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“He’s been looking this way the entire time we’ve been here, you know.”
Melinoë doesn’t look. “Oh yeah?” she asks, swirling her cup of ambrosia. “Is he hot?”
Icarus considers, keeping his eyes glued to his draught beer rather than taking an obvious extra look. “Mm, maybe.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a simple yes or no question, Icarus.”
“Well, since you ‘don’t have a type,’ it’s not such an easy answer, now is it?” he returns, air-quoting her own words.
Melinoë groans. “What’s the point of bringing you as a wingman if you can’t even scout?” She decides to take the matter into her own hands. She downs the remainder of her drink — although it’s a little more volume than she anticipates. The alcohol overflows and dribbles from the corner of her lips, trailing down her jaw and neck and embarrassingly following the neckline of her top and directly into her cleavage. “Fuck,” she says, after swallowing. She wipes the trail of the alcohol off with the back of her hand and suppresses the urge to licking the sticky remnant off her fingers.
She looks in the direction Icarus has been not-so-obviously avoiding for the last half-hour. Across the bar sits a man with unruly blue hair, colored earrings, dead eyes, and a jawline that can cut stone. He notices Melinoë and challenges her stare, hiding the upward tug of his mouth with a sip of his drink.
Her face starts to warm so she scoffs, turning her head to Icarus. “More your type,” she decides.
Icarus chokes on his beer. “My type?”
“Yeah,” she defends. “Don’t you like gloomy boys and a strong chin?”
“Don’t you?”
She points at his cheeks. “You’re the one blushing,” she says. “And I know you’ve been not-so-obviously checking him out all night.”
Icarus sighs, squeezing his forehead. “Meli, the only reason I mentioned him in the first place was because I noticed you were looking at him.” He furrows his eyebrows, then blinks twice in disbelief before retorting. “Also… didn’t you specifically tell me to find people for you to hook up with?”
“Stop projecting, Icarus,” she scolds. “And besides, we may as well find someone for you, too. I owe you for all those other times you came out with me.”
Icarus says nothing to this, simply pressing his lips together and softly shaking his head.
This, Melinoë reads as his admission of truth.
“I’m calling him over,” she declares then, directing her eyes at the stranger across the bar.
Said stranger meets her eyes, his eyebrow raising when she points at him. She smiles in affirmation, then beckons him over with a curled finger. His eyes flicker at the gesture, and he takes one last swig of his drink before sliding off his barstool to approach them — all the meantime, his eyes trained on her.
She breaks eye contact, turning back to Icarus. “And that’s how to be a proper wingman,” she gleams. “So, the next time you see someone looking curious, you get proactive and bring them over. None of this, ‘oh, I don’t know if they’re your type’ nonsense. I saw he was interested in you, so I called him over. Simple as that!”
“Meli, I really don’t think he’s interested in—”
The two of them are interrupted by their invited guest, who steps between their barstools with his hands propped on the bar counter on either side of them, trapping both in his wide arm span. Now that he stands mere inches away, she can see him in better detail — down to the sullenness of his cheeks, the callused patches on his hands, and the broad width of his shoulders.
Gloomy, perhaps, but he is certainly no boy.
“How are the two of you doing tonight?” the man asks.
“Quite well,” she replies, swiveling to his direction. Her back grazes over his arm, and she almost startles at the skin-to-skin warmth, reminding herself of her backless top. “And yourself?”
He turns to her first, granting a smile. “I’m doing very well myself,” he says, then looks to Icarus. “Even better now that I have some company.”
He’s flirting with him. She knew it — the stranger was interested in Icarus after all. Melinoë glares at Icarus to wordlessly communicate as such, but Icarus doesn’t make eye contact, appearing much more interested in the stranger’s lips instead.
“I’m Prometheus,” he introduces. “And yourselves?”
“Icarus,” Icarus replies.
“Melinoë,” she says then.
Prometheus turns back to her, gives her face a onceover. “I’m curious what kind of occasion brings the two of you out tonight,” he asks.
Melinoë looks to Icarus to answer, but he remains silent — ever clumsy in flirtation. “Nothing special. Just a night out,” she replies for him. “As friends.”
Prometheus’s eyes flash at the word. “I see,” he says, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other before lifting his gaze back up to her. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I joined you two tonight then? Maybe we can make new friends?”
