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"You question a decision made by my home, Lord Antinous?"
Prince Telemachus stands tall from the councilmen’s table, chin tilted upward, eyes of dark whiskey cold and distant. His voice is dull, as if he speaks on the intricacies of grain tax and not the lives of men.
The throne room stretched wide before him, sun spilling through the high slats of the lattice windows, casting long, golden lines across the marbled floor. No one bothers to look at the empty throne anymore, instead gazes sought the eyes of the divinely-mortal heir. Courtiers stood frozen in their silks and armor, the air tense with things unsaid, paralyzed by what the Witch Prince will destroy. A few dared to meet his gaze; ministers with pinched mouths, guards whose eyes flickered between him and his lover, and nobles too cowardly to speak. The scent of incense, lilies oversweetened by contempt, still clung to the rafters. At the base of the steps, the condemned knelt with bowed heads, their chains clinking with every minute shift. And there, like a flame daring the wind to snuff him out, stood Antinous—defiant, dark-eyed, and speaking out of turn. Telemachus' jaw tightened. The court held its breath.
"I wouldn't dare to be so bold," Antinous said. "I merely wonder if, Your Grace, you've considered every variable."
Telemachus hums, "I am not a god and honorable enough to admit I have blind spots in my judgement. Is there one you seek to point out?"
The suitor steps forward, uninvited and unbothered. The crimson of his chiton, a war banner in the sea of conniving cowards. “Only that mercy is not a weakness. Nor is compassion. You speak of honor, but I wonder if you remember what it looks like when it isn’t cloaked in blood.”
“If it were bread stolen, Antinous, that could be addressed with kindness,” the prince soothes, as if speaking to an ill-tempered toddler. “State documents do not fill bellies without malice.” Lacing his fingers together in front of his stomach, Telemachus hopes this little performance would end quickly. “Their actions were treasonous.”
Antinous’ brow furrows as he passes a glance over the shackled young men in question. “Malicious or foolish?"
Quite honestly, Telemachus didn't pretend to care for the nuances. The young men stole from his home. It was an unforgivable offense.
"They have yet to grow their first beard," Antinous continues. "Let alone understand the intricacies of state manners. They can not read half of what's there. Perhaps their guardians put them up to it.” Antinous holds his hands out, palms open, a signal of supplication. “Regardless, this response borders on vengeance.”
Pausing, the prince tilts his head, deliberating on opening a telepathic link. What was Antinous getting at? Something wicked must show in his eyes because Antinous almost smiles. Telepathy wasn't needed to see the satisfaction settling in the suitor's amber eye. For some odd reason he holds onto a version of Telemachus that no longer breathes. A boy who once wept at the thought of hurting someone, even if it was deserved.
"Compassion is a virtue. But it doubles as a noose. Kingdoms have fallen due to pious men attempting to be so forthcoming." Telemachus strolls down the steps, and though the entire court is listening, his attention is only on his love. "My duty is to Ithaca's protection. I fail to see how mercy will be our salvation."
The four men on trial look on at Antinous, as if he were a saviour of sorts. One youth, in particular, wept silently with pitiful green eyes, his sandy brown hair, a rat's nest across his furrowed brow. Telemachus snorts quietly. Tears don't shift power. If they had, there would already be a laurel wreath on the prince's head or a wedding band on his finger. Sobs mean nothing in the world of tenacity and manipulation. If only they knew their salvation meant only a balm to Antinous’ own reputation.
But, Antinous hated the sight of Telemachus crying, doesn't he? Maybe his lover was softer than he realized.
Antious' eye flickers somewhere behind him. Gauging Penelope's reaction, perhaps. The urge to sneer and thwack the strap of Antinous’ eye patch across his skull overwhelmed him. The suitor seeks to embarrass him, question his judgement so publicly, and yet his focus isn't solely on him? The unmitigated gall!
“And what do you see, Antinous?” he questions, voice steady but lined with venom. “Behind me? Beside me? Wherever your gaze lands, it is not on your prince.”
Descending the final step, their height was now nearly level, though the weight of his crown makes him feel both smaller and miniscule than ever. “If you think me wrong, say it. Not with stolen glances or careful phrases: look at me and say it.”
Antinous' good eye slid back to him and Telemachus swallowed his gasp. The amber has darkened into something molten. Dangerously focused. His love has always borne a height Telemachus envied. Steals the attention of entire rooms by his stride alone. And yet, when he looks at him like this, Telemachus becomes the most important figure on the isle. No, in all of Greece.
"Then I will speak plainly. But take no offense to my words as I honor your command." Antinous spoke slowly, as if he wanted to make sure Telemachus heard him. "These men have barely left their boyhood. Reckless, they were, but they have not proven themselves to be men. I will not standby and have our prince build a reputation of brash impudence."
Telemachus' expression doesn’t shift, but there’s a flicker of sharp annoyance in his spirit. “Then you’ll have to forgive my brash impudence, Lord Antinous. I’ve found that war leaves little time for gentler reputations.”
He steps closer, calculated and deliberate. “But your concern is noted. Truly. I had forgotten how devoted you are to. . . appearances.”
