Chapter Text
ASTYANAX
Astyanax is summoned to the hall in late evening with Lysander. He fidgets with his rings as he walks down the corridor.
“Ah, my little snake,” Antinous croons when Astyanax steps into the hall. “And the mouse. Snake, come down here with the cat, will you?”
Astyanax flushes. His fingers curl into fists as he strides toward the ornate chair at the head of the banquet table, trying not to focus on the rest of the scene. Antinous lounges there with Telemachus on his lap and Odysseus kneeling at his feet.
Telemachus’s eyes are downcast, focused away from Astyanax. He is undeniably uncomfortable in this position, his cheeks flushed and his fingers twisting in his lap, but at least he seems unharmed.
“Kneel, little snake.”
Astyanax obediently drops to his knees on the cushion beside Odysseus. Odysseus casts him a pitying glance.
Most of the banquet is uneventful. Astyanax is grateful for this—it gives him less reason to be angry or afraid. Still he sparks; Antinous always makes him agitated after all. Odysseus hisses and nudges him when his fingers start sparking after Antinous starts feeding Telemachus grapes—directly to his mouth, as if he is a child or a pet. Astyanax clasps his hands in his lap.
Antinous picks up an olive and holds it to Telemachus’s lips, and Astyanax sees the prince wrinkle his nose. Telemachus has never liked olives. But he opens his mouth and takes it anyway.
Astyanax’s blood boils (over something so small as an olive; he needs to learn to control himself), and lightning threatens to do the same to his hands. He fists them to keep it contained as Antinous lifts a chalice of wine to Telemachus’s lips.
Telemachus eyes the drink with suspicion and something horribly close to terror. Astyanax’s throat tightens. If Antinous has done anything to make Telemachus wary of a drink from his hand…
“Relax, wife,” Antinous says dismissively. “I haven’t poisoned it.”
“Is it drugged?” Telemachus asks in a small voice.
Antinous scoffs. “No, darling.”
Telemachus flinches back when the cup is pressed to his lips again. Antinous huffs and pushes more insistently.
“Drink,” he orders lowly, his grip tightening on the side of Telemachus’s thigh.
Telemachus opens his mouth.
Antinous tips the wine down Telemachus’s throat, letting the dark liquid spill down his neck and stain his strappy white chiton. He winces and swallows what he can.
“There you go,” Antinous croons, lowering the chalice as Telemachus coughs up the excess wine. “Good boy.”
Astyanax’s hands spark violently. Odysseus hushes him and he averts his gaze.
Wine slowly takes its toll on Antinous. He does not get drunk enough to grow raucous or violent, but tipsy enough to become overly bold. He takes to feeding Odysseus table scraps, if only the most undesirable pieces of meat and bread, and Astyanax’s stomach starts to growl—he hasn’t eaten since this morning. But he’d starve before he accepts anything from Antinous’s hand.
Antinous’s comments start as simply suggestive, but gradually devolve into lascivious and borderline threatening. Telemachus’s expression shifts from discomfort to thinly veiled panic as Antinous’s ramblings turn to his favored topic of conversation—his so-called wife. Astyanax does his best to tune it out.
“You look so much like your daddy, don’t you, pet?” Antinous murmurs, cupping Telemachus’s chin. “And your mother too, I suppose. So delicate.”
His hand runs down Telemachus’s throat and chest, and the prince’s lips tighten. Astyanax can feel electricity stinging his palms again.
“If only you’d been born a girl like your mother too,” Antinous sighs. “You’d already be swollen with my child. Something worthwhile, instead of whatever…” His fingers pinch the soft flesh of Telemachus’s stomach, and Telemachus lets out a soft squeak of pain and protest. “…this is.”
Astyanax’s sparks flare so suddenly that a sharp sting lights up his skin, and he bites down on a yelp of pain. He can hear Odysseus’s teeth grinding beside him.
Antinous casts an amused glance toward Astyanax. “Jealous, little snake? Maybe you wanted to be the one to breed him?”
“You’re sick,” Astyanax spits.
“I’m sure you have your own perversions. You must miss having this one around.” Antinous runs a hand up Telemachus’s side, princes his nipple through the fabric of his chiton, and Telemachus gasps. “I think he’d let you do anything you wanted.”