“Oh, not at all!” she chirps. She gestures to the empty bar stool at the right of Icarus. “In fact, you can sit over there.”
Icarus whips his head to her, panic and horror on his face. Melinoë mouths for him to stop being awkward.
“Great,” Prometheus says, then straightening to his full height — which is very tall, she notices. He shifts to the aforementioned seat and sits down, but not before pulling the stool closer to Icarus. He rests his forearm on the bar counter and leans in, his face just beyond Icarus’s right shoulder. “Can I treat you two to drinks?”
Icarus forces a laugh. “No, that’s alright, I think—"
“Icarus was really enjoying the draught beer, maybe you can get him another one?” Melinoë interjects.
Prometheus points to her with his chin. “And what about you, Melinoë?”
His tongue is light on the second syllable of her name, which makes her wonder if he in fact is not from the Underworld.
“I’ll just take an ambrosia on the rocks,” she tells him.
He looks impressed. “Tough girl,” he replies.
She smiles. “I don’t like sweet drinks.”
He parts his lips to respond, but catches the bartender glancing in their direction so instead turns to flag them down for an order. With Prometheus distracted, Icarus kicks Melinoë in the shin.
“Meli, please stop using me as a mediator to your flirting,” he hisses, hand cupped over his mouth.
She snorts. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. This entire time I’ve been trying to help you out! And you want to act all shy now? Why don’t you talk to him your own damn self!”
“Can you stop pretending that you’re not the one that wants to—”
Melinoë lifts her chin, directs her voice outwards. “So, are you from the Surface, Prometheus?” she asks in a raised voice, making Icarus snap his mouth shut.
Prometheus finishes up whatever brief conversation he’s having with the bartender, chuckling and thanking them before turning back to Melinoë and Icarus. He tilts his head, rejoining their conversation. “Sorry, what was that?” he asks, although the smile on his face suggests he heard her the first time and that he is really asking why she suspects so.
“I couldn’t help but notice your accent,” she explains quickly, then promptly adds, “You know, Icarus spent some time on the Surface.” She looks to Icarus, segueing him into discussion. “In Crete, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Icarus affirms, not without first shooting Melinoë a glare. “For university, and then a couple years for work after that.” He shrugs, averting his gaze from Prometheus. “And now I’m back here in the Underworld.”
“And what brings you to the Underworld?” is what Melinoë would have asked Prometheus, except that Prometheus follows Icarus up with a question of his own — in foreign words that Melinoë recognizes as the Surface language.
Surprised, Icarus stutters in his first few words, but he responds with increasing fluency as Prometheus and him trade a few lines. Of course, Melinoë has no idea what the two men are conversing about; she’s never quite been good at picking up languages the way Icarus is. She thinks she hears the word ‘understand’ and ‘question,’ but then the latter half of the conversation is completely beyond her grade school introduction class to Olympian.
Prometheus must be hilarious, because out of nowhere, Icarus laughs so suddenly that he chokes on his own spit and starts coughing. At least they’re getting along, Melinoë thinks, and she convinces herself that there’s nothing else she needs to understand in their side conversation outside of that.
Their conversation falters after Icarus says a few last words, and when both of them look back at her, Melinoë gestures to the two, a wide grin on her face.
“This is perfect, honestly! The two of you have so much in common,” she remarks. “And you’re just Icarus’s type!”
Icarus blanches, head swiveling between the two of them. “Wait, let me clarify—”
“Actually, Melinoë,” Prometheus interrupts, assuming the rest of the sentence, “as much as I’m flattered you think that Icarus and I make a good pair, I was hoping to get to know you a bit better.” He leans over the bar counter, looking at her through his eyelashes. “In fact, Icarus was just telling me that I might have a chance because I happen to be your type.”
Feeling her cheeks grow hot, Melinoë flits her eyes to Icarus, who has never looked paler in his life. Icarus has his hands up in a defensive position, his eyes pleading forgiveness — which is something she is not planning on giving for such sabotage.
“Oh, well—” Melinoë pauses when the bartender returns with their order, and as their drinks are passed to the appropriate person, she is grateful for the moment to gather herself. She takes a sip of her ambrosia, then points to Icarus. “Did Icarus also happen to tell you that he’s my handler tonight?”
