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It’s hard not to notice. Hard for Zagreus not to notice, at least. Everyone else in the house appears ignorant to it. Whether that’s true or whether it’s simply because they willfully turn a blind eye, he knows not. Maybe Zagreus is the only one to notice because he’s the only person who ever gives Achilles sincere praise. Not the half muttered commendations dolled out as Achilles starts or ends his shifts, not the wall of rotating ‘best employees’ portraits - but honest, heartfelt praise.
The shade can’t stand it. …No, that’s not quite right. If he honestly couldn’t stand it, if he hated it the way Zagreus hates being called boy, Zagreus would never do it. He’d find other ways to show his appreciation for his mentor. But Achilles doesn’t hate Zagreus’s praise; doesn’t hate it for all that it makes him uncomfortable in ways which Zagreus is fairly certain displays some unfortunate and sad insights into Achilles self perception.
Golden Achilles, greatest of the Greeks; swift footed; lion hearted. Zagreus does not need to test these, to know the reaction they would get. The wince, the discomfort, the hasty exit from whatever conversation they’d been having. He might even find some way to turn it around and make much of Zagreus, little worth though he has to his name. That’s a favoured trick of Achilles; twisting any compliment Zagreus has paid him until the shade can praise Zagreus instead. The god admits that such a thing was the easiest path to waylay him for… long enough for the knowledge of it to be shameful, in truth.
Zagreus knows that he hungers for praise, for acknowledgement that will never come and, because of that, any acknowledgement that will. Even then, there is only Achilles who speaks to him so kindly. Zagreus believes that this is why he is able to see Achilles so clearly, when no one else does. Like calls to like; Achilles a distorted reflection of who Zagreus could be. The shade is so distant from praise that he can do nothing but slide away from it when it is laid at his feet by Zagreus’s eager hands.
He wonders if that is what shall become of him one day but of course, it never could be. Achilles has no one he takes kind words from, no one he allows to buoy him upwards and so he has sunk deeper than Zagreus had once realised possible. Zagreus, at least, has Achilles. The - relatively - older man’s kind tutelage, his gentle words, his firm hands and voice and the constant, constant validation whenever Zagreus feels something irreplaceable within himself start to tremble as though he’s one of Orpheus’s lyre strings wound far too tight.
Maybe Achilles sees the possibilities within Zagreus, too. Maybe he looked at Zagreus and saw how easily it would be for him to turn from eager pup to a wary, too often kicked dog. It is not a comparison he wants to make of Achilles but that does not make it an inaccurate one. Achilles has been devoid of kindness from everyone including himself for so long that it's broken something in him. Zagreus might not be able to fix it but he could help, he knows.
Sometimes Zagreus pats Cerberus and stares at Achilles still form over the great, big head and thinks,
I would treat you so kindly that you could cry.
“Achilles, sir,” Zagreus greets one day; one night, given the depth of stillness over the house. A handful of shades grouped lethargically in corners, his father’s desk empty, every other member of his family absent from the House in pursuit of their own duties. It gets like this in the House sometimes, an odd pall thrown over the entire place. So still and quiet it feels almost sacrilegious to break it.
Zagreus has never let such a feeling bind him before, does not start now.
“Lad,” Achilles gives him that tired smile that suits him so well, so ill, as he steps away from his post. Zagreus has timed this perfectly, though the absence of all others but the ghostly lights of unsorted shades was certainly an unexpected boon. Perhaps without an audience, without any eyes, Achilles could… allow Zagreus more than he would, otherwise. Zagreus wants to take the mantle of sorrow from his shoulders for as long as he can, for as long as Achilles will let him.
“Fun shift?” He asks, sweeping a pile of Cerberus’s hair away from his feet as they start to cross the Great Hall. Like everyone else, Cerberus is absent as well. Like everyone else, he has a job - a worthwhile job, unlike Zagreus. The records room does nothing but drain his will to live. Why do they even have so much paperwork, urgh. Not the point. The point is the sardonic twist to Achilles lips, the point is bringing Achilles - if not happiness than a reprieve from that which weighs on him so heavily.
The point is Achilles.
“Aristophanes couldn’t have scripted better himself.”
“Glad to hear it,” Zagreus says, neither knowing nor caring who that is. “If you’re of a mind to hear it, I’ve a bit of an odd request, sir.”
“...Aye, I suppose I’m of a mind, lad. Best head into the lounge, then.” The shade begins to steer them towards the lounge. It appears to be deserted at this moment but that could change at any moment. Besides, as much as he likes the lounge, Zagreus does not believe it carries the right atmosphere for what he wants to speak with Achilles about.
