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Maybe that was a little weird of a statement for him to think, but he found comfort in it. Penelope, too. A few months after getting home, he’d decided that that was perhaps one of his favorite parts of his day: sitting at the head of the table, eating with his family and his family alone. Even when the silence stretched and the holes his absence had left became obvious, he treasured every moment. And watching his son eat with a healthy vigor that reminded him of his own youth pleased him greatly- Penelope had told him about how the suitors had greedily usurped so much of the palace’s resources in food that Telemachus did not get the right to enjoy his royal wealth at mealtimes, and Telemachus had more of a slender build as a result. But with the suitors gone and Odysseus home, peace restored, Telemachus was slowly filling out a little more. The sight delighted the king more than a thousand entertainers.  

Though, today…Telemachus didn’t seem to be eating as much. No, he was pushing his food around his plate like a weary child. Penelope’s eyes lingered on it too, but she didn’t comment. 

“Telemachus,” Odysseus finally spoke up, after the topic of Penelope’s most recent tapestry weaving had been exhausted. “Why are you not eating? Typically you have a more vicious appetite.”

His son’s head lifted from it’s cradle in his hand, and a small flush colored his cheeks- embarrassment, or something else? “I’m simply not hungry today, Father.” 

Words Odysseus had never heard before in his life. 

“Well, why not? You still must eat.” Odysseus nudged a platter of pork closer to him. 

Indecision flickered over Telemachus’ face, and he took the smallest piece of meat from the plate. Unsatisfied, Odysseus pushed it closer.

Penelope set down her fork and placed her hand over her husband’s with a quiet chuckle. “My dear, do not harass your son. He is grown, he can supervise his own plate.”

Odysseus glanced at her, and opened his mouth to respond, but his head snapped back towards Telemachus. “I saw that.”

Telemachus looked down again as he pulled the pork back onto his plate, caught in the act of trying to return it when his father’s head was turned. 

“Why don’t you want to eat, son? Are you well?” Odysseus pressed, watching him cut the pork into the most pathetic bites and cautiously swallow them one by one. “Do we need to call for the physician?”

“No, Father,” Telemachus quickly shook his head. “I’m well. No need for a physician. Simply tired.”

Odysseus wanted to protest more, but his wife’s hand tightening on his stopped him mid-effort, and he sat back. “…very well. Eat as you wish,” he murmured, far from enthusiastic about his words. 

The rest of the meal continued in awkward quiet- Telemachus usually jumped to fill the air with stories, but he was only speaking when spoken to, only eating what was prompted of him. 

Odysseus didn’t like it. 

After the meal, Telemachus stood and offered a small bow. “I shall retire to my room, but I’ll join you for this afternoon’s court meetings with the council.”

Odysseus watched him leave with a frown, then turned to Penelope, who was still finishing up her food. “Does he not remember the meeting is tomorrow?”

Penelope set down her goblet. “I suppose not,” was all she murmured. 

“Why did you stop me from expressing my concerns over his health?” Odysseus continued, leaning closer to her. “This is not common behavior, is it? Am I missing something?”

Penelope met his eyes, and Odysseus understood at once that yes, he was. “This is not quite common behavior, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen it. Telemachus acts like that only when he feels unwell.”

“So I was right, then!” Odysseus stood up. “I’ll call for the physician and-”

“No, love.” Penelope recaptured him easily with her hand and wise eyes. “Give him time.”

Odysseus slowly lowered himself back into his chair. “But why?”

Penelope smiled wryly. “He tends to withdraw when he feels ill. Give him a bit of time- a few hours, perhaps. If he recovers on his own, problem solved. If he gets worse, he will be more open to accepting help. He does not take it as easily as he used to.” 

Odysseus listened, and while her words made sense- as they always did- he couldn’t help but ache to chase after his son and interrogate him over his health. “A few hours, you say?”

Penelope nodded. “Perhaps we shall see when, or if, he makes it to that court meeting.”

Telemachus did not make it to the nonexistent court meeting. 

Odysseus liked that even less. 

So, hours later, he stood outside the doors to his son’s room. They were close to his and Penelope’s chambers- ‘for protection’, Penelope had once simply said, and no further discussion had been needed for understanding. But at least now, it made things convenient for when Odysseus awoke at night and wanted to ensure all was right within his family- or when his son was being stubborn. 