Icarus’s eyebrows furrow, taking a large gulp of beer. He sends Melinoë a look, giving her a side-eye but she ignores his attempts to meet her eyes.
“Handler?” Prometheus tilts his head in curiosity. “Do you really need one? I think you’re managing yourself quite well on your own.”
“See that’s the thing,” Melinoë explains. “I’m trying to get out of a long string of bad dates and worse relationships. Icarus thinks that it’s because my standards are low and that I should be more selective. And so, I told him to come out with me tonight to help me sort between the good and the bad candidates.”
She isn’t lying, really. Her last three relationships truly were questionable at best, and Icarus very much did not like most people she’s dated. And indeed, she did ask for Icarus to accompany her tonight, even if it was under a joking pretense of being her wingman. But now that Icarus has shown his true colors tonight, she finds no better opportunity to turn her facetious joke into a real punishment.
Prometheus chuckles. “What, so everyone has to be approved by Icarus first?”
“Yes, and in fact, you shouldn’t even be talking to me directly!” Melinoë snaps. She pats Icarus on the shoulder. “Go on then, Icarus. Since you know so much about what my type is.”
Icarus shoots her a look and puts down his beer, the glass hitting the bar counter with a solid clank. He is very upset with her, and she is sure to hear it from him at the end of the night.
He turns to Prometheus. “So, what kind of work do you do?” he starts.
Melinoë crosses one leg over the other, propping an elbow on the bar counter as she sits back to watch. Icarus deserves this, she thinks. He wants to rag on her about her dating choices? He thinks he knows what she likes? Well, then he may as well speak for her too — he was already doing that in another language anyhow!
Prometheus seems relatively entertained by the set-up, going with the flow. “I’m an artist,” he replies. “Mostly ceramics.” He pauses, in the middle of taking another sip of his drink. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
Icarus shakes his head. “Mm, no, I was just asking out of my own personal curiosity,” he says. “Melinoë doesn’t care if you’re jobless. Really the only thing she cares about is if you’re good at giving head.”
Melinoë spits out her drink. “Icarus!”
Icarus holds his finger out to Prometheus, who bites down on his lower lip to keep from snarking. “Hold on, sorry,” he says, then spins around to face Melinoë, patting her hand. He gives her a dark look, eyes shining in vengeful jest. “It’s okay, I got this. I’ll make sure he’s good for you.” He turns back to Prometheus then, leaving Melinoë to melt in embarrassment. “She’s also partial to backshots, so if you’re good giving those, she’ll accept that as well.”
Fucking Icarus! She cannot believe this.
Prometheus looks between the two of them, thoroughly amused. He takes another sip of his drink. “You know, I hope this doesn’t ruin my chances, but I have to admit I’m probably better with my hands than my mouth. Artist and all,” he says, flashing his fingers in demonstration. “And backshots are not a problem as long she thinks she can handle it.”
Icarus turns back to her. “You’re fine with that, right, Meli?” he asks. “Don’t you love getting fingered too?”
Melinoë takes Icarus by the upper arm, pulling him in close. “I’m going to murder you,” she threatens.
“That would be a definite yes,” Icarus affirms to Prometheus, in spite of Melinoë’s tightened grasp.
“Oh, good,” Prometheus replies. “Seems like I’m passing this test so far.” He looks over at Melinoë, studying her for a second before asking, “Can you ask her if I can kiss her?”
Still held in place and facing her, Icarus gestures to her with his chin. “He asks if he can kiss you.”
Melinoë peers past Icarus’s shoulder for a moment, meeting Prometheus’s eyes. He winks at her, giving her a coy smile — and suddenly, inspiration hits her.
She looks back at Icarus, a gleam in her eyes. Icarus must sense the change in her aura, because his shit-eating expression rapidly transforms into a half-panicked stare. She can practically hear Icarus in her head: Don’t you fucking dare—
“He’d like to kiss me?” she asks, a wicked grin splitting over her lips. “Well, won’t you have to try him first and see if he’s good enough for me? Ask him if he’s okay kissing you first.”
Now that the prank has turned back on him, Icarus has had it. He puts his hands down on the bar counter. “Alright, Meli, that’s quite enough—”
“Sure,” Prometheus replies then.