“Would you mind speaking in my room, sir? Or yours, whichever makes you feel more comfortable. I’d feel like Dusa could pop out any minute, sitting in the lounge.” Achilles stares at him, clear eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion - no one ever accused Achilles of having lacklustre instincts, that’s for sure. Not that Zagreus has done anything to be suspicious of. Yet.
“She does have that tendency, doesn’t she? I suppose your room’ll do, lad,” Achilles gestures for Zagreus to take the lead. It’s not an especially long path, between the lounge and his room, made even shorter by the lack of doors to pull open and closed. At least the thick curtains Nyx put up work well enough as a barrier. People know to knock on the wall when the curtains are drawn, and whatever thick material they’re made of does wonders to block sound.
Privately, Zagreus is keeping a countdown of how many days until his father has the curtains removed as well.
“Ah, you could’ve left those up, lad,” Achilles tells him, something tight around his eyes that lets Zagreus know that he’s been even less subtle in his approach - in his affections - than he’d thought. Considering he’d never professed to any subtlety at all, that was quite a thing.
Zagreus walks around Achilles, seating himself on the edge of his bed and leaving the pathway between Achilles and the corridor completely unobstructed. For similar reasons, he doesn’t pat the bed next to him in encouragement, nor does he attempt to relax the older man. It would be preferable if Achilles didn’t bolt the moment Zagreus made his proposal but, ultimately, that’s Achilles’ choice to make. Zagreus won’t force him to stay - not even to make sure he listens to Zagreus’s idea in full. He knows what he wants, knows what he thinks he can do for Achilles, to and with Achilles, but his friend is by no means obligated to go along with any of it. Not even listening to the pitch, though if you’ll allow, Zagreus does believe it to be quite persuasive.
“I… the privacy will be good. Either way,” Zagreus responds and, technically, starts with - not the strong opener he’d had prepared. Achilles face does… something. A mix of emotions that Zagreus cannot quite pick apart and he has, admittedly, spent a great deal of time staring at Achilles face over the past centuries. But the reluctance, the regret, that Achilles settles on… that’s familiar enough.
“You can leave whenever you want, Achilles, sir. You don’t have to listen, if what I say crosses a line. You know where the door is. Where the curtains are. Just… could you listen to what I have to say?” Achilles stares at him, blue eyes so piercing it’s a wonder the other man ever needed Varatha at all. The weight of his gaze is heavy but Zagreus doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fidget, simply stares back unwaveringly.
“I’ll listen,” the other man says, his tone heavily implying that that‘s all he’ll be doing. He leans against the corner of Zagreus’s desk, his posture both more casual and more guarded than what he employs to, well, guard.
“You carry your woes like a physical weight. Wreathed around you more completely than your chlamys; thick enough that I could almost touch it, some days.” Based on the look on Achilles face, this isn’t the topic he’d expected Zagreus to start with. In a perfect world, it wouldn’t be. Regardless of whether or not Achilles ever would or could accept his affections, he’d never stand a chance when Achilles appears to barely be able to stand himself, most days.
There’s not much Zagreus can do to fix that other than what he’s been doing for years. But not much is not nothing, and he could do more if only Achilles would let him. His solution may be something closer to what Achilles expected from this conversation, warily staring Zagreus down from across the gods room, but Zagrues doesn’t have much of a choice when Achilles keeps everyone at an arm's length.
“I’m not going to argue with you about the sins you carry, the agonies which you keep close to your heart.” Zagreus has had those conversations with Achilles enough times that he could recite them by rote. Achilles allows him to gain no ground, there. Not so much as a foot hold, not even a finger's width. It exhausts them both, to retread that ground; strains the easy affection between them in a way that neither appreciates. Neither of them can afford to shatter their relationship - Zagreus is potentially doing that anyway.
“Appreciate it, lad,” Achilles says, archly, with some of that half familiar spark. There’s a fire burning within Achilles, banked so low it’s almost out, but it flares up sometimes. Sparks through him, brings life back to his eyes. Zagreus doesn’t want to change Achilles, doesn’t spend his days wondering what Achilles was like before- okay, that’s partially a lie. He doesn’t spend days doing it but there have been a few nights where he’s imagined Achilles as he was once, proud and powerful and standing on Trojan soil, and Zagreus as an eager war prize quivering before him.
Zagreus has made the executive decision that sexual fantasies based on an already dubious premise do not count.
He likes Achilles as he is - loves Achilles as he is, actually. But Achilles is miserable. He cannot meet the eyes of his own reflection, he shrinks from any truly kind word, each turn of the world stripping away more and more of his resilience. Zagreus worries that one day he will greet Achilles and the man staring back will be nothing more than a shell. A shade in truth rather than name alone.
