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Homer plucked the strings of her lyre with aimless quest for inspiration she knew not how to gather in her terrible boredom. While every metal string's thickness was tangibly different under her callused fingertips, every note felt to blend into the same droll of notes in her ears she couldn't escape from. Every song's progression she tried to come up with felt like cliché tunes she had tired endless times before. Any attempt to escape it felt like folly—but her heart knew nothing else but to hope for that brand new feeling of a creation she had never thought of making before.
Notes floating through the air on occasion is no unusual occurrence to Horace, but every time she is nonetheless taken. It miraculously snaps her out of her routine replay of the same old memory films in her head she couldn't seem to satisfyingly immerse herself in. With consideration to Homer's creative process, she did best to tiptoe to the waters of the Acheron next to where Homer played. She would hate for Homer to know how every song transformed her into a loyal fan, enthralling her usually humorous disposition and taming it into a loyal dog once more. She kneeled, feeling the grasses of Limbo at her sides just barely peeking through the stone pathway. Her sight beheld a beautiful, statuesque figure curled around her ivory instrument, delicate fingers flickering back and forth over silver wires. Horace would be lying to say her chest hadn't filled with an overwhelming fondness at Homer's serene expression. Her lips parted every once in a while, maybe mouthing a lyric surfacing in her mind or drawing a breath. Either which intention it was for, it pulled Horace unwittingly closer.
Homer, however, was very aware of Horace's voyeurism and remained silent, suppressing her usual disdain for the repetition and pushing through to at least cobble together a true performance. When the playing ceased, She turned her head to where she assumed Horace to be and spoke with a light smile. "How did you like that, Horatius?"
Horace positively jumped at being addressed so suddenly when she had just begun to believe she was safely inconspicuous. Her expression grew wide and frenzied, and her cheeks heated to a scalding temperature. "Hey, wait—! How did you know I was here?! How did you know it was me?"
Homer gave a polite giggle, setting her lyre upon her thigh where she felt its weight reassuringly as ever. "The sound of your shoes clinking against stone."
The others were less likely to walk, given they were barefoot and preferred the reassuring knowledge they weren't living. When Horace was particularly wistful, it was like she was pulled down by a weight instead of the typical head-in-the-clouds approach. It was easiest to identify her under those circumstances.
The news of her utterly bumbling approach sagged her shoulders, and an awkward smile she was thankful Homer couldn't judge her for was stretching across her face as a sort of remedy to her sore feeling. "I yield. It's impossible to get anything past you, Homer."
Homer, despite feeling a counterpoint rise in her mind, elected not to poke holes in Horace's flawless view of her. As much as she attempted to get the others to see her less as a myth and more of a person, she seemed to know it was most impossible for Horace.
"Why sit so far away, Horatius? It's lonely over here."
A rigidity set itself into Horace's back as realization hit her plainly. Watching Homer expectantly sit at the bank of the Acheron, the green reflection of the water the setting to her form, the lotus flowers by her feet submerged inside the cool oasis...The satirist found herself unable to conjure a reason not to immerse into the painting-like atmosphere beside her fellow poet. Nonetheless, her racing heart instilled a sense of anxiety of the worst—could it outweigh the fluttery, magnetic feeling she felt around this legend? She allowed the metallic clicks of her heels to answer for her, settling beside Homer and seating upon the same rested column of stone.
Homer turned her head to face her, the curvature of her resting eyelids turning fond with an imperceptible smile gracing her lips. Her hand reached to collide with Horace's wrist, fingertips guiding her touch downward to fall and intertwine hands with her. She tugged the other's hand toward her lap, where she opened and felt the palm of her companion. "That peeling has finally stopped. Have you finished blindly throwing your spear into things?"
Oh, that. Horace had nearly forgot when she had that phase. The inability for wounds to close in the lower circles of hell seemed to bleed into this one, so she had stopped a while ago and only just then received praise. "...Yes. I've picked up better hobbies since then. Like flashing my beautiful smile to Minos and arguing with that runt Ovid."
"Do be nice to her, don't you? She's younger than you." She hummed, playing with running her prints against the length of Horace's fingers."
Give me a break. She's always praying on my downfall."
Homer replied only in an amused giggle that sounded like a melody of sweet tones.
A sputter escaped Horace at the other's impeccable patience. Any arguments all the other poets engaged in seemed to exist in a completely different world than her. She couldn't remember the last time she met someone like her in life. For a satirist, it was practically a bad omen to keep such an un-collapsible tower in your life. Especially for a Horatian satirist—the genre she herself pioneered—who aimed exclusively to break through people's walls with smiles and laughter. Homer laughed, and smiled, but at her unintentional jokes! Self-deprecating humor is no stranger to her, but only when she's intending for it! Come to think of it, wasn't harmless humor the trademark of Quintus Horatius Flaccus? It was Lucilius who would always tear into people ruthlessly. Ovid's direct hostile nature for all these years had thrown the balance all off. She must have lost her edge with all of this stress. She couldn't help but sigh and hand it to her.
"...Somehow, I'm wrong again!" She laces her words with that usual snark she hammed up in life. "However do you do it, Homer?"
The musician seemed satisfied enough after playing with Horace's palm and had simply slipped her hand into and weaved fingers with the warmer-than-usual poet. "Well, I like to think that even the angrier figures in life have a drive behind them. Her aggression, while more longstanding than the phase you had, I'm sure can only burn bright for so long." A smile lingered on her lips. She felt the muscles Horace posed against her lose their tension bit by bit, which pleased her.
“Look who’s finally loosened up.” She remarks plainly, perhaps with a layer of smugness in her voice.
“KHA—” Horace choked on nothing, utterly taken aback by having her secrets exposed yet again. How many more times does this have to happen until that classical poet is satisfied?