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Apollo is used to being stared at.
At this point he’s accepted that it’s just something that comes along with territory, given who he is. The endless appraising glances of his father (looking for what, he wishes he knew). The thinly veiled disdain or nauseatingly fake deference in the gazes of other powerful families in Ixia, all grasping at the scraps of power left to them. And even here, on this “safer” plane, the fearful faces of those who call him a demon with muttered breaths and try to have him barred from their small town tournaments, adamant he’ll call on some sort of wicked sorcery to cheat his way to victory. As if he’d ever need a lick of the ancient magic thrumming through his veins to best the mediocrity he always gets matched into.
Apollo allows himself the simple satisfaction of tossing his travel bag with a lot more force than necessary against the furthest wall of his dorm room. He hears a tiny clink and idly hopes the rinky-dink first place trophy he secured over this weekend’s fencing meet broke into at least a few pieces.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turns to stow away the rest of his things before taking off his shoes and falling face-first onto his bed. Though it’s far from what he’d call home, he’s glad he decided to come back to campus early—there’s a certain comfort to being in a space of his own. His position starts to put a bit too much pressure on his horns though, so he flops onto his back, sighing up at the ceiling.
Apollo has half a mind to actually do something about his travel bag, knowing its contents will only serve to irritate him anew tomorrow if he doesn’t. But surely, he thinks, he deserves another minute or two of decompression first. Satisfied with that mental compromise, he shuffles and squirms until he’s somewhat upright, leaning against his headboard, but mostly slumped on the stack of pillows to his side. He closes his eyes and works on shutting his mind off, if only for a little while.
He’s on the cusp of sleep outright, despite his earlier intent, when sounds outside the door of his room send him hurtling back to consciousness. Apollo stiffens, but wills himself to relax again to better feign sleep—if it’s an assassin, his blade is resting right by his bedside for this exact scenario. Having the element of surprise should hopefully work enough in his favor that he can get away relatively unscathed. He doesn’t have to put more thought into it than that though, because the scratching of a key against the lock clues him in as to who exactly his would-be intruder is in short order. There’s only one person he’d given a copy to, after all. His heart pounds now for a different reason, not expecting that he’d get to see her tonight. Did she plan on crashing here overnight just to be able to see him as soon as he got in tomorrow? The thought warms him.
The old door creaks open, cutting off his musings, and nearly drowning out the surprised sound Graves lets out at seeing him there. He’s still feigning sleep, glad she has yet to learn how light of a sleeper he actually is, but the immediate urge to stop pretending and say something wells up within him.
Did you miss me? is what surges unbidden to the forefront of his mind, but he stamps it back down just as fast. Things are still new enough between them that he’s not sure he can say it in a way that doesn’t come off like a challenge yet. And he’s not trying to get a rise out of her—not right now, at least. So he opts to stay how he is, keeping his breaths calm and even, curious as to how Graves intends to steer their little reunion.
The door closes with another obnoxious creak that Graves curses at quietly, her booted feet trudging over to his bed as soon as the lock turns with a solid thunk. He cracks one eye open, watching as she drops her bag unceremoniously, pleasantly surprised when she also sheds her jacket and boots nearby.
She yawns, rubbing at her face. Her stockinged feet slip slightly when she clambers up onto the end of the bed. She looks him over and pauses when she sees that he’s awake. Her lips purse in clear annoyance, even as her half-lidded eyes threaten to close completely with each slow blink. He smiles, shifting to be a bit more upright so she can rest next to him. He pats the open space that now exists between him and the stack of pillows, arm held out in further invitation.
Graves looks thoughtful for a moment, then crawls up to kneel beside him. His arm lowers (totally not in disappointment) and he’s contemplating wiggling over to give her more room as she stays perched there, clearly uncertain, when she moves to straddle his lap instead. His mouth goes dry, and he suddenly feels more alert than he has the entire weekend—sleep be damned. His palms instinctively reach to spread along her lower back for support as she leans back a little. Her palms press into his chest, a small frown on her face as she stares down at him.