“I know that I can’t… actually help ease your burden. I don’t even know what your burden truly is,” if that sounds more bitter than he intended it to, Achilles is kind enough to let it slide. The man doesn’t owe him anything - not his past, not his time, not his friendship - while Zagreus owes Achilles everything. It’s the other man’s right to keep things to himself, no matter how desperately the god wants to know. How desperate he is to help.
“There is one thing I know for certain, sir,” Zagreus reaches the start of the conclusion of his speech, which he’d honestly practised but in practice feels as though he’s forgotten half of. And then, to underline how lacklustre it sounds now that he’s speaking to Achilles rather than himself alone, he continues with, “Well, two, actually, but the second is related to the first though they’re not actually linked together…”
“One α and one β?” Achilles suggests, tilting his head slightly. Zagreus scrunches up his face, wriggling his hands in an ‘eh, not quite right but maybe?’ back and forth motion. After a second, he slices both hands through the air, physically banishing everything he’d just said. It doesn’t matter, what matters is -
“Achilles. You need to be kinder to yourself.” He adds the ‘sir’ only in his own mind, aware that it has the potential to undermine his message. He’s not speaking as Achilles' once student, nor as the insecure youth who’d trailed the Myrmidon so fervently through the halls with wide, mismatched eyes. He’s talking to the man as an equal, one friend to another, despite the way such a casual address grates in some small, maladjusted part of his brain.
The slightly raised eyebrows on an otherwise impassive face is the response Zagreus had expected, more or less.
“We both know you won’t be, don’t we.” Oh, that is a look Zagreus has only ever seen the edges of, before. Hidden behind a blank veneer after the occasional taxing conversation with Father, usually. Unimpressed, annoyed; the slight sneer curling up one edge of Achilles mouth is going to feature heavily in Zagreus’s fantaties from now on, no matter which way this plays out.
Alright, Zagreus admits it - the maladjusted part of his brain might be a tad bigger than ‘small.’ Might, in fact, be the whole brain.
“I could be kind to you.”
Achilles tilts his head in the other direction, head at a forty five degree angle, pale hair sliding across his shoulder. There’s a look in his eyes, caught somewhere between predatory and dismissive.
“...I bet you could, lad,” Achilles says, voice soft, eyes sliding away, the start of a gentle dismissal; all the sparks smothered deep inside once more. If Achilles rejects him, fine, but he’ll have to say it straight to his face. Reject him, man to man, rather than retreat into a pale shadow of himself and placate Zagreus with noncommittal brush offs. Zagreus wants to see his fire, the depth of his strong personality.
“I’d make you be kind to yourself. You’d beg to be allowed to say good things about yourself. I could make you cry, Achilles.”
“Is that supposed to be appealing, lad?”
“Call me Zagreus when we’re speaking like this,” Zagreus says, some flicker of intuition shifting things around. An idea solidifying after years of idle observations, “attempting to place distance between us when I’m giving you the courtesy of speaking as equals won’t help you distance yourself from the truth of my words. Or the way… the way that you’re tempted.”
“I… la- Zagreus,” Achilles stumbles over his words, visibly thrown off by Zagreus’s shift in attitude. There is room for how they’ve always been, their easy but lopsided dynamic can still exist - just not here, not when Zagreus has just admitted that he wants Achilles to cry at his hands, his words, his command. Not when he believes that Achilles might want that, too. If Zagreus cannot stand on even ground with Achilles now, that’ll be it. Achilles will turn him aside in his gentle, caring manner and he will never allow Zagreus to broach the subject again.
“Am I wrong?” Zagreus asks, tilting his jaw, raising a single eyebrow in just the right way - Meg’s way, coincidentally. A pause, Achilles taking a visible breath.
“You’re right. That was exactly what I was attempting, Zagreus. To tell you the truth, this is… not in any way a conversation I was prepared for.”
“I know what you thought I’d say, Achilles. Why you thought I approached you.” He almost has approached the older man with his heart on his chiton, so many times. It never seemed like the right time for it and then, well, then he realised exactly how crushed Achilles has become under the weight of whatever it is he carries with him. Then Zagreus realised the unimportance of his own feelings when compared to the torment Achilles is putting himself through. He cannot deny that he would benefit greatly from their arrangement but, despite how it looks on the surface, every inch of this proposition has been tailor made for Achilles' benefit.
“I would greatly appreciate if you were able to divorce this conversation from that which you’d been expecting.”
“Ah. I suspect you would, at that. Will that… other conversation… happen? Because la, ah, Zagreus. You know that I… can’t. I can’t. I have someone, someone very dear to me in my heart; he is in all my heart. There’s no room for… anyone else.”
