Apollo melting his lover's, Icarus', wings
[I’m combining this celebration of 800 with Flash Fiction Friday because I feel like it was destined to be.]
Goddamn, anon, you just annihilated me. Butterflied me on a board with pins of myth and angst. You got to the exact core of my writing aesthetic in one hit, didn’tcha?
I feel like we might be the same person.
Are we the same person? Wave my arm if we are.
Prompt: Burn Baby, Burn | Apollo melting his lover’s, Icarus’, wings
Tagging: @cawolters, @piratequeenofpixies, @quilloftheclouds, @snickertoodles, @carmenwrites, @purpleshadows1989, @ofvisitorsthefairest, @theevolutionofledarose, @kriss-the-writing-nerd
[This got a little longer than intended, so I put the rest under the cut!]
He was never more beautiful than when he was bathed in gold. Sunrise, sunset, midday beams, the curl into dusk, the arc into morning, all paint him pretty like a god, his god, worthy of immortal worship for however long he lasts in this world. In his mind he built temples to the warm curve of his shoulders, the sweet bow of his lips, the clever arch of his brow whenever he said good morning.
Apollo was always one to wax poetic. He might have even been the first. And though this young man, this dreamer, this stubborn fool, his Icarus, was not the first of his, he was precious. In loving this mortal, this human, son of a man and forged from Greek ivory, he once again understood his uncle’s madness.
This would not end as it had before. No jealous wind would take Icarus’ heart from the warm nest of his hands. His eyes could pierce the veils of time and speak the truth, and this was a truth he released into the world each time he felt Icarus’ hand leave his in the morning. There was nothing more beautiful than his golden skin lit by godlight on the sand, water lapping at his feet as his eyes traced the dawn. Though his sister hunted after him when he fled from his place in the sky gifted to him by Helios, he always returned to his chariot with moments to spare. And for a god, a moment can be an eternity. She needn’t worry about him.
Icarus told him stories of his people, of his father, Daedalus, of the man’s inventions and friendships. They were there by request of the king, he’d admitted one night, when Apollo’s sister was far off on a false trail he had laid on his way to their beach. Dragging his hands through the sand, drawing angles and joints and feathers, Icarus told him of the palace, the labyrinth, the queen’s monstrous son, the hero Theseus, each nightfall bringing with it a new story Apollo would hum along to, plucking his lyre with the melody of his lover’s voice, their legs tangled together in the dark. When his tales came to an end each night, Apollo sank his face into Icarus’ hair, breathing in sea-salt and library dust and waiting for the moon to fall.
No, this would not end as it had before. He would protect his flock of one, cage him in his heart and ensure he knew he was loved with every beam of light that kissed his shoulders.
