth, was sure what Patroclus liked about his boyfriend. Well, that idea was also null as of six months before, when he’d answered the question with, “I don’t like him. I love him, sure, more than I’ve ever loved anything ever, but the two are not mutually required.”
But hey, so long as they got each other, and Patroclus was the one person that Achilles ever admitted to liking instead of just tolerating, they were on a decent track. Better than most, anyhow.
This, however, was the kind of moment that Patroclus was sure he would never hear about or speak about again, lest Achilles wake him up in the middle of the night to quietly threaten him with strangulation again.
Odysseus jumped up from where he was, now confident in his identification. He hadn’t seen Achilles in a few days due to purposeful avoidance on the blond’s part- the whole reason Odysseus even had to track him down at a pre-game cheerleading rehearsal -and so the lines of his face were a little blurry in Ody’s memory. But he was sure now. This was undeniably Pthian. The poster child for frat boys who were a little too close with their mother.
“What is it?” Diomedes asked, “Did you see him?”
“Got it,” Odysseus said as he sat down. He pointed to a certain blonde girl for long enough for Diomedes to understand practically.
“How do we go about this, then?”
“Great question,” Odysseus paused in thought, “...he wants to run the race, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t fucking know.”
“A better answer might have been ‘I guess’, but to move on- he wants to run. And if he wants to run, how do we encourage that?”
“Baby, please stop playing mind games and just tell me your plan.”
It turned out- disappointing Odysseus wildly -that there was no plan necessary, because Achilles had already seen them shuffling about in the stands. As soon as the set was over, he went to Deidamia, who ushered him back towards the changing room.
When Odysseus and Diomedes got up to start their rather slow pursuit, Lycomedes looked after them but did not follow.
Under the familiar jaundice of the locker room lights- the flicker of one of the motion sensors in the showers picking up on someone or something none of them were aware of -Achilles started washing off his makeup as soon as he had his hands on a flannel and a sink. Deidamia wanted to kick him as she witnessed this, but there were bigger fish to fry.
Odysseus gestured vaguely now, calibrating in his head how to continue.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he started, “But, I would like to highlight that this is the fault of Agamemnon.”
“But did you have to confront me while I was in drag?”
“Did you have to wear drag?” Deidamia asked in a dull tone.
“D, please,” Achilles said.
“Oh, really? Really? No, actually, be fucking for real. If you’re going to dress up in drag, fucking own it. I’m honestly sick of your whining about men in makeup. People do that. You do that. Get over it.”
So, apparently, she did have a breaking point on the Achilles’-internalised-homophobia-meter.
Patroclus tried to conceal a snort by rubbing his face, earning a borderline scary glare from Achilles.
“Patroclus, baby.”
The brunet put his hands up defensively, signalling his silence for the time being.
Odysseus continued, “It’s fine. ‘Memnon was adamant about wanting everyone involved, so that means both of you, really.”
“It’s stupid though,” Achilles mumbled under his breath.
“Oh, off the rails,” Diomedes agreed, “if Ody had a say-”
“If I had a say, I would kill him, yes, but that’s not the point. The point is, Agamemnon wants us to take his side, but you won’t talk to him, so here we are.”
“Oh, gee, I wonder why.”
Odysseus rolled his eyes.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done,” Patroclus said, though his disinterest in the entire discourse was palpable, “Plus, I thought you disagreed with your mom about this.”
Achilles couldn’t even really be angry, because he knew at this stage he was just complaining about everyone and everything because ‘yes’. In reality, as opposed to the thought-process of Achilles, Patroclus was right. The main issue with that being, Achilles rarely went beyond what his mother told him. Though right now, this seemed more fun.
He thought for a while, taking off the last parts of his makeup, before he announced to the others,
“Let’s make one thing clear, I’m not doing this for Agamemnon. But I’ll be damned if I miss it.”
Odysseus smiled.
“Then we both agree.”
/
September thirtieth - 11:21 PM
Leaving Trivia Night, Clytemnestra was giggling for the first time in a while.
Having bested Agamemnon- they had used to play on the same team every week until both of their competitive sides had kicked in and they needed an accurate way to measure who was better -there was little that could upset her now.
The weather had taken a colder, rainier turn in the past week, so it really was unusual- one might say, supernatural -that there was absolutely no wind tonight. The faint hum of the cicadas was fading out into the autumn now, but remained present as the couple walked out of the bar.
“That was NOT fair,” Agamemnon laughed.
“Face it, you always blank when it comes to ‘Space’.”
“Because, might I remind you, I am not an astrophysicist.”
“You don’t need to know shit about astrophysics to fucking ace that space trivia topic.”