Zagreus doesn’t allow himself to flinch or back down. He’d known it was coming, he’d always known, regardless of what he wished would happen. What does it matter that the confirmation hits him like the full bodied impact of one of his father’s fists. That’s not what this is about; his feelings aren’t important now. If, indeed, they’ve ever been. If he falters here, Achilles will leave and he will continue to destroy himself. Zagreus refuses to allow that. Perhaps if Achilles had ever shared the burdens of his heart with Zagreus, the way he has always encouraged Zagreus to confide in him, he would be able to find some other way of helping.
As things stand, Zagreus has only himself, lacking though he may be. And there is only one strength that he can use against Achilles, on a battlefield such as this: the tongue someone once mockingly referred to as gilded.
“Thank you for explaining your feelings to me. I could see how hard that was for you.” Achilles nods, some tension in his shoulders loosening. He must think that’s the end of it and, in a rookie mistake the other man would make in no other arena, he allows his guard to drop.
“So good for me, Achilles. I’m so proud of you,” Zagreus tells him, his absolute sincerity threaded through his voice, to Achilles utter devastation. His pretty blue eyes fly open, shock writ large on his face. The room is silent, the House is silent, and there’s no noise to hide the stunned little sound which has torn itself free of the older man’s throat. Caught completely unaware, caught out, Achilles doesn’t appear to be able to do anything but stare at Zagreus. Waiting for him to make a move, waiting for an opening to go on the offensive or retreat.
Zagreus says nothing, allows time to slide by unaccounted for. Graciously gives Achilles the chance to compose himself. Everyone who’s ever taught him has highlighted the need to press any advantage - but Zagreus doesn’t need to here, does he. Two sentences of set up, less than that to deliver the blow, and Achilles is already close to the edge. The edge of what, Zagreus doesn’t quite know. It can’t be worse than how Achilles lives his life now. And if it is, if Achilles shatters under a touch that Zagreus now knows he will never be able to confess is loving? Zagreus will help put him back together, piece by piece, even if it takes millennia.
“Ha,” Achilles forces a laugh, “sorry about that -” A hesitation, a pause. Zagreus can fill in the missing word for himself. He can see the indecision on Achilles face; if he says ‘lad’, Zagreus can almost hear Achilles musing to himself, does that call an end to this conversation? It would. They both know it. Firmly reestablishing their respective roles, once again placing himself simultaneously above and below Zagreus but neither ever being viewed as an equal. Zagreus cannot force this, would not want to even if he could. Achilles has to take what Zagreus is offering him with both hands, freely and willingly.
Achilles' sentence stays unfinished; whatever deflection he’d had prepared now nothing more than a casualty to Achilles' decision. And it is a decision, for all it almost seems like nothing changes.
Zagreus takes a slow, measured breath and stands. Takes one step, then another when the movement does not cause Achilles to turn on his heel and leave without a look back. Zagreus feels as though his heart is beating out of his chest and is thankful that Achilles won’t be able to tell, so long as he doesn’t let everything he’s feeling creep into his face.
For all Zagreus’s blood is red, he is still a god; still his father’s son. He knows how to smooth out any tells he might have, how to appear exactly as he wishes to. Achilles doesn’t move as Zagreus approaches, stays standing next to the desk, looking more and more like he’s using it to support his own weight. Like some hunted animal in a tapestry, quivering prey mere moments from being devoured.
Achilles has never been such a thing in all his life; maybe that’s why he needs it now. Needs to be taken apart and cleaned out and put back together, good as new. Zagreus can do that for him. Can help him feel better, fan the sparks until they catch. Maybe after all that, after Achilles stops attempting to emulate Atlas, he’ll finally share his heart with Zagreus. Maybe there’s something Zagreus can do to stop his sorrows creeping back in. There’s always the possibility that Zagreus can find Achilles ‘someone,’ if they lingered in Hades instead of turning to the Lethe. He could reunite them; give Achilles a reason to always be smiling that rare, luminescent grin Zagreus craves so much.
Maybe, if Zagreus is good enough at his job, Achilles’ someone won’t even notice a difference between Achilles the man and the shade whose unnecessary breathes are coming quick and fast. The shade that turns his face into Zagreus’s warm palm, blue eyes fluttering closed. He shudders at Zagreus’ touch, a tremor rippling through his entire body. When was the last time, Zagreus wonders, that someone touched Achilles with such plain intimacy?
Zagreus - he’s the mirror, always the mirror, distorted and not enough, an incomplete reflection - knows the last time anyone touched him like this.
“Let me treat you preciously, Achilles,” he whispers, swaying forward until his real, heated breath brushes across Achilles face. He’d be hard pressed to pull that off if Achilles were standing tall, but it’s easy enough like this, Achilles acting as though he’s pinioned between the desk and Zagreus’s hand. Trembling like any other kindness will ruin him completely.