This close, it’d be impossible to miss the faint pink tinge to her cheeks. Apollo can’t help but grin, even though he knows his own face has gone ruddier as well. Graves’ frown deepens, eyes narrowing. His lips part without even knowing what he wants to say, but Graves beats him to the punch. A hand shoots up to cover his mouth, silencing him.
“Don’t speak,” she says, “Just… just let me look at you.”
Apollo sobers instantly. Equally impossible to miss is the tired edge to her voice, confirming what he’d already suspected. It seems he wasn’t the only one to have a less than ideal start to the weekend. A spark of frustration flares to life in the back of his mind, because he knows some of it probably has to do with that damn hand running her ragged with training that somehow always needs to span from one corner of the city to the other. He fights back the instinct to lecture, knowing it’d only be hypocritical of him—relentless pursuit of perfection in their crafts was part of what made them such kindred spirits in the first place. It’s an argument they’ve had before anyway, and he doesn’t have the energy for it again right now.
So instead he nods and proceeds to settle himself back more comfortably against his headboard. He smiles again when Graves huffs over being jostled in the process, the hand that was covering his mouth moving to his shoulder for some added stability.
“Asshole,” she says without any bite. Apollo just hums in response and closes his eyes, content with how they’ve landed. Even though he knows his neck might regret it in the morning, he could fall asleep like this.
But sleep eludes him once more when he feels Graves’ fingers brush the left side of his face. His eyes flutter open and he groans tiredly, turning slightly into the palm still hovering around his cheek. Graves looks at him with an expression he can’t quite place and he wishes, not for the first time, that he knew just what was going on in that head of hers. But then she bites at her lower lip in the way he knows means she’s a little nervous, and that at least, he can work with. He leans more fully into her hand, hoping it’s enough to signal that he’s on board with whatever she has in mind.
Luckily, she seems to get the memo because the next thing he knows, those fingers are dancing their way across his face. A soft parting stroke to his cheek leading to light brushes over his lips. Delicate presses to the sides of his eyes. Gentle swipes over his brow, smoothing away any furrows. It’s equal parts strange and soothing, but he can barely focus on trying to parse out exactly how he feels about it because his heart is too busy trying to beat its way out of his chest at the soft look she’s giving him, her flush deepening with each pass over some new patch of skin. He’s never been stared at like this, but he can’t say he minds it if he’s being honest.
Graves taps her way from his nose back up to his forehead, fingers stopping to fan out near his temples. She hesitates, then reaches out to trace along the base of each of his horns, curious, feather-light touches. A full body shiver works its way through him at the contact. He can feel his own face burn infinitely hotter. His hands dart out to grip her wrists with a sudden burst of adrenaline, halting any further exploration that might see him combust on the spot.
“What—“ Apollo starts, and pauses to try and swallow down the rasp that tumbled out along the way. What are you doing to me? he thinks.
“What are you doing?” is what he manages to croak out.
Graves tenses for a moment. When he doesn’t budge, she pouts in a way that he struggles not to be terribly charmed by. “You’re not supposed to talk,” she grouses, moving her hands to cup the sides of his face. Apollo’s hands move with hers, hold loosening as his energy drains once more, now that the risk has passed.
He doesn’t think about it when he gives in to the urge to stroke his thumb along the underside of one of her wrists. He raises a brow sleepily, waiting to see if she’ll give him a real answer before he (hopefully) passes out this time.
Her eyes drag over his face distractedly. They go soft again before she shakes her head and slumps forward, tugging her wrists from his now limp grasp to wrap around his chest instead. Her cheek finds a home on his shoulder, the warm puff of her breaths tickling at the nape of his neck.
“You’re so pretty,” she mumbles. “It kind of pisses me off.”
And really, it’s the last thing Apollo expects to hear, so he can’t help the rumble of surprised laughter that leaves him.
“I’m sorry?” he says, through residual chuckles. He settles his palms along Graves’ back, affection coursing through him.
“You should be,” she gets out around a yawn. Her arms slide down his back, gradually growing slack as her breathing evens out.
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he murmurs and slips into sleep at last.