There’s a murmur across the room, volleying like waves upon the shore. It was a low blow, utilizing a man's past as weaponry, making one's mistakes into spears and arrows to burrow under armor forged by sheer will. But Antinous preferred he take advantage of everything in his disposal when they're surrounded by vultures. Telemachus will apologize for it come nightfall. But here, he is The Prince, not Tele or Boy.
The suitor rolls his shoulders, jaw twitching, but there's a smirk rolling across his lips. Antinous’ gaze is sharp, but beneath it, earnest. “Like you, I am no god. Forgiveness is something I never presume to hold.”
Telemachus glances toward the four men on trial. Nineteen years old. Life had scarcely begun. He would know, barely reaching twenty himself. But death had long since become a fact of life. Whether it came early or late didn’t matter. So why did Antinous care?
Forgiveness. The word rolled in his mind as he repeated this over and over to himself. Age seemed to be the biggest concern here but that word carries far more weight than Telemachus realized. Did he, perhaps, see himself in them? A decade prior, standing in their sandals and doing what must be done for survival? Though Telemachus is young, he could see why Antinous would take pity. He can not understand it as Antinous never did something so idiotic as steal from the royal palace for survival, but the sentiment is there whether the prince wishes to admit it or not. These things, he figures bitterly, he will never truly understand when it comes to Antinous and the men on trial. Survival in court and survival in hunger are two very different battle fronts. Perhaps the prince isn't meant to understand it.
And of course, Antinous rarely asked for anything despite their arrangement. Always the one giving, adapting, and guarding Telemachus. Since he truly felt so strongly about these boys, then Telemachus would grant him this boon.
“Very well,” he said, coolly. “Do you place your life on their freedom?”
Antinous nodded. “Yes.”
Telemachus fought the urge to roll his eyes. For strangers? Since when has his lover grown so virtuous?
“I have no confidence in them,” Telemachus announced, letting the words drop like stones. “But for your concern, I will lend an ear, as you are a good man.”
More murmurs. No one thought Antinous good. No one but Telemachus.
“The children’s school suffered damage during the last storm. One of their classrooms collapsed. These young men will be charged with its rebuilding. You will oversee them. If they fail—” he let the silence stretch, “—their heads are mine. Is that agreeable?”
Antinous bowed his head, one hand pressed to his chest. "As always, Your Grace is fair."
There’s the barest pause, then he adds, voice low but carrying just enough to slice amusement through the prince's ire: "Even when he's being an impossible little tyrant."
A few nobles near the front shift, uncertain whether they’re meant to laugh or hold their breath. Telemachus doesn't flinch, merely turns on his heel and ascends the steps with the calm elegance of someone who expects the world to bend. But he's sure Antinous catches it, the tiniest flicker of smug satisfaction on the prince’s smirk, the way his shoulder twitches as he suppreses laughter.
The climb back up the steps is slow and Telemachus deliberates on his next move. Their game of push-and-pull can not end with Antinous getting what he desires so publically. The last thing either of them need is the men thinking Antinous an ally. Tongue rolling over canines, Telemachus scarcely gives his normal seat a look before slowly drifting away from it.
Ah yes, this will prove that he always wins over all.
Telemachus settles into the king's throne as if it were only proper. After all, an heir ascending is indeed, the law of order. It's a shame anyone here still thought they could change fate.
Shocked murmurs ricocheted through the court. Its difficult to force away his smirk. The prince steals his own glance at Penelope, delighting in the mounting horror and anger that flits across her cerulean gaze. It’s fine if Antinous chooses to defer to her, as long as he's aware she will never favor him as Telemachus does. His fingers drum once, twice, against the armrest before going still.
“See to it that they work,” he says, voice smooth as polished marble. Crossing a leg over his thigh, the prince smooths the wrinkle of his violet, ankle-length chiton in boredom. He knows Antinous will point out how often he mirrors his mother's posture, (you're vindictive like her, Hades, you even wear dresses like her, Princess) but it was a hard habit to break. “And see to it that they learn. If they don’t, you know what I’ll demand.”
Antinous bows again, a touch deeper this time. Admitting this round, Telemachus wins. “Of course, my prince. I would never deny you the satisfaction of being right.”
He straightens, lips twitching into a grin only Telemachus recognized as fond.
*****
When court adjourned, and the last courtier made leave, Antinous swaggered up the stairs to the throne Telemachus draped across without invitation. His brazen ascension should annoy the prince, and yet, all he felt was the cooling waters of relief.
With Herculean effort, Telemachus feigns composure, but knows the attempt is futile. How could he play indifference when his love cups his cheek in the gentle way one holds an injured chick in need of rescue? Far too soft for such rough hands. How Hermes must laugh at his constant defeat.
"Is it a must to spook the children, Wife? Lay it on too harsh and the men will think you mad."
"It would help." Telemachus says slyly, cracking an eye open. His fingers tap on the arm of the throne in a nervous tick. "Madness runs in the family. It would be easier for them to know I am unfeeling." And then he glares up in realization. “I am no princess, Ass. And if I were, you'd make a horrid husband.”