Maybe it will.
“Do you have a preference?” Zagreus asks, daring to set one hand on Achilles', where his knuckles have turned white, he’s gripping the edge of the desk so hard. Achilles doesn’t move his hand and Zagreus slides his fingers slowly up the inside of the other man’s wrist. Gently, so gently, and Achilles mouth parts, lips dragging against Zagreus’s palm. It’s nothing, it’s everything; it feels so indecent that the flames on his feet burn white hot for a brief moment.
“For what?” Achilles asks, when Zagreus’s fingers have skimmed past his elbow and his hand is now firmly under the shade's chlamys.
“For who penetrates.” Blue eyes fly open, head starting to lift from Zagreus’s hand. It is the work of a moment to shift his grip, fingers firm around the older man’s jaw. Achilles stops trying to move away but his voice has risen from the raspy whisper that had delighted Zagreus so much.
“I thought- did you not want to be in control?”
“I will be in control either way, Achilles,” Zagreus assures him, smoothing a thumb across the sharp line of his smooth jaw. Achilles takes a deep breath, attempts to tilt his head further away from Zagreus’s hand; Zagreus does not let him move so much as a hairbreadth. He watches as Achilles swallows around nothing, watches as he brings a hand up to circle Zagreus’s wrist and pull. He makes no other move to free himself, does not employ any of the hundred tactics he could that would undermine Zagreus’s greater physical strength. Achilles tugs at his wrist, the strain he’s exerting visible in the grip of his fingers underneath his vambrace, and Zagreus does not allow himself to be moved.
Zagreus slides his hand across Achilles jaw, trails his fingers down Achilles neck and then takes both hands off the shade's cool skin. Off his neck, off his shoulder, shifts back slightly and Achilles jolts forward, eyes wide, hands reaching for Zagreus for a brief moment.
“Sorry,” Achilles says, even as Zagreus catches both hands before they can fall. “I shouldn’t’ve-”
“You’re allowed to want things; allowed to want me. It pleases me, knowing that you do.” Zagreus lifts both hands to his mouth, presses kisses to the scarred knuckles, to the back of Achilles right hand, unobstructed by a vambrace. He keeps eye contact with Achilles, hoping his mismatched eyes are capable of holding even half the gravitas that Achilles’ do. Whether they do or not, Achilles doesn’t look away. Zagreus trails chaste kisses along his right wrist until he flips it, presses another closed mouth kiss to the thin skin of his inner wrist. It proves just as sensitive now as it had when his fingers had teased it.
“So reactive.” Zagreus scrapes his teeth lightly along Achilles inner wrist instead of finishing the statement. He wants to call Achilles desperate, bite his neck and call him needy if he makes any sound at all, but those thoughts are nothing more than a reflection of Zagreus’s own desires, his own needs. Achilles doesn’t need to be pulled apart before; he’s already shaking apart in Zagreus’s hands, ready to be put back together. Achilles doesn’t need it so Zagreus won’t do it. Simple as that.
Zagreus slowly guides Achilles hands to his own sides, allowing Achilles to feel him shiver as calloused hands rasp against soft skin. Then he moves his own hands to the peronai pinning Achilles' chlamys closed, as he’d been intending to before Achilles had shown his hand so beautifully. The chlamys falls from Achilles' shoulders to pool around his feet and Zagreus leans closer so that he can place the pin carefully on his desk. He turns his head to ensure that his lips skim across Achilles jaw in a featherlight kiss.
Achilles strong fingers dig into Zagreus’s sides, bruising pressure for the barest of seconds before the man relaxes his grip. He makes as though to take his hands off Zagreus, who traps them exactly where they are instead. Leans back so that he can look Achilles in the eyes once more, only to find the other man has turned his gaze to the far wall. Zagreus taps his chin, just once, and Achilles eyes snap back to his own.
“Oh, you’re already so perfect, aren’t you? Eager to please. And you do please me, Achilles.”
“I’m far from perfect,” Achilles denies, shaking his head, though he doesn’t look away again. Zagreus snaps a hand out, grabs Achilles belt in a firm grip and pulls until Achilles crashes into his chest. Zagreus doesn’t stagger, folds the other man carefully into his arms and presses his face into Achilles' neck. Were he taller, he’d whisper this directly into Achilles ear. Zagreus pauses for a moment, thinks, and then licks a wet stripe up Achilles neck instead of speaking. The man shudders and Zagreus can feel his knees give out.
It makes it easy for Zagreus to sweep Achilles into his arms and walk them both to the bed. He’s gentle when he lays Achilles out on top of the covers. Achilles is blushing, now. Cheeks ruddy and flushed, his eyes clenched tightly shut. Zagreus wonders which part embarrasses him most: the weak knees, being carried so easily or the way his dick is so visibly tenting his chiton.