He quietly knocked on the door, keeping his voice purposefully low. “Telemachus? Are you awake?” 

He received no answer, so he cautiously pushed open the door, and paused at the sight that met him. 

Telemachus was slumped over at his desk, over a piece of parchment, a reed pen fallen from his relaxed hand. 

Odysseus quietly closed the door and walked over to the desk, leaning down to study his son. His flush was even more pronounced than earlier, his breathing sounded tired and heavy, and his hairline was moist. 

“Telemachus.” Odysseus placed a hand on his shoulder, testing to see if he’d wake. The prince stirred, enough for a faint mumble. Odysseus reached over to press his knuckles to his son’s head. Just as he thought, it was warm. 

Telemachus’ eyes didn’t open as Odysseus wrapped an arm across his chest and eased him to sit upright- they only fluttered open when his head lolled back, and the king’s stifled chuckles met his ears. 

“…hnnmnnm?” Telemachus shifted in his chair, blearily eyeing Odysseus. “..Father? What’s…why are you laughing?” He croaked. 

Odysseus forced his eyes away from the dried ink stains smeared against his son’s cheek so his voice could be steady. “Nothing, Telemachus. Fell asleep at your desk, did you?”

Telemachus’ shaky hand wandered up to rest on his father’s arm. It didn’t seem intentional, more just a natural movement. “…uh. No. Sorry. Wha’timizzit?”

Odysseus sighed. “About an hour to sunset.”

Telemachus processed the information slowly, and then his eyes shot wide open, and he jerked halfway out of his seat. “What? The meeting- it’s-?”

Odysseus grasped his shoulder to steady him as he staggered on his feet. “Do not fear. The meeting is tomorrow. You missed nothing, except an opportunity for proper rest.”

“Huh?” Telemachus looked down at Odysseus, starting to forcibly redirect his son towards his bed. “It’s- it is? I thought it was…” he faltered as Odysseus pushed him down onto his bed. “…today..”

“It’s tomorrow.” Not that you’ll be attending anyway, you’ll be resting if I have to chain you to bed and order guards outside your doors. “You have no duties for today- so use your free time wisely.”

“Free time, yes…uh, I think I finished the…” Telemachus gestured vaguely to his desk. “….the thing. You know.”

Odysseus did not know, but he nodded anyway as he guided his son’s head to the pillow. Telemachus’ eyes followed him around as he grabbed a cloth and vase of water, and began cleaning his inky cheek. The black stains were already smearing from his sweat. 

“Mmnghph?” Telemachus squirmed weakly under his touch, trying to take the cloth from him, but Odysseus held onto it tightly. “Father-? I can-”

“Shhhh.” Odysseus took his son’s chin and held it firmly. “Quit squirming.”

Telemachus gave up, lying still while his father wiped his face clean of the ink and sweat he was unaware of.

“…thank you,” he mumbled when Odysseus finally set the cloth aside. “I…there was really no need…I’ll…”

He faded off, eyes drooping closed, and a shuddery yawn swallowed his words. Odysseus debated again calling for the physician, but he could already hear Penelope telling him how their son preferred quiet and solitude when unwell. 

“You really are ours,” he murmured, brushing the soft, dark waves back from his face. “Hardworking and stubborn and foolish.” 

Telemachus’ brow furrowed, and he cracked one eye, a hoarse hum of confusion rumbling in his chest. Odysseus shook his head and stepped away. 

“Nothing, son. Just rest. I’ll…be back later.”

“..okay..?” Telemachus opened both his eyes to watch his father turn his back and exit the room. Perhaps it was his imagination, but his son sounded a little disappointed, almost childish. “Bye…”

Odysseus chuckled softly as he left, easing the door closed and coming face-to-face with his beloved as he did. 

“How is he?” Penelope murmured as he took her arm and started walking down the hall. “Not too bad, I’m assuming, since you haven’t started breaking down doors to find the physician yet?”

Odysseus scoffed lightly. “He fell asleep at his desk, and he was feverish, but not too resistant.”

