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Telemachus sighed and turned his head to the figure lying next to him. Peisistratus was deep asleep, and Telemachus couldn’t help but feel a spark of jealousy. Soon it was dawn, but his own eyes refused to close.
It wasn't his first sleepless night in King Menelaus’ palace, and Telemachus had assumed that by now the exhaustion would finally take over him. But the thoughts in his head were louder. They flooded his mind, screaming over each other, merging into one unbearable waterfall that threatened to drown him.
Was his mother safe? Was his father alive? Was Athena… okay?
Only a few days ago Telemachus realized he hadn't seen his godly friend since the day he sailed off from Ithaca. Though Athena was still almost always near him—in his head mostly, but sometimes she took the form of a human. Telemachus knew it was a usual thing for gods, but Athena seemed to give all her strength to it and preferred to guide him from her mind.
She had done it the night his mother sent him to Pylos. And the whole time Peisistratus accompanied him to Sparta. Telemachus hoped Athena didn't think that now that he had another friend, he didn't need her. Of course, he wasn't so naive as to believe the goddess didn’t have her own godly matters to tend to. He was just... worried. But he didn't have the courage to ask her what was going on.
“I can hear you pondering even in my sleep,” a hoarse voice snapped Telemachus out of his thoughts.
He turned his head to Peisistratus, who lay on his stomach with his eyes still closed, now obviously awake.
“I’m not… pondering,” Telemachus objected quietly.
“You are,” sighed Peisistratus as he opened his eyes and turned onto his back. He grimaced in pretended displeasure at being awake, and Telemachus, despite his heavy heart, couldn’t resist a smile. “You’ve been doing this for the last couple of days.”
Despite the playfulness in his voice, Peisistratus' face was serious, and Telemachus was again struck by the worry in his eyes. Strange how they grew to understand each other so fast.
Only after meeting Peisistratus and knowing him for a couple of weeks did Telemachus realize that he never actually had friends who were his peers. Sure, some of the suitors were close to his age. But he would rather die than make friends with one of those filthy pigs.
Peisistratus, however…
Telemachus remembered how Peisistratus spoke up for him when tears choked his own throat so much he thought he would never be able to say another word. Remembered Peisistratus’ hand on his shoulder when the tears did fall and Telemachus tried to catch them with his cloak. And he remembered how all of them, including King Menelaus and Queen Helen, cried over what they'd lost. It was a new feeling—to cry and not to be judged for it.
“Come on, Telemachus,” Peisistratus lightly kicked his leg. “You can tell me.”
With another heavy sigh, Telemachus stared at the ceiling. It was a hot, clammy night here on Sparta, and he yearned for a gentle breeze of Ithacan shores.
“It’s… everything,” he said, reaching his home with his thoughts. “My mother, my– my f–father.” He stumbled over a word, guilt piercing his heart again. “All those years, all those times I thought that maybe he just… didn’t want to come back. That maybe he abandoned us. Or maybe he’s long dead. All of that while he was a prisoner.”
“You didn’t know.” Peisistratus said softly, reaching out his hand to Telemachus'. Their fingers intertwined, and for a moment, it became a bit easier to breathe.
Telemachus turned his head to his friend, and the corners of Peisistratus' lips twitched into a tentative smile, but his green eyes were still filled with worry. He knew what it was like—waiting for his father's return from war. He knew the doubts, the yearning, and the frustration. And he also knew what it felt like to long for someone you never knew and who might never come back.
“Mother never doubted him. Never.” Telemachus whispered, feeling his cheeks burning with shame. “And shouldn’t have I. I should’ve known.”
Peisistratus squeezed his hand tighter, gently running his thumb over Telemachus' knuckles.
“I’m sorry.”
Telemachus relaxed a little, and that same feeling that had been with him from time to time over the past few weeks appeared in his chest again. He could not yet understand what it was, but it had been with him since he first saw Peisistratus in his father's palace, when the prince of Pylos had welcomed him and Athena. Or when they traveled together to Sparta and Peisistratus entertained Telemachus with all sorts of nonsense jokes and stories, keeping him from sinking deeper into sorrow.
And there was another feeling, deeper, stronger. The one that caused Telemachus to gaze at Peisistratus' features in the moonlight or admire the curve of his back in the sunlight and wonder if his auburn curly hair was as soft to the touch as it looked. A burning feeling that made Telemachus' eyes linger on his friend's lips for too long.