The look Antinous pierces him with is nothing short of affectionately withered.
"That is a lie." he snarked back, stroking a rough thumb over the younger's cheek. "There is nothing unfeeling about you." Squatting down in front of Telemachus, he rubs his hands along the prince's thighs, "You're stubborn. Vain. Masochistic. Incorrigible."
"My my. Some man I am." Telemachus scoffed, attempting to remove the touch. He doesn't leave and Telemachus heaves a sigh.
"You're loving. Loyal. Brave beyond your years." Antinous continued with a smile. "You are not a sword waiting on its master to unsheathe. You are the formidably adorable Tele."
Snorting, Telemachus tries to look away, but there's a hand on his cheek that redirects his gaze back to the man below him.
"I am a monster, Nous. That is my duty."
"Aye, but it is not your destiny. For that lies in our hands, yes?"
Telemachus' own hands shake as they curl around Antinous' shoulders. How could he be so certain that they could conquer fate? The Moirai must laugh themselves in stitches when he actually starts to consider it possible. "You wish to carry fate with me?"
Antinous chuckled, a smirk curling his lips. "Haven't we been doing so?"
When Telemachus surges forward to steal a kiss, his heart soars and he's certain the leaves of every plotted plant around them rustle. He pulls away to dampen his power, to compose himself once more, but Antinous reels him back in.
For once, Telemachus won't deny himself. Possessive hands crawl underneath his chiton, splayed across his thighs, and a lazy tongue glides over his throat. Kings did not live and breathe duty as Telemachus does. Even the gods indulged in ambrosia. He will allow himself this. Antinous diffusing his senses. Antinous weakening him. Antinous, Antinous, Antinous. Yes, the prince is a drunkard, stumbling for just a taste of his love.
"Shall I have you here, Boy," Antinous chuckled, curling a hand over his aching cock. Shivering, the prince looked towards the doors. Court would resume that afternoon but that didn't mean others wouldn't return early. "Calm the king's nerves before he drowns in ink and parchment?"
King. Not prince. Telemachus quivered under his hand, pitiful heart thundering against his ribs to protest the title. And yet his lips don't part to voice the dismissal. Instead what slips from his loosening tongue:
"We have no oil," Telemachus blushed, biting his bottom lip. That wasn't right. He should deny desecrating his father’s throne in such a manner. And yet, what good is propriety now after all but stealing the throne in his father's absence?
A dark chuckle rumbles between them, and those large hands conquered his hips, yanking Telemachus to the edge of the throne. Antinous delights in the prince's gasp, grinning like a thief that stumbled upon a richman's coffers. As he bunches the material of the prince's chiton, embarrassment floods Telemachus as the man presses kisses to his ankle. He can't deny he must look like a wife like this, accepting the corrupting hunger of a husband. Mischief sparkles in the older man's good eye, a laugh rumbling deep in his chest as he must realize the same. "Mm, a shame. Though I suppose we'll revisit that later. You'd look divine riding me here, Princess."
Telemachus schools the mortification of his expression when his chiton is pushed up past his hips as he's made to hold the skirts. He'll deny that his cock twitches at the pathetic name untill the end of his days, and the way it drools when Antinous looks at him as if he is the solution to starvation.
"Who said I would let you sit on my throne?"
A kiss pressed burning heat against the inside of his thigh, soft and fleeting. "Oh, you'll beg for me as you always do," when he catches the prince's eyes again, his own darkened intensely with want, Telemachus whimpered. He had an idea of what Antinous had planned now. "The guards will have the honor of hearing their king's pretty cries. And they'll know which throne you prefer to be seated."
"’Nous," Telemachus groaned at the joke, (he's a horribly wicked man that only found joy in teasing Telemachus into sheer madness) but was ultimately distracted. That sly tongue licks a thick stripe over his cock, circling the crown with devilish amusement. Running fingers through Antinous' locs, the younger shivers as the man settled on his knees. "What if someone sees?"
Antinous is on the receiving end of taunts already among the suitors. How he trades his body for coin like a desperate woman– though woman was certainly not the word they used. He would never live it down if someone saw this debasement of himself to another man, let alone to a scrawny withe of a thing like the prince.
Antinous chuckled, voice darkened and his hold on the younger's thighs impossibly tight. "What of it? Kings are meant to be perceived," another lick— too hot, by the gods, too heavy— and the prince's head fell back with a choked whine. "Consider them blessed for seeing you at your most beautiful. For it's only when I touch you that you bloom."
How does his love not worry about reputation or listening ears or the future, when it was all Telemachus knew to do well? But when Antinous swallows him whole, Telemachus' worry melts into pleasure in embarrassingly few moments. Easily, he thought himself unfeeling before, but that was impossible. As bliss curls over him, as heat pools molten in his belly, as his voice sharpens into keens under Antinous' corruption ('Nous, I'm yours, 'Nous too much, Love, wait, please!) (Settle, Wife. Take what I give)— the truth flooded his mind as a monsoon of inevitability.
Telemachus' will surrenders the moment Antinous kneels for him.