A beat.
Icarus laughs politely. “I’m sorry, Prometheus. We’ve been taking this way too far,” he apologizes. “Sorry for dragging you into this mess, and thank you so much for the drinks, but I really think it’s better if you leave us. For your own good.”
Prometheus doesn’t budge. He shakes his head. “No, no, let’s do this,” he tells Icarus. “We’ve already gotten so far in the interviewing process. I want to know the final verdict.”
Icarus leans back and grasps the edge of bar, his knuckles white. “Haha, no! That’s okay! I — oh, gods, okay,” he squeaks when Prometheus takes the back of his head and pulls him close, holding him in place just a breath away from his lips.
Prometheus looks past Icarus’s ear, only one of his eyes visible from behind Icarus’s head to Melinoë. “So, if he approves of this kiss, then I can move forward with you, right?” he asks.
Melinoë only smirks. “Let’s see what he thinks first,” she answers.
Prometheus returns a smile. “Deal,” he says, and he turns his attention back to Icarus, angling his lips and adjusting his hand at Icarus’s nape.
She watches, twirling a strand of her hair. “Are you a good kisser, Prometheus?”
He doesn’t look away from Icarus. “Yes,” he replies, without hesitation.
And with that, he closes the distance, slotting his mouth over Icarus. He kisses him, jaw flexing as he parts his mouth. He coaxes Icarus’s head to tilt to the right as he transfers sides, and in the switch, she thinks she sees tongue. She watches him consume Icarus, his long lashes closed and his eyebrows furrowed in intent.
Melinoë swallows thickly. She presses her lips together, realizing then that her mouth has dropped open. She’s never been such a voyeur of affection but something flutters in her belly as she sees the men engrossed to each other. Icarus seems to be enjoying the kiss — his hand loosens its grip on the bar counter, and his other hand squeezes his thigh.
They kiss for much longer than Melinoë expects, something she only realizes when she finally takes a breath when they separate. Prometheus lingers an additional second over Icarus, then presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth before finally withdrawing, a smug smile stretching over his lips.
“What did you think, Icarus?”
Icarus clears his throat, dazed for a moment. “Uh…” he stammers. He trades looks with Melinoë, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated — a sight that makes her heart pound hard in her chest. “I think—”
“Again,” Melinoë demands, the thrum of her heart in her ears making it hard for her to hear. “He needs another try.”
Icarus’s eyes widen, although it’s hard for her to tell if he looks more aroused or concerned. Either way, she can’t spend much time deciphering his expression because in only a moment, Prometheus takes his chin in his hand, pivoting his face back to plant another kiss on his mouth. He sucks on his lower lip, tugging on it lightly until it slips out from between his teeth, then ducks into the crook of his neck, his lips grazing Icarus’s skin.
Fuck, she thinks.
Melinoë bites her lip, crosses her legs tighter as heat flushes over her body. She drags her eyes away from them, thinking of the first distraction available to her.
“I need a smoke,” she mutters, hoisting herself off the bar stool.
She passes the two of them quickly, throwing her leather jacket over her shoulders. She steps out the bar and rounds the building to its alleyway. She leans against the brick wall, cooling herself on the stone, slightly damp from the light rain earlier that evening. She pops a cigarette between her lips, then flicks her lighter. The first few sparks don’t catch, and she growls in frustration.
“Fuck,” she snarls, blowing at the wheel forcefully and rubbing the plastic between her hands.
She flicks the lighter again, relieved to see the start of a flame. Quickly, she shields the fire with a cupped hand, holding it to the end of her cigarette until it smokes. She takes a long drag in and tilts her head back to the wall as she closes her eyes, blowing out the gray smoke into the air. She holds her cigarette in her left hand as she lets the nicotine settle her before taking another inhale.
She hears someone step around the corner and stop next to her. She doesn’t open her eyes, but she can sense their tall and broad frame by the way the traffic sounds are muffled behind their body.
“Too much to handle in there?”
She takes in a deep breath, enjoying a last moment of respite before opening her eyes. She almost startles when she sees him; she hasn’t known him long enough to remember exactly how he looks, and in the dim street light, his blue hair looks closer to black and his amber eyes condense to charcoal.