“Is that so?” Penelope hummed. “In recent years, whenever he’s been ill, he’s near shut himself in his room unless he was near delirious. Trying to be independent. Perhaps he’s more receptive to you.”

“Perhaps.” Odysseus glanced out of a window past, noting the time. “I’ll check on him again later. Independence does not mean isolation. We’ll see how receptive he is then.”

The sun was starting to set outside when Odysseus quietly reentered his son’s bedroom, casting dramatic shadows over the scene that met his eyes. 

His first feeling was one of relief- Telemachus was still in his bed, wrapped up in the blankets and resting.

But as he got closer, it turned into worry once more. Telemachus’ brow was shiny with sweat, his body tense and trembling in a way that hadn’t been visible from the door, and his eyes, while barely closed, were moving around frequently. The only sound was his uneven pants and the occasional shifting against the sheets. 

“Telemachus?” Odysseus reached out to press his hand against burning cheek. Damn it all, he should have listened to his first notion and called the physician earlier. “Are you awake?”

Telemachus twitched a little more, and then a shaky moan left him as his eyes flickered open. Inherited hazel colors stared at Odysseus, but they were glazed, almost fearful. 

“G’way,” he whimpered, another shudder wracking his frame as he clumsily tried to free himself from his cocoon of blankets. “G- ge’way!” 

“It is only me, Telemachus.” Odysseus reached down to help him escape his self-made prison. “Slow down, it’s not fight or flight.” 

Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say, because Telemachus’ feverish frenzy worsened to almost flailing. Odysseus caught his wrists and held him down to avoid him injuring himself. Gods, he should have checked on him earlier. “Shhh- it’s alright. I’m finally here. My son.”

Telemachus’ thrashing calmed, but he still shivered as he blinked up at Odysseus through tears. “Hnngh- Dad?”

“Yes. Me.” Odysseus slowly sat down beside him. “How are you?”

Telemachus’ chest heaved, simply staring at Odysseus, before he slumped back down to the pillows with a pained, but marginally more aware groan. “I- I’m…ugh.” His eyes closed again, and he made no indication he was going to elaborate. 

“Oh, my…” watching in the doorway, Penelope finally moved in closer to the bed. Her gaze swept over her son, then she reached out and pressed her own palm against Telemachus’ cheek; his face twisted, before he relaxed into her touch. His whole body shuddered, and Odysseus fought the urge to pull the blankets right back over him and tuck him in.

“Can’t sleep?” Penelope murmured, stroking across his cheek and studying the dark circles under his eyes intently. The boy nodded after a beat of hesitation. 

“..real tired,” he mumbled half into the pillow, face scrunching up as he twisted to find a comfortable position. “Can’t..”

Odysseus frowned at his son’s struggling, the soft pants and rustling of sweat-drenched fabric. “Perhaps there is someplace else you would rest easier?” He suggested. 

Telemachus didn’t respond verbally, but he looked up at his father, an exhausted plea in his glazed eyes as they flickered from Odysseus’ face, to his door and the hall and the other rooms beyond. Penelope glanced at Odysseus as well. 

The whole family seemed fluent in sharing silent thoughts. Only more proof that Telemachus was really their son, Odysseus thought, and reached down to scoop his son up into his arms- under the legs, behind the back, heave. He may have been getting old, but he wasn’t turning into Nestor quite yet. 

Telemachus was tense at first, unused to the feeling of being carried, and he felt awkwardly stiff in his father’s hold as he protested. “F-Father, I can…I can walk…”

“Hush,” Odysseus muttered, readjusting him as he turned away from the bed. Telemachus glimpsed his mother covering a small smile with her hand. “And hold onto my neck.”

Telemachus stared at his father for a moment in wonder before obeying, and with his arms curled around the king’s shoulders, his spinning head could not help but follow their path. No more protest left his lips as Odysseus carried him out of his room and down the hall, to the royal chambers holding the olive tree bed in its center. 

“Mhhnnm…” Telemachus groaned as he was eased down from his father’s arms onto fresh sheets. Almost immediately, he missed the warmth. He cracked open his eyes to look at his changed surroundings- the brown bark of the olive tree behind his head, blurry pricks of green above. It was comforting, yet a small pout formed on his lips as his head dropped onto a cooler pillow. 