“I could lie and say I don’t care how you think about yourself outside of my bed, but I won’t,” Zagreus starts as he unbuckles his pauldron. Achilles opens his eyes at the sound of it clattering against the floor, looking towards Zagreus with something that the god will flatter himself and say is anticipation. Not that it matters, really.
“I thought you wanted to have your eyes closed, Achilles? So close your eyes.” Oh, the man does look beautiful like this. Mouth parted slightly, somewhere between shocked and despondent; the crease between his eyebrows is so obviously dismayed. But Achilles still closes his eyes again, after a moment. Zagreus lets his belt drop next, but the sound of the zoster’s brass and bone decorations on stone provoke no response from Achilles. Without his belt, his pauldron, the fabric immediately starts to slide from his body. He allows it.
“Good. You’re so very pretty like this. As I was saying, I care about how you see yourself outside of my bed but I cannot control it.” Zagreus sheds his greaves next and then he’s bare but for his perizoma. It takes almost no effort to free himself from the undergarment and then kneel on the edge of the bed in nothing but skin and his decorative accessories. He can feel several leaves cascading down from his laurels; brief, warm brushes against his skin that betray his nerves.
“But you’re in my bed now, aren’t you. Do you know what that means?” He slides further onto the bed, sat on his heels at Achilles feet. His chiton is long enough that, even laying down, the shades ankles are barely visible.
“You’re in control,” Achilles murmurs, eyes still closed. Zagreus slides his hands over the man’s strong ankles and Achilles starts at the unexpected touch, but he does not pull away. When Zagreus holds them in a firm grip, his fingers aren’t quite able to touch. He runs his hands up Achilles shins, pushing the chiton upwards as he goes, until he reaches the man’s knees.
“Yes. Not what I meant, however,” Zagreus admits, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Achilles knee. Achilles shifts underneath him, spreads his legs enough that Zagreus could perch between the other man's legs if he wanted. He wants, but does not. This is about Achilles, for him. Zagreus’s wants matter so little that he’s barely aware of his own cock, hard and burning as bright as his feet. It’s probably the hardest he’s ever been in his life; he’s dripping magma orange precome onto the bed and yet he couldn’t care less if he ever comes again, at this moment. Achilles is spread out before him, eyes closed, so trusting, giving himself over to Zagreus; is anything more important than that?
“You’re perfect,” Zagreus tells him, punctuates it with another kiss, this time to the man’s other knee. Achilles doesn’t protest, this time, but Zagreus knows that means little. It will be a long process, trying to drag some self worth back into his friend, but Zagreus has never been so committed to anything in his life.
Now Zagreus creeps up the bed, between Achilles spread legs. Flicks the chiton up, fabric fluttering through the air and, for the briefest moment, revealing that Achilles wears nothing at all beneath his chiton. The fabric settles once more, gathered around Achilles groin, his hard cock, and Zagreus has to close his own eyes for a moment. He knows it’s more common to be bare than to wear an undergarment in addition to the chiton but - he had not been prepared, mentally, to see Achilles yet. Zagreus slides his hands up Achilles muscular thighs until his fingers hit fabric once more.
Follows the trail of his hands with his mouth, alternating thighs. At every touch of lips to skin, Achilles shifts slightly. His legs continue to spread, incrementally, until Zagreus is able to fit his shoulders between Achilles thighs and press open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of his inner thighs. Achilles gasps at the feeling, squirming in place. Zagreus kisses his way upwards on one inner thigh, leaving a faint trail of saliva and resists the urge to set his teeth in. He feels the linen of Achilles chiton brush against his hair and switches thighs instead of pushing the fabric out of the way entirely and descending like the beast he is. Achilles still wears his cuirass, because Zagreus is a thoughtless fool.
The shade makes similar noises as Zagreus kisses his other thigh; breathy and lovely, halfway to a moan. After a few kisses, Zagreus drags his tongue up the tense line of muscle, hard as he can. Achilles moans, then, hips twitching in an aborted thrust.
“Perfect,” Zagreus repeats, sitting up before he does his best to see whether Achilles is capable of bruising or not.
“Sit up, let's get your cuirass off. I hope you’ve not been too uncomfortable,” Zagreus barely stops himself from saying the habitual ‘sir,’ and maybe he and Achilles are more in tune than he’d ever realised, because Achilles sits up and says,
“No, it was fine, sir,” in that quiet voice of his. Zagreus doesn’t quite know how to react, having never been called sir in his life. He doesn’t know if he has any feelings about it, to be honest. Saying that, he could grow fond of being called anything, by Achilles. Even boy.