“They’re children,” Odysseus snaps. Antinous shoves a charred piece of meat in his mouth, ignoring him.
“Does he make you as hard as I do, pet?” Antinous whispers to Telemachus, cupping his chin and forcing eye contact. “Maybe someday I can have both of you, hm?”
Odysseus makes a muffled sound of protest. Antinous leans toward Telemachus and whispers something Astyanax cannot hear.
Astyanax takes to dissociating instead of listening to any more of Antinous’s depraved commentary. He focuses on a wine stain on the floor instead—and on not searing his own fingers with his lightning. He starts to wish Antinous would feed him.
Odysseus is soon sent out of the hall to make pastries, and Antinous’s attention zeroes in on Telemachus. Hands and lips wander until Astyanax can see Telemachus’s eyes shimmering with tears, even from his position on the floor.
“I’ve done you a favor, you know, darling,” Antinous muses. “Making you a wife instead of subjecting you to the dreary boredom of being a prince. I think you’re much better as a trophy than a figurehead.”
Telemachus flushes. “I’m not a trophy.”
“You’re sitting on my lap wearing next to nothing,” Antinous says with a smirk, lazily snapping the thin strap of Telemachus’s chiton. “You’ve got my symbol on the collar around your neck.”
“I do not,” Telemachus hisses, “belong to you.”
Something dangerous glints in Antinous’s eyes, and he seizes Telemachus’s chin, tugging him forward. “Say it again, little wolf. I dare you.”
Telemachus levels a fiery glare at him. “I am not yours.”
Antinous moves quicker than Astyanax can blink. Telemachus shrieks as he is pushed face down on Antinous’s lap and his skirt is shoved up above his waist.
“Mouthy little slut,” Antinous growls. Lightning burns Astyanax’s hands and he lets out a stifled hiss of pain, but no one seems to hear him. “How many times have I told you not to talk back?”
He pulls a thin wooden switch from his belt and, before either Telemachus or Astyanax can protest, smacks it across Telemachus’s rear. Telemachus squeals in pain, turning his head to muffle the sound in Antinous’s skirt. Lightning sears Astyanax’s skin.
Another strike makes Telemachus whimper. He does not protest, does not struggle. Astyanax wonders bitterly how often he has to endure this in the privacy of his and Antinous’s bedroom.
A squeak of pain from Telemachus, another bolt escaping Astyanax’s fingers—he ducks his head as tears burn his eyes from the pain, struggling to keep his fists clenched and the electricity contained. He hears three rapid strikes from the switch, a shriek of pain and a whining please from Telemachus—
“What are you doing?” Odysseus’s voice practically screeches, and Astyanax’s head snaps up. His eyes snag on Telemachus’s face instead of Odysseus—his lover’s eyes are teary and distressed when they meet Astyanax’s, his face flushed with humiliation, spasming with pain when another lash falls. Astyanax sparks so violently that he has to clap his hands to his mouth to muffle a scream, and he does not hear what Odysseus says next.
A whine of pain from Telemachus makes him spark again. When next he looks up, Odysseus is slamming down the platter of loukomathes, syrup splashing, and seizing Antinous’s wrist.
“Stop it,” Odysseus hisses, and some of his old authority is back in his voice. “I did what you asked.”
Antinous scoffs dismissively. “Your puppy got mouthy while you were gone. I’ve done nothing undeserved.”
Odysseus snatches the switch from Antinous’s hand and flings it across the hall. Lysander yelps and ducks as it smacks against the wall behind him.
“You will not,” Odysseus snaps, “beat my son for impertinence. From now on you give his punishment to me. Understood?”
“Well, if you’d like to be beaten with a stick, I suppose I can’t say no.” Antinous’s gaze strays to Odysseus’s arm, where a faint red mark still remains from Laertes’s beating. “I have a cane if you’d like that better.”
Odysseus huffs indignantly and yanks his son’s skirt back down. Astyanax’s lightning slowly begins to calm as Antinous sits Telemachus back up.
“You can hold the platter, kitten,” Antinous says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “And I’d like the wife to feed me. Don’t spill, little wolf, alright?”
Telemachus’s eyes are still shining—thank the gods there does not seem to be any blood from the switch; Antinous must be more careful with him. He nods.