“Now, doesn’t this feel familiar?” His mom teased gently as she slid into the wide bed beside Telemachus, on top of the covers. “Feels like only yesterday you were eight years old and lying in the exact same spot, and in the same condition.”

Telemachus hummed hoarsely, his eyes drifting closed again as his hand reached over his shoulder to find and squeeze hers. It was warm, bittersweet. He only vaguely remembered lying with her and Argos, being told stories of the man that was now climbing in on the other side of them. The man he was just as desperate to be close with right now as he was then. 

His father‘s keen eyes tracked Telemachus’ movements as he settled down in a position similar to his wife’s, lounging atop the covers. “Are you comfortable?”

Telemachus hesitated before nodding, the motion lackluster. His vision unfocused and blurred, but still remained on his father. He didn’t want to lose him again, even if it was just by closing his eyes. 

Another sudden, uncontrollable shudder rippled through him and rattled his lungs, and he curled up, coughing into his hand. His mother sighed and eased away. “I suppose it’s high time to send for the physician,” she murmured, prompting a nod from the king and a groan from the prince as she left. 

When the coughing died down and only fragile, unsure silence was left between the two men, they stared at each other for a quiet moment.

Exhaustion pulled at Telemachus’ eyelids, begging for rest, but he knew if he gave in and let them fall, the temptation’s fulfillment would be void. He’d been tossing and turning for hours, and different sheets and a tree over his head- as nostalgic as it was- wouldn’t change it. The only thing he could imagine would bring relief sat across from him, within arm’s reach and yet so far. 

Telemachus surprised himself when tears started sliding free. Shame washed over him as he hiccuped and curled deeper in on himself, face burning. 

I don’t know why he’s even still here and just watching me- probably wishing he had a stronger son, he thought, trying and failing to steady his breathing. One that’s less pathetic and wasn’t wishing for all the world that he could lay with him like a child. 

“Telemachus,” his father murmured, and he faintly heard him shifting closer. His voice was so gentle, and more worried than he had ever heard it. “Why are you crying?”

Telemachus sniffled. “I- I don’t know. Just- eyes watery.” Possibly one of the worst lies he’d ever told. His famed deceiver of a father was probably even more disappointed, he couldn’t even act calm. His breathing was so shallow it was making him dizzy. Perhaps it’d be better if he passed out here. Then he wouldn’t have to feel this heartache and embarrassment. 

The thought disappeared when a warm, rough hand appeared and lifted Telemachus’ face from where it was tucked against the pillows to hide. 

“Can you not look at me?” 

When Telemachus opened his eyes and blinked hastily to clear them, his father was even closer. And the king’s eyes were soft, patient. 

“You don’t have to fear my disgust or hate,” Odysseus murmured. “Let me be close. I have not made up for twenty years of love in these past four months.” 

I have not…

Oh. 

Telemachus looked up at him with another pathetic sniffle. “You…don’t mind this?”

“I treasure every part of you.” Another hand touched Telemachus’ jaw, angling it so he could see the honesty and the care in his eyes. “Let me do so. I am still your father. You are not too old to be treasured, or taken care of, or carried.” 

The silence between them was a briefer one, and another hoarse plea broke it. “What about being held?” 

Odysseus smiled, and it spread all over his posture. Without hesitation, he reached for Telemachus again, gently pulling him up to lay on his lap and chest. He was so warm, Telemachus thought, as his heart picked up speed. Strong and warm and abundant in love. 

“Never, my boy.” The king settled his son against him and dragged another blanket to cover both of them. “You’re never too old to be held by me.” 

Telemachus blinked, and more tears slid down, but he paid them no more mind as he buried his face against his father’s chiton. The older man slowly rubbed his back, steadying his shallow breathing. 

So this was the bliss of getting everything you’ve ever wanted. 

“Dad?” Telemachus croaked into his chest, after a long moment of simply lying in the wonder of his father’s embrace. 

“Yes, my boy?”

Telemachus didn’t respond, only closed his eyes. That was all he wanted to hear.

“Your Majesty, please, I need you to let him go and wake him up if I’m to examine him…”

“No.”