Work Text:
Love maybe wasn't as foolish as I'd thought. When she neatly put the locs into my hair, her hands and fingers stained with the rich scent of olive oil. When she taught me how to write my name, and I started to like having her trace Διομήδης into the clay more than having it caught between her teeth when she moaned. When sex started to matter less than the feeling afterwards, when she set order to her hair, and removed sweat from her brow and seed from her belly, and pulled on that lavender gown; I'd watch her get up and work the abacus on her desk, the clicking sound a small comfort to know that her mind still worked furiously despite my ravishing.
I began to realise how hypocritical I was now being, having previously criticised the love she spoke of from her husband with fervity. Odysseus was a lovesick puppy unsuited for masculine matters, his illness ruining his enormous potential to be any kind of warrior and his wife's love coddling him into softness. That was my view of him for many of the years that I spent sleeping with his wife. So at what point did sex become warming her bed? At what point did company become comfort? At what point did I start to like to see her in regular clothes more than I liked to see her armoured or naked?
Tonight, she was no different. When she got up from bed, I stood behind her. I smiled to myself at the gentle gasp when I put my arms around her.
I said quietly, “Show me how you write my name.”
Even quieter, she replied, “I've shown you so many times, though. You already remember how to.”
“I like seeing you do it, though.”
She gave a little sigh, before picking up the stylus again.
Into the clay, she etched, Διομήδης for the hundredth time.
“Good girl,” I whispered.
“I wish I had time to teach you more.”
“You don't have to.”
“No, but I wish I could.”
She smoothed over the clay, erasing the word.
I bit my tongue, swallowing saliva infused with the words I love you for maybe the thousandth time.