Archive of Our Own

A ghost of a man hovered over him.

"My love, can you see me?" The air whispered to him.

Apollo stood as still as one of his statues and did not answer.

It was a lie, a trick. Hyacinthus could not be here. He was dead, well and truely. He felt the life leave his lover's body as he held him dying. And any presence of him left in his flowers could never be concentrated enough to create an appearance like this.

And yet, he swears. By the Gods in all of existence does he swear, that for a time, that Hyacinthus had come back, and had shared eternal existence with him.

But.

The memories were fleeting, barely there, easily forgotten. They were fading away like a dream.

(And Gods do not dream.)

So, Apollo ignored the ghostly image of his love dancing through the air and the false voice sounding so like him.

Gods do not entertain lies and deceit. Only what is true and absolute.

Translucent purple eyes appeared in front of his face and met his with a sharp grin (a grin always filled with such promise.)

"Are you ignoring me, 'pollo?"

Apollo tore his eyes away and focused on a tree, he gave no answer.

A ghostly laugh echoed in the clearing. "My stubborn lover, partner," and then suddenly whispered right next to Apollo's ear, "husband."

Apollo inhaled sharply in response to that one word and he finally met the eyes of the ghostly impression at his side by choice. He gave no attention to how his immortal heart stuttered and hurt at the sight of how close the impression looked like his ancient lover (the wound open and gapping with dried blood crusted over his eye and cheek). But, that word, that one word.

"We were never husbands." Apollo said, voice toneless.

The impression cocked its head to the side, "weren't we?"

A blink and a flash of one of those fleeting blurred memories golden and bright, divine glowing hands held tight together, that one word echoing between them. Another blink and Apollo was back in the clearing, the night sky above them, his twin's moon, half shining, offering the only light.

"No."

The impression hummed and floated on its back, its hands under its head. "Curiouser and curiouser."

Apollo's eyebrows twitched. "Lewis Carol?"

The impression twirled and floated upright, shrugging its shoulders, "he loved to walk through gardens where I grew to work through his thoughts."

Apollo gave a single nod. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the impression. Not when it looked, sounded and acted oh so much like his dear Hyacinthus.

"Why are you here?" Apollo asked, still silencing any emotion from colouring his voice. He would not allow this thing to gain anything over him.

"Because you're here."

Apollo blinked as those words cut through his divine heart. "Why have you never shown before?"

The impression sighed and looked to the ground, "belief is a funny thing, my love."

Apollo tilted his head to the side with narrowed eyes, "belief?"

The impression sighed again and flew forward to grasp Apollo's hands, the feeling cold and light, and brought them up clasping them close to their faces. "Do you know how much it pained me, love, to watch you as you walked and not walk beside you, to see you smile and not smile with you, to watch you cry and not wipe your tears? All the things I used to do," he said with a trembling smile, "but."

"But?" Apollo asked quietly as his mind raced and more faded memories pushed themselves to the front of his mind.

"The story," he said, "our story, changed."

Apollo pulled his hands away from Hya-, from the-, from his grasp with a step back and stared at him with widened eyes. "What do you mean?"

He gave him a sad smile. "You had said it best, my love," he cleared his throat and recited:

Apollo looked right into the translucent purple eyes of, of Hy-, of him as his mouth opened and closed, no words managing to escape.

A chuckle, "come on, my love. Or is poetry and prophecy no longer under your preview?"

"A mirror." Apollo finally whispered, "it's a mirror." The faded memories of a duel life finally broke through his mind becoming as strong and clear as all his others. “You came back to me. Then.”

Hyacinthus smiled his brilliant smile and twirled in the air with a laugh. "Now you're getting it!"

Apollo’s eyes tracked Hyacinthus’s delight hungrily, but, “And then you were gone.”

Hyacinthus' brilliant smile fell, “as I said, our story changed. Mortals wanted to tell a story that warned of the danger of a God’s love and an inevitable end. They didn't want a happy ending. And it gained such popularity that it overcame our true story and-” he stopped and pursed his lips as his eyes seemed to have a glistening sheen.

Apollo stepped forward. “I lost you again,” he finished and raised a hand to cup Hyacinthus' cold cheek, fingers just under that dreaded wound, and brushed a thumb under his eye. Apollo knew mortals' belief was powerful, but to know it was powerful enough for this? To influence a god this much? It was terrifying.

And if his father realised?

Apollo internally shuddered, Di immortals, he hoped his father never realised.

Hyacinthus, oblivious to Apollo's thoughts, closed his eyes and leaned into the hold, raising his own hand to cover Apollo's.

“I never left you,” he whispered, “I told you, I was watching but I could never reach you. But now,” he breathed.

“But now?” Apollo pressed.

Hyacinthus opened his eyes that seemed stronger in colour, “our story is changing again.”

A smile grew on Apollo's face. “You're coming back.”

A matching smile grew on Hyacinthus, the corner of it hidden beneath Apollo's hand that he gripped even tighter, “I'm coming back.” He affirmed.