“I was getting irritable,” she replies. She lifts her cigarette to her lips, taking another drag.
“Hm,” Prometheus hums. She watches him in her peripheral vision, and he watches her as she blows out smoke. After a moment, he takes a step close to her — she catches the smell of clean soap and sweet liquor — and pulls her cigarette from her fingers, tucking it between his own.
He leans back against the wall next to her and smirks when he sees her nostrils flare. She otherwise feigns nonchalance, fighting the urge to snatch her cigarette back from him. She crosses her arms and looks away, but not before catching how his lips wrap around her cigarette, covering the green smear of her lipstick.
He takes a small drag, letting smoke escape through parted lips. He smokes like he’s had no more than a hundred cigarettes, like a smoker who says they’re not a smoker but still always carries a lighter.
“The two of you are really just friends?” he asks suddenly.
She flits her eyes to him, considers for a brief moment. “Exes.”
“I can tell.”
She doesn’t ask, but he answers her question anyway.
“He kissed me like he was trying to impress you.”
“And you weren’t?”
He meets her eyes for a second, biting back an amused smile. He shrugs, lifting her cigarette back to his mouth and taking another smoke. “That’s just how I kiss.”
She returns a snarky grin. “Well, I wasn’t very impressed,” she says, lowly.
“He said I passed, by the way. He approved me,” Prometheus announces, turning to her, his shoulder leaning against the wall. “So, we can kiss now, right?”
She watches him lift her cigarette — again, it’s her cigarette — to his lips for another draw.
She frowns. “I don’t know if I trust his opinion on you,” she says, finally. “You really are his type, you know.”
“But I’m also your type, aren’t I?”
Her eyebrow twitches. She leans forward, snatches her cigarette back from him in one motion. She taps the ashes off, bringing her cigarette back to her mouth.
“I don’t date smokers,” she says, definitively, then takes a pull.
“I wasn’t asking to date.”
She rolls her eyes, expelling smoke out her nose. “Well, I don’t kiss them either.”
He gives her a shit-eating smile. “I guess fucking is off the table then, too,” he remarks.
Melinoë stills, her fingers clamping down on her cigarette. “No fucking,” is all she manages to get out, taking another draw.
“No fucking, huh,” Prometheus murmurs, repeating her words to himself. He rolls his back onto the wall, crossing his arms. “Unless… do you need me to fuck him first to see if I’m good enough for you? I don’t mind if you want to watch—”
She steps to him, raising her cigarette up to his chest. “I will put this out on you,” she growls.
He looks at the burning end of her cigarette, then down at his shirt, where some flecks of ash have already spilled. “Go on, then,” he says, meeting her gaze.
She holds her cigarette in place, as if considering for a moment, but knowing very well that she doesn’t have the galls to do any such thing to him — really, anyone. Quelling her anger, she sighs and brushes the ash from his shirt with the back of her hand, then tosses her cigarette to the ground.
“It’s not good for me anyway,” she says, mostly to herself.
She steps onto the cigarette, twisting her foot to extinguish it. Then she retreats, her back against the wall once more.
“Why didn’t it work out between the two of you?” he asks then.
She closes her eyes, immediately regretting her decision to put out her cigarette. She hates this question. She also hates answering this question because there is always one to follow. So much for her heroic display of trying to prove to herself that she doesn’t actually smoke the whole thing; she could really use a smoke right now.
“Wrong time, wrong place,” she simply replies — her standard answer to the question.
He doesn’t actually ask a follow up question, but she hears it in the silence. He’s right to inquire though; she somewhat feels she owes Prometheus more detail — especially as he bore witness and experienced consequences of their antics inside the bar.
“If we met when we were older, it might have worked out,” she adds then. “Or at least it wouldn’t have become… this.”
“And by ‘this,’ you mean?”
She sighs. “Going out together. Getting the other one hooked up. Trying to play it cool and not be jealous. Hating each other’s dates. Pretending we’re over each other.” Her hand pats her left jacket pocket, tracing the outline of a half-crushed cigarette pack.
He nods. “He’s still in love with you.”
“I know.”
“Do you still love him?”
She presses her lips together, feeling a dull pound in her head.