Even so, that’s not what he wants for right now - unless that’s what Achilles wants, what he needs. Maybe it is, since he said it without prompting, but… there is a not insignificant part of him that wonders if Achilles is picturing someone else, with his eyes closed so tight; saying ‘sir’ to avoid Zagreus’s name. If that is what Achilles wants, Zagreus will give it to him. But - later, next time, after they talk about it. Even if it’s just this once, Zagreus wants Achilles to be thinking of him. He hates himself for his selfishness but still, he says,
“Just Zagreus, for now. Will you say my name, Achilles?”
Zagreus reaches for Achilles’ cuirass, wanting to be helpful while the shade works up to saying his name, but his fingers have not even touched the armour before Achilles says his name in a voice so low and dark that it cracks Zagreus straight down the middle. Zagreus hums his approval, rather than speaking. He doesn’t trust anything that could spill from his mouth in this moment. He busies himself with removing the cuirass and then leaning over and sliding it to the floor. He leans on Achilles leg in order to do so, feeling the thigh tense under his hand, and then Achilles is the most undressed Zagreus has ever seen him.
Chiton and its voluminous folds hiding whichever type of belt Achilles wears, his legs bare almost to his waist, his broad shoulders, his… hands, held in tight fists.
“Achilles, what’s wrong?” Zagreus asks, nudging the side of his hand against Achilles’ gauntleted fist. Fear thrums through his veins, that he’s made a horrific mistake, that he has pushed Achilles further than the man wanted to be pushed, that Achilles will never again tolerate his presence for this grievous wrong.
“May I open my eyes, Zagreus?”
“Did you not want them closed?” Perhaps the words would have been teasing, if Zagreus didn’t feel three seconds away from vibrating out of his skin due to the sheer force of his anxiety. He doesn’t know how he sounds apart from - too much like his father. Too stern, something vindictive twisting his words.
“No, please, I… Zagreus, let me see you, please.”
“Open your eyes.” Zagreus feels himself relaxing at the sight of those eyes, free from any recriminations. He isn’t sure there’s a more reassuring sight in the entire cosmos than Achilles blue eyes, locked with his own. And then Achilles drops his gaze and his breath hitches, mouth dropping open in shock.
“Achilles?”
Zagreus follows his line of sight and ends up staring directly at his dick. If it had waned at all during his brief moment of panic, he cannot tell at all. He’s still hard enough it should probably be aching. He’s embarrassingly wet, precome smeared along his shaft and thighs, beginning to puddle underneath him on the bed.
“I thought you wore something under your chitoniskos,” Achilles hands have relaxed from their clenched fists.
“I do? My perizoma is on the floor already.”
“Ah,” Achilles says, deceptively bland, and then reaches out and drags one hand over Zagreus’s red leg, from knee to hip.
“Your hand feels so good,” Zagreus says, tangling his fingers in Achilles chiton and lifting it. Between the two of them, it takes little work to have Achilles as nude as Zagreus. The older man never answered Zagreus about which position he prefers. Zagreus makes a mental note to ask again, later. It doesn’t matter so much, now. Zagreus already knows what he wants to do.
“Zagreus, you’re incredible,” Achilles reaches for him once more, seemingly fascinated by the way red skin fades back into orange and then his usual deathly pallor between his upper thighs and waist. Zagreus cannot understand why, considering his feet are on display every day.
“As are you. If you’ve no objections, Achilles, I’m going to pleasure you with my mouth.”
“I… won’t last long, I think, lad- Zagreus. It’s been a considerable time since I was touched by anyone, including myself.”
Zagreus can’t help himself, he laughs. Achilles takes no offence, his own face crinkling into an affectionate smile. If he waited for his amusement to fade, they’d be here for hours, so Zagreus is still laughing when he leans into Achilles and wraps his arms around the other man, one hand reaching up to cup the back of his head. Achilles returns the hug instantly, before he realises that Zagreus is merely ensuring that Achilles neck isn’t jarred when he forces him back down onto the bed. That said, Zagreus is in no hurry to withdraw from the hug. He presses a few kisses to Achilles neck, delighting in the knowledge that the earlier scene was no fluke; Achilles has a sensitive neck.
Achilles hands wander up and down his back and leisure, sliding over his hips, over and over the variegated pattern like it fascinates him. It’s not overtly sexual but neither is it innocent. Achilles hands certainly don’t shy away from his ass and there’s no mistaking his thick cock, pressed unmistakably against Zagreus. Laid together like this, skin to skin from neck to knee in an unhurried and undeniably intimate manner - Zagreus can feel himself making a mess against Achilles. It’s almost enough to encourage him to lay here forever, so that Achilles will never see the bright orange liquid pooled across his stomach.