“No, but it would help me with not being bored to death at just the idea of researching that topic. Might I remind you, you win every time. Not just that you get more points than me, you win.”
Clytemnestra rolled her eyes playfully.
“Just admit that I’m smarter than you, and it’ll be fine.”
“I say that every single day, I feel like.”
“Mmmm… I’m putting it at two weeks now.”
“Oh, really?” Agamemnon teased, “Well, I must remedy that.”
She laughed. He stopped as they walked, and took her hands.
“You, Clytemnestra Spartan, are so much smarter than me,” he told her in a more genuine tone than she had expected.
Smiling sheepishly, she said, “You know, it’s nights like this that you usually manage to piss me off royally. It’s all sweet and romantic, and then you fuck it up, and I have to clear my answering machine like six times until I’m done being mad at you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Well, you just admitted that I am smarter than you.”
“True,” Memnon agreed, “Knowing that my life is a fucking comedy at this point, you’re probably right.”
When they got into the sorority, it was a rare sight to see that everyone had already gone to bed. Upstairs, Clytemnestra slid off her shoes and jacket and left them at the foot of her door.
Her boyfriend smiled to himself before crossing the room to inspect one of her bookshelves. Agamemnon traced his finger along a path of dust on one of the lower shelves before looking at some of her new acquisitions.
“Quit it,” she told him quietly.
“What?” he smiled.
Ignoring him and whatever he was doing, she went over to her desk to sort out the random collection of loose paper that had gathered in the past month or so.
Dust gathered on all the surfaces of her room eventually, and every once in a while, Clytemnestra would dust all the surfaces frantically, but that time had not come for a few months now. Not since starting the second year of her Master’s degree, at least.
As she slid the papers around, deciding which ones to place closer to the top of the pile based on arbitrary factors of importance, since she was eventually going to throw them all away in a few more weeks, Agamemnon rested his chin on her shoulder. She was really only surprised for a second.
“Fucking hell,” she whispered, “What is wrong with you? Why are your footsteps silent? It shouldn’t be possible.”
“I’m just special like that, princess.”
“Fuck you, actually.”
“Or…”
“You know what? Just for that, no sex for you.”
“Aw man,” he said, “I’m here for a reason, aren’t I?”
Clytemnestra reached her hand up to her shoulder, pressing her palm into his face.
“If you ever actually say that again, I will murder you with zero mercy and let my sister publish your research papers under her name.”
“I’m joking,” Agamemnon teased.
“Men should not make jokes like that. Ever.” she murmured. “Let alone men like you.”
He took her hand gently, mouthing at her fingers for a moment, knowing despite not seeing her face that she was wearing a scowl.
“You’re so gross,” Clytemnestra told her boyfriend, “You of
all people should know how many bacteria live on the surface of the skin of the hands.”
“You washed your hands when we came in.”
“Shut up.”
Agamemnon let go of her hand before nipping at her jaw.
“...were you serious about that threat?” he asked. “It’s totally fine if you were-”
“Before I change my mind.”
Having laid down, Clytemnestra gathered her hair together as Agamemnon propped himself up with his hand to reach into her bedside drawer. They had this running joke, which he’d made up after their first date- ‘Your sister is blonde, and my brother is ginger. Know that if I knock you up, it’s not unlikely for them to be ginger.’
So, it was all about protection. It would have been regardless, but she might have let him be more reckless if he hadn’t told her that.
She sighed softly.
“What is it today?” she asked.
They never talked dirty. The one time they had tried, Clytemnestra could not stop laughing. Instead, they often talked about whatever was going on in their lives that was otherwise irrelevant. Once, she had talked about trigonometry, which was successful for about four minutes.
As he opened the condom, Agamemnon said, “Stupid godsdamn things stressing me out. Been absolutely nothing to do with school, either. That's the kicker.”
Letting out a shaky breath, she asked, “Why?”
“Oh, you know.”
“I don’t.”
“You must have heard about the whole mess where Helen punched that twink.”
“...yeah?”
“Guy wouldn’t apologise for what he said. Still hasn’t, still won’t.”
“Oh yeah, she told me.”
“Some nudging and pushing later, and it's like, why is this kid literally so arrogant?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So we're getting everyone involved to help poke the bear.”
“And by everyone, you mean…?”
“The guys from the frat.”
“Right.”
He knew she was barely paying attention, but he smiled.
“Had to start pestering his brother. Poor guy, you know? Seems sweet. Like he really cares just that extra bit too much. But I’m just doing the right thing.”
Clytemnestra cupped his face, her eyes still a little too soft from the serotonin for how she was starting to feel.
“How come whenever you say that, it’s preceded by the worst thing ever?”
“I’m just being honest,” Agamemnon said.