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m not sure,” she finally replies, hand now reaching into her pocket. She pulls out a cigarette between two practiced fingers, flipping it up to her lips. She pulls her lighter out of her other pocket, clicking the wheel. But of course, her lighter doesn’t work. She slaps it against her palm, attempts to warm it again between her hands — until she sees a fire come into her visual field.
She looks up at Prometheus, who simply points his eyes to the lighter in his hand, offering her the flame. She dips her head down, lighting her cigarette before straightening back against the wall, taking yet another first drag.
“Thanks,” she says.
“You can have it,” he replies, passing the lighter to her.
She takes it, thanking him once more, and drops it into her pocket, where it clatters against the other one.
“Sorry,” she apologizes.
“Tough subject,” he acknowledges. He mulls over some words before he says it out loud. “You know, at first, I thought you two were fishing for a third.” He blinks. “And I suppose by saying this I’ve implied I would have been down for a threesome if that’s what it had to be.”
She coughs, an unexpected laugh erupting from her. “Oh, gods,” she cackles. “Do you think that’s what everyone else thinks when we’re out together? No wonder we have such bad luck.”
He returns a smile. “From the outside view, you two seem… very close,” he admits. “And actually, I was surprised when you said the two of you were friends. I had assumed you were together. Or at least dating.”
Her laughter subsides and she takes a few rounds quietly, staring at a spot on the ground. “We tried dating again a few times already,” she continues, pointing aimlessly with her cigarette. “But there’s too much between us. Too much to stay together. Too much to stay apart.”
“You’ve known each other for a long time?”
She lets out a single note. “Hmph! Since we were babies,” she tells him. “Grew up in the same streets, went to the same schools. Except for that time when he went to the Surface.” She pauses here. “I think I was the reason why he broke up with his boyfriend. Probably because I was calling and texting him all the time.”
Prometheus holds the silence for a moment. “Co-dependency?”
“Maybe,” she replies. “We both have dysfunctional families, and I think we found kinship in our grief and angst about it. We actually used to joke about eloping — and that was even before we even knew what getting married actually meant.” She tilts back her head, knocking it softly against the wall. “I’ve thought about cutting him off. I think it’d better for us. But I can’t. He’s the only one that’s ever been there for me. For everything. I can’t just break him off.”
He nods, considering. “You’re scared of being abandoned.”
It’s not a question.
She hesitates. “Maybe.”
“Mommy issues?”
She blinks. “Something like that.”
She looks at her cigarette, already half-burned through. Melinoë hasn’t been to therapy, but she imagines this is what it must be like. Mentally, she decides that therapy can’t possibly be good for her if all talking makes her want to do is smoke.
“Sorry,” she apologizes. “Not trying to unload my deepest and darkest fears on a stranger.”
Prometheus grins. “Not a stranger,” he corrects. “Consider me a friend.” But he squints his eyes then, thinking a thought through, then adding, “But a friend that also would be very open to being more.”
She laughs, flicks the butt of her cigarette to the ground. She quashes it under her heel.
He lifts from the wall, standing straight with his hands in his pockets. “There’s a studio down the block from here,” he says. “I work there some afternoons. You should come by when you’re free.” He tilts his head. “And you can bring Icarus, too.”
She opens her mouth, but pauses before she answers. “I’ll… think about it,” she says, after a second.
He smiles. “Good. It was nice to meet you, Melinoë,” he says, with that same lightness in the middle of her name. “Hope to see you again.”
He gives her a salute goodbye, and she watches him head out of the alleyway, feeling her chest tighten just as he turns the corner to leave.
“You know, you owe me a smoke,” she blurts.
He stops, gives her a humored look. “What, for the three drags I took?”
She flutters her fingers, waving the current cigarette in her hand. “For the story,” she explains. “This pack is supposed to last me until the end of the month. And I only have five left.”
He cracks a grin. “I see,” he replies. “Well, I already gave you my lighter. And I don’t have any cigarettes on me. I’m not a smoker.”
She rolls her eyes. Just as she thought.
“Huh,” she remarks. “I suppose we can date after all.” And before he replies, she tilts her head to the side, adding, “And kiss. And fuck, too.”
He looks off to the distance, hiding a smile, but otherwise holds himself in place, running his fingers along the corner of the wall.
“Well, you know where to find me.”