Astyanax’s hands spark far less now, but there is still a stubborn sting caught between his fingers as he watches Telemachus serve Antinous. He tries to dissociate the same way Odysseus seems to be, letting his sight go out of focus, his mind go blank. He can’t stand seeing Telemachus submit this way, that collar on his neck and that broken look in his eyes…
“You should never have been gifted royalty,” Antinous murmurs to Telemachus, his fingers trailing down the prince’s spine as Telemachus swipes a spilled drop of syrup from Antinous’s jaw with his thumb. “No, you were born for servitude, darling. You beg far better than any slave or whore I’ve ever known.”
Odysseus’s knuckles are white where he grips the platter. Telemachus lowers his gaze and mumbles, “Thank you, my king.”
He looks as if he might cry. Astyanax shoves down the urge to do the same.
“I wonder how well you can do it in bed,” Antinous goes on. His hand slides to Telemachus’s backside—no doubt bruising already from his punishment—and squeezes until Telemachus whimpers. “if only you weren’t so young. Imagine what I can do to you in a few years when you’re legal.”
“I think I’d rather not,” Telemachus says softly, and there is something frightened alongside the quiet defiance in his voice.
Antinous punishes him with a sharp pinch to the sensitive flesh of his backside, and Telemachus lets out a soft whine. “I think you’d be gorgeous tied to our bed, pet. Don’t you?”
Telemachus opens his mouth, then closes it again. Antinous smirks.
“I thought you liked attention, little wolf,” he says, amused. “Thought it was evident from the way you dressed. Shouldn’t you love being teased in front of everyone like this?”
Telemachus still says nothing. He picks up a loukomas and holds it to Antinous’s lips.
“Quiet now, aren’t you? Have I struck a nerve, perhaps?” Antinous flashes sharp teeth at Telemachus in a smile. “Or are you hiding something?”
Telemachus swallows. Astyanax can see his throat bob from here. “You should eat, my king.”
“But you look so sweet blushing like this.” Antinous does not take the loukomas, and Telemachus slowly lowers it. “Are you so eager to serve me that you won’t hear me speak?”
Telemachus keeps his mouth closed, and Astyanax wants to scream at him to say something, but he can see the fear in the prince’s eyes. His punishment will no doubt be worse if he offends Antinous again.
Antinous seizes Telemachus’s face, squishing his cheeks together in a gesture that might seem affectionate if not for the anger in the king’s eyes. “Will you offer me no reply?”
Telemachus’s voice is timid, slightly muffled by the grip on his face, but understandable. “I—I didn’t want you to punish me again.”
“Aw, that’s sweet. So doting and submissive.” Antinous strokes a thumb over Telemachus’s bottom lip, and Astyanax tries harder to forget the scene around him. “You sound so pretty when you’re pouting. Repentant. Do you even know what a lovely voice you have?”
“You’ve told me…” Telemachus swallows. “Something of the sort.”
Astyanax is not really awake enough to think about what he means. His eyes may be open but his mind is far away, barely processing the voices he hears.
“Someday I’ll make you scream,” Antinous whispers, releasing Telemachus’s face, and Astyanax’s sparking starts again. “I’ll take your moans and your pleas and your tears and whatever else I can wrest from you, but I think nothing will be as sweet as the sound of you screaming my name.”
He pinches Telemachus’s backside again, and Telemachus squeaks in pain. Odysseus’s attention snaps toward them, the tray jolting a little, though he hardly moves. Antinous does not seem to notice Odysseus’s eyes on his hand, gaze fiery, as if he could burn the offending limb just by looking at it.
“Just wait, little wolf,” Antinous says softly. “One day I’ll have you begging. Whether it is for mercy or for more is up to you.”
Telemachus lowers his head, his eyes glistening with tears once more. Antinous smirks, and as his gaze returns to the pastries, his attention catches on Odysseus.
Odysseus’s eyes have gone blank again, fixed on the platter held in his shaky hands. Astyanax is sure the same emptiness lives in him.
“Here, kitty, you’re not listening.” Antinous reaches up and seizes Odysseus’s chin, tugging him down to eye level. “Don’t you want to hear what I’ll do to your son?”
“I would rather fight another year of war,” Odysseus snaps. “Pervert.”