The shade certainly doesn’t ignore it, when Zagreus finally detangles himself and sits up, straddling the older man. The first thing he does, after his hands slide off Zagreus’s hips, is run a finger through the precome gathered low on stomach. It’s just to the side of Achilles hard dick and Zagreus honestly isn’t sure which sight has more of his attention. Achilles makes the choice easy for him, raising his now sticky fingers and taking them into his mouth.
Achilles moans around his fingers and Zagreus moans around nothing but his own mounting lust, locking every muscle in his body to stop himself from collapsing against Achilles and rutting against firm muscles like a beast.
“Like nectar,” Achilles mutters to himself, and Zagreus can do nothing but lean down and kiss him. Achilles responds instantly, cradling Zagreus’s face, damp fingers smearing against his cheek. It’s filthy, more tongue than anything else, making terrible wet noises that only make Zagreus burn hotter. He runs his hands along Achilles' chest, noting the places that make him twitch and shiver, that make him moan into Zagreus’s mouth. He could kiss Achilles for the rest of time and be happy, would be happy to never leave his bed again, so long as the shade kept him company. He pulls away, eventually, smiling as Achilles chases after him, drawing him into another kiss, then another.
“Do you want to know why I was laughing?” The question is asked in fragments, spoken bit by bit between kisses.
“Tell me?” The words smeared against Zagreus’s lips, his jaw, a feeling he’d give almost anything to become accustomed to.
“It won’t matter how quickly you come, Achilles, because I have no intention of stopping.” Achilles keeps kissing him for a second and then pauses, drawing back.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll stop when you start saying nice things about yourself. I don’t care how long it takes, whether you’re crying your eyes out before you break, but you’re not leaving this bed until you can pay yourself an honest compliment.” Achilles blinks at him, obviously taken aback.
“That could take some time. And I could always lie, to get out of it.”
“That is an option. I have no way of knowing if you lie to me, of course, but I would like for you to consider something.” Zagreus slides himself backwards until he’s right where he wants to be, eye level with Achilles cock. He doesn’t take it into his mouth yet, spends a few moments kissing Achilles thighs once more, hands coming to settle on the distinct line of the shades hips. He’s stong enough to keep Achilles hips exactly where he wants them; whether that’s pinned to his bed or fucking harshly into his throat really will be a moment to moment decision.
Zagreus leans forward and drags his tongue over his own, rapidly cooling precome. Achilles groans, reaches down to thread a hand in Zagreus’s hair. The sensation is enough to send a shiver down Zagreus’s spine and he hopes that maybe, in the future, Achilles might be persuaded to pet his hair again. For now, Zagreus just stares up at Achilles with an entreating look.
“Achilles, if you lie to me, I will be devastated.”
The shade jerks half upright onto one elbow, eyes wide and panicked, and Zagreus doesn’t give him a chance to say anything before he opens his mouth and takes Achilles down to the root, swallowing to make sure that he can take all of him. Zagreus keeps his grip on Achilles hips firm, keeps him pressed to the bed, and sucks while Achilles moans helplessly. He pulls up, spends a few moments bobbing his head up and down before taking all of Achilles once more. There’s something almost euphoric about having his nose pressed against pubic bone. He thinks this about everything he does with Achilles but - he could do this forever.
Anything Achilles wanted, forever.
Distracted by his own longing for the very man beneath him, Zagreus loses focus. Gags around the dick filling his mouth, stretching the top of his throat. Achilles makes a sound like he’s being gutted, hips straining desperately against Zagreus’s hands and mouth as he comes.
Zagreus blinks away tears as he pulls back, grinning even as Achilles strokes at his face, his hair, apologising and worrying over him. Wiping the tears from underneath his eyes and what little come he didn’t swallow from his chin. Achilles is still wearing a vambrace which, Zagreus won’t lie, is a bit of a turn on. Everything about the other man is, really.
“Good,” he says, coughing to clear his throat. His voice is only odd from gagging and not yet because his throat is ruined, “Thank you for coming down my throat. Perfect.”
“...You’re very welcome, Zagreus,” Achilles says. He’s staring down at Zagreus, fire back in his eyes once more, looking as though he’d happily devour the god if given half a chance.
“‘I’m perfect’ might be a bit much for you to start with, so how about we try ‘I’m a good person.’ Can you manage that and mean it, Achilles?” He asks, already knowing the answer. Achilles stays silent rather than lie, which Zagreus appreciates.
“No? That’s alright, you’re doing so well. We’ll get there.” Zagreus darts up for a quick kiss, before returning to Achilles softening cock. Time to find out how oversensitive the shade is after he comes. Judging by the low moan as Zagreus licks him root to tip, not very. Delightful news, though he does wonder how many orgasms it’ll take for that to change.
Best get to it, then.