Telemachus snapped himself back to reality, suddenly aware that he’s been staring at Peisistratus this whole time. Again. But Peisistratus’ mind seemed to be lost somewhere too, as his eyes slowly explored Telemachus’ bare skin, that which wasn’t covered by the blanket.
Heat rushed to his cheeks, and Telemachus was suddenly very much aware that the only thing between their bodies were pieces of delicate fabric.
He met Peisistratus’ eyes, forcing his blush down, but the expression on his friend’s face, so distressed and sorrowful, surprised him. Then, for just a second, Peisistratus glanced at Telemachus’ chest before meeting his eyes again. He parted his lips to ask, but Telemachus slightly shook his head, praying that he would understand.
The bruises from his last encounter with the suitors have not fully healed yet, and the older scars didn’t worry him much. Yet he didn’t want to talk about it now. Soon he will have to take a stand against them. But now everything seemed so quiet and peaceful and good. Telemachus wanted to cherish this rare moment for as long as he could.
Fortunately, Peisistratus seemed to understand that.
“I could show you some moves,” he said instead, and now it was his face that turned red. Peisistratus let out a half-snort, half-laugh before he added. “With a spear, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Telemachus said, trying to suppress a smile. “That– that would be great.”
“Father always says I’m the best with a spear. And you favor that weapon too, so…” He kicked Telemachus’ leg lightly. “I’m going to beat your ass.”
“Hey!” Telemachus kicked him in response, letting out a small laugh. “I thought the training was meant to prevent my ass from getting beaten.”
“We’ll get there too.”
When Telemachus had finally fallen asleep, the sky was lighter, but Peisistratus’ hand was still in his own.
***
They had only a week before Athena instructed him to return home. Telemachus was ready to leave right there, in the middle of the night, but Peisistratus reasoned that it’s better to wait till morning.
“Besides King Menelaus surely will bless us with gifts,” he said, winking at Telemachus. “It would be rude to miss it and leave without a goodbye.”
Telemachus chest loosened up a little bit at the sight of the calmness and thoughtfulness of his friend, and yet he still spent the rest of the night in a wary half-sleep.
The morning finally came, and after exchanging pleasantries and accepting gifts from Menelaus and Helen—Telemachus hoped he hadn't blushed too much when she handed him a dress for the future bride—they thanked the King and Queen of Sparta for their hospitality and departed.
By the time they arrived at Pylos, Telemachus had almost mastered the confidence he for sure didn’t feel. After all, leaving him in the port could be considered breaking the rules of hospitality and would subject not only Telemachus but also Peisistratus to the possible anger of the gods. But Athena was direct: no delays, no distractions.
It was time to go home.
Telemachus’ soul yearned for it; his body was bursting with vigorous energy in anticipation of action, finally, after so many days of long fruitless waiting. Well, almost fruitless. He’s made a friend after all.
“Peisistratus,” Telemachus said, looking into the eyes, that seemed even more green now, among the forest trees. “I need you to know that our friendship brings so much joy to my heart.” Peisistratus raised an eyebrow at him. “Even more so, that our father were friends too. I am grateful to you and your family for helping me on this journey. But it is time for me to return home.”
“Not keeping you in palace for the night, are we?” He smirked and turned the chariot toward the port.
Soon they stood on the dock, watching as the crew Telemachus had sailed to Pylos with prepared the ship for departure. It was still early morning, and Telemachus could see the clouds of steam that appeared around him when he exhaled. The heat of the night was gone.
“I have something for you.” Peisistratus suddenly turned to him. Telemachus wouldn’t recognize hesitation in his voice or how he avoided his eyes if they hadn’t spent last month together.
In answer to Telemachus' curious glance, Peisistratus pulled something out of the pocket of his cloak. It took Telemachus a second to realize that it was his dagger, which he almost always carried with him. Not only was it an elegant weapon, with a handle encrusted with gems, but it was also certainly effective in a fight. Telemachus had always wanted to have something like this—light and discreet, but no less deadly than his double-edged spear.
“Take it.” Peisistratus handed him the dagger, his body strangely tense as if he was bracing himself for something. “I hope it serves you well, my dear friend.”
“Peisistratus… I can’t–” Telemachus said. No matter how much he liked this weapon and the prospect of owning it, he wouldn’t take it from his friend, who clearly held it so dear to his heart. “I wouldn’t–”
In a second, Telemachus forgot what he was going to say, because Peisistratus grabbed his cloak and kissed him. It was quick and desperate, and before Telemachus could do anything, Peisistratus had already pulled away, leaving him with a dagger in his hand that he didn’t even notice he got ahold of.