“Oh, but this is a war.” Antinous squeezes Odysseus’s cheeks in the same way as he did Telemachus’s, and Odysseus goes bright red. He lowers the platter surreptitiously, and one glance toward his crotch tells Astyanax—and Antinous—precisely what he is hiding. “Like that, don’t you? Your son is the same, you know. Can’t resist getting hard when I touch him.”
Astyanax’s lightning flares suddenly out of his skin, dangerously close to burning him. The idea of Telemachus getting hard for Antinous is nothing short of repulsive—in part, of course, because Astyanax is jealous, but mostly because it is undoubtedly forced. Even if Antinous cannot yet rape Telemachus, it is clear he abuses him all the same.
“I wonder how it’ll be when I can go all the way?”
Astyanax does not care who sees the lightning now. He’ll shock himself unconscious if he doesn’t focus on shielding; he doesn’t have the will—but the power is only growing, amplified by the horrible unbidden image in Astyanax’s head, of Telemachus ties to a wedding bed and stripped naked and screaming—
“Stop it,” Odysseus breathes, a note of desperation in his voice. “Stop it—”
Antinous’s fingers squeeze Telemachus’s backside. Tendrils of lightning wreathe up and around Astyanax’s trembling limbs.
“Stop it, sir.” Odysseus’s voice catches stubbornly on the last word, clearly forced out through gritted teeth. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”
Damn right he doesn’t. What he’s dealing with is Astyanax, and Astyanax is going to make him pay.
“Oh, I think I do,” Antinous murmurs, his attentions returning to Telemachus. “You’d do well to stop fighting battles you can’t win, kitten. I’ve won the war, you know that, and it won’t be long before I can finally partake of the spoils.”
“Is that what marriage is to you?” Odysseus whispers. “A war to be won? Are you perhaps familiar with the concept of love?”
“Dad,” Telemachus says, so softly it is nearly inaudible. “Don’t—”
“Ah, but he has spoken truth.” Antinous’s hands tighten on Telemachus. “And yes, that is what marriage is to me—a battlefield of broken spirits, Didn’t your father tell you about love, kitten?”
Love, the conquest; love, the war—and Astyanax, the vanquished—
“I know he did. I know what love is.”
The lightning on Astyanax’s skin is silvery. Furious.
“I know what he thought of love,” Antinous says. Bitterly Astyanax thinks that he has never sounded more like a king. “And here is what I think of war.”
He crushes his mouth against Telemachus’s, and the prince makes a small, indignant sound, shoving weakly at his husband’s chest. Astyanax jumps to his feet as Antinous’s hand closes on Telemachus’s throat—it doesn’t matter who sees him, what he does—all he knows is that there is pain in Telemachus’s eyes and he’s going to die—
The sound that spills off Telemachus’s tongue is choked and pleading, and it pushes Astyanax over the edge. His hands slam down on the banquet table and he screams.
“Enough!”
The world erupts into white.
Blinding heat sears Astyanax’s skin. People scream all around him and he is flung backward, hitting the ground hard, his vision blurring—dull pain sets a steady throb through his hip at the impact.
Oh gods, oh gods oh gods oh gods oh fuck—surely no deity can be so cruel as to take Telemachus by Astyanax’s own hand—
Astyanax pushes himself up, his vision clearing slowly. Odysseus lies sprawled on the floor, splattered with syrup from the loukomathes, groaning and looking generally pathetic—oh, Astyanax hopes he hasn’t injured Odysseus’s back…
But Odysseus is coughing, starting to sit up.
“Tele?” he rasps. “Puppy?”
And then, Telemachus’s voice, sweet as life itself in the wreckage—
“I’m okay.”
Astyanax scrambles to his feet and rushes to Telemachus, where his lover is struggling to get to his knees, rubbing his forehead. “Sunshine—oh gods, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
He drops to his knees and Telemachus kisses him before he can say another word. Astyanax melts into the touch—how he has missed this…
When Telemachus’s mouth lands on his it feels like they are alone again. Like Antinous is not only unconscious but entirely nonexistent, like neither of them are yet wounded. Telemachus’s lips are sweet with honey and wine.
For a moment it is only them in the world, and Astyanax is desperate to make it last forever.