“Shhh…” she whispered, “just stop.”
But like with all things, he didn’t know when to stop, even when told so. He shook her just a little.
“Oh yeah? What if I told you even Menelaus is mad at me right now? Well, not entirely, you know how he is, but he’s upset that I would threaten a guy over this.”
“Get out,” Clytemnestra told him quietly, before she pushed him off, “Get the fuck out.”
While a little stunned, Agamemnon began to gather himself together to leave as soon as he’d registered her words.
She rubbed her face as he did so, before fixing her dress. He didn’t argue, having the minimum self-awareness it took to know that he was in the wrong. Whether he regretted it for the right reasons was a different story.
After stepping out of the house, Agamemnon could feel the sudden and bitter flow of the wind returning. It was almost a shock, the way it soaked into his skin and amplified the cold. He swallowed.
/
October second, 2003 - 4:00 PM
When Zeus called an impromptu staff meeting- which was about as rare as seeing him eat brown bread due the fact he did not trust the FDA to regulate whether sawdust was added -with barely any advance, everyone left behind their work. Even Hephaestus, who had ninety engineering papers to grade; already something for which he struggled to reserve the energy to be strict with, for the sake of everyone’s future safety. Even Athena, who had had to send her wife, Pallas, an obscure text message asking for a reminder that murder is illegal. Even Hera, who had been hoping to avoid her husband for just a smidge longer.
Zeus started the meeting with a lengthy period of digging around in his desk drawers for something he did not find in the end, before clearing his throat.
“Folks, it has come to my attention that the populations of two frat houses, which make up a decent fraction of our student body, are ‘quarrelling’. It does look to be superficial at the moment, but according to federal law, if you see any actual violence or threats, or have anything reported to you, please do report it straight to the authorities to avoid complications. Also, try not to provoke them further, or else we could be held liable. That’s all.”
Frustrated, Ares dragged a hand down his face, and counted to ten in his head. Rather quietly, he said to Zeus, “You owe me half an hour of my life back.”
As Zeus’ most disliked son-in-law [the options themselves were scarce, since Zeus only had two sons-in-law, and Hera had reserved the sole right to despising Heracles with a burning hatred], Ares had had to learn over the years to keep his slander of the man brief and non-violent.
Zeus, however, had no such limits.
“You think you know better than me? The walk from your office is only seven minutes, and we’ve been gathered here for fifteen.”
“If you knew anything, old man,” Aphrodite began, her voice soft and her gaze incredibly distant when compared to her actual focus on the conversation, “You would know while we’re fine to get here easy, your son needs help and patience to get past the stairs on the C block.”
Hephaestus, the son in question, looked up briefly from where he had been staring at the cuff of one of his crutches. He almost immediately looked away again, his eyes wide with the unavoidable second-hand shame he always felt when his wife spoke at his father with even an ounce of completely justified conviction.
And despite Hephaestus’ anxiety, it was always to their benefit that Aphrodite had the sharper, quicker tongue between her and Ares, because she was more easily forgiven by Zeus. Was it for the misogynistic reason of assuming everything she said was purely petty? Yes, it was. Did she mind? Usually not.
“I suppose there is some truth to that,” said Zeus.
Ares had to rub his face aggressively again to stop himself from biting back.
Aphrodite tilted her head, her eyes honing in on Zeus as opposed to the piece of curtain she’d been absently looking at before. In truth, all the professors had the same question on their minds.
“So to confirm, we can all go?” she asked.
Checking his watch, Zeus debated his answer.
“Technically, we’re supposed to run the meeting at least until ten past, but I’m feeling gracious.”
Everyone had already started getting up and shuffling with their coats and bags as soon as he said the word ‘but’.
When they were starting to leave, he then added, “Oh, one more thing, actually.”
Following their collective groan, his last statement was just something about weekly dinner on Sunday, which really only applied to half of them.
Upon exiting, Aphrodite said to both her husband and their partner,
“If I were to ask, very quaintly, what your thoughts about this supposed ‘quarrel’ were, what would you say?”
Hephaestus stopped for a second, figuring he couldn’t listen to the rhythmic click of his crutches and answer the question at the same time. Ares reflexively rested a hand on his back.
“Look, I already don’t feel so great right now, but that’s a whole other issue…” Hephaestus paused, “...I will do what I’m paid to, and nothing more. That’s it.”
Ares took a little longer to respond with, “I think you want a certain answer, honey, and I don’t know what that is, and quite frankly, I’m scared to.”
Hephaestus rubbed his face.
“That’s ‘cause…” he trailed off, dreary.
Aphrodite sighed, stretching her arms slightly.
“Let’s get home then.”