Telemachus stood there, frozen, processing what had just happened and how everything he’d felt for the past month suddenly made sense. And also how he was already mourning the touch of Peisistratus’ lips on his own.
He clipped the dagger to his belt, then stepped closer to Peisistratus, taking his face in his hands and kissing him again.
This time it was longer. Telemachus felt Peisistratus smile into his mouth and deepen the kiss. His lips were as soft as Telemachus had imagined, his arms wrapped around his shoulders, digging into the fabric of his cloak as the kiss became more and more eager. Telemachus could taste the desire on his tongue. He moaned and pulled Peisistratus closer, running his hands through his red curls. Finally, they broke apart, panting heavily. Telemachus pressed his forehead against Peisistratus', his smile mirroring the smile on his friend's face.
“Visit me on Pylos when it’s all over?” Peisistratus whispered, caressing his cheek. Telemachus felt his heart aching again. And longing. The kind of longing that was relatively new to him.
“Promise,” he said. Peisistratus rested his head on his shoulder and hugged him so tightly that through the fabric of their cloaks, Telemachus could feel how fast his heart was beating. He returned the hug, his own heart answering in the same rhythm.
Peisistratus was the first to pull back.
“Go,” he said, eyes twinkling playfully as he flashed his usual crooked smile, “before I drag your ass back down to the palace, then to my chambers, and…”
Telemachus shut him up with another kiss, biting his lower lip slightly.
“Hold that thought.” He grinned, then clapped Peisistratus on the shoulder one last time and made his way to the ship.
If his crew noticed how Telemachus was staring back at Peisistratus the whole time before Pylos’ shores disappeared from view, they didn’t say anything. Telemachus supposed they wouldn’t dare, but even if they would, he would not care. Not when he still remembered the taste and softness of Peisistratus’ lips.
“That was a very... passionate goodbye.”
Telemachus startled at a new voice. The voice he was so used to hearing in his head was now so clearly next to him.
He turned his head, and there she was.
At first sight, he thought that she took on the appearance of another mortal—a young woman wearing a simple white chiton with a blue chlamys that somehow matched the color of his cloak. But then Telemachus noticed her auburn hair, hanging loosely from her shoulders, and looked up at her face, realizing it was the goddess of wisdom herself.
“Athena!” he said, perhaps louder than he should have, judging by the way several sailors stared at him. Telemachus turned his attention back to Athena, who stood still, her hands clasped behind her back. It seemed she refused to face him, only the light smirk on her lips acknowledging his presence. “What are you… Wait. Did you… did you just–?”
“Don’t worry, little wolf, I gave you some privacy.”
The meaning of her words sunk in, and Telemachus felt heat at his cheeks.
“Oh gods, this is embarrassing.” But what did he expect from his godly mentor? She told she would always be watching over him.
“Peisistratus of Pylos is a fine young man. There’s nothing embarrassing about you two taking a liking to each other.” Athena said, her voice soft and careful.
“Thanks,” he whispered, as a smile crept onto his lips. Telemachus had not yet realized how much Athena's opinion, as his friend, meant to him. He wondered what Peisistratus would think of the goddess herself praising him.
Then Telemachus looked over to her again, worry in his heart at once. That careful voice… It was too much unlike her.
It’s not that Athena was ever rude to him. She was strict but calm, understanding. A few times, it was Telemachus who actually demanded more of her—more training, more fearsome opponents, figures of which she usually created out of thin air, more complex moves.
But now she sounded so… tired. Exhausted. And judging by her strained posture, Telemachus had the impression that she was almost struggling to stand.
“What are you doing here?” He instantly winced at how harsh that sounded and tried to calm down his eagerness. “Forgive me, I meant no disrespect. I’m really glad to see you. I– I was worried about you.”
He gingerly reached for her arm and relaxed a little when Athena let him take her palm in his.
“I’m sorry, my friend.” She finally turned to him, and a wave of nausea swept over Telemachus. There was a scar on her face, stretching from her right temple to the middle of her cheek. And her eye... Telemachus didn't need to be a physician to know that the milky-white color did not imply anything healthy for the goddess. “I’ve gotten into a fight, and I got… hurt. I needed time to recover my strength to be able to aid you.”
“Oh my gods…” Guilt stung his heart. All this time, she had been helping him, reassuring him, and guiding him, all while she was injured. Telemachus felt that something was wrong but was too cowardly to ask.
He won’t be a coward anymore.
“Please, tell me. Tell me everything.”