It's a month after Odysseus' return, and it seems his son has a crush...and is rather cowardly about it.
INGREDIENTS: Non-proofread oneshot, fluff and Telemachus yearning(ish.)
(A/N): Hi! I haven't written in so long I'm going to crash out. Anyways, have a rewrite of my oneshot from my old account! Hope you'll enjoy!
...
Odysseus finally regained his throne, after the slaughter of Penelope's cunning suitors. Telemachus proved himself as not a boy nor child, but a rightful heir. The palace returned to the home of a family, not the den of dirty men.
A picture-perfect ending. A happily-ever-after. An almost sickeningly sweet signature left at the end of a letter.
Almost.
Penelope and her favorite servant, you, prepared the ‘party stuff’ for Odysseus’ return. It was meant to be the largest celebration the palace ever had since it was built. A perfect thing for a perfect end.
While you order ‘a little more to the right’ for the millionth time, Odysseus spoke to his son.
Well, he tried, at least.
Telemachus only offered dry responses. Another ‘mhm-hm,’ another nod. But, his gaze was stuck to them.
Odysseus was unamused. This wasn't the first time. “The bananas watch us when we sleep.”
“Yes, of course father. I agree.”
Yeah, confirmed. Telemachus had no focus.
You met his gaze, smiling a little bit. It wasn't a smile someone used to charm their way out of something—though…if you tried it on him, it would work too well.
It was a lopsided little thing, genuine, like you wanted to see him, like it was deliberate, like you just knew—or is that just delusion? Telemachus couldn't tell.
You turned away, back to your work. Those few seconds felt like forever, and by the Gods, that forever wouldn't ever be enough.
Odysseus watched the whole thing. Of course he did. He's seen it too many times. First in himself, then in…
“Telemachus,” Odysseus murmured, “I see.”
“Huh—I see what?” Telemachus snapped back into reality.
Odysseus coughed, jutting a thumb towards you. An evil smile grew on his lips.
Telemachus turned into a tomato.
“F-father!” he stammered, “I don't know if they even like me back—”
Odysseus shrugged. “You won't know until you ask,”
“What?” Telemachus yelled. Pausing, he lowers his voice into a whisper-scream. “It's not that easy—”
“Hmph,” Odysseus crossed his arms, “It worked on your mother.”
“It did not.”
“Yes, it did.”
“She said she thought you weren't fluent because of how much you stuttered.”
“...I told her to leave out that part.” Odysseus turned his head away, “Well, if you won't talk to them, then I will.”
Telemachus was flabbergasted. A shout came out of his throat much, much, louder than he intended it to be.
“Wait—No! ”
And everyone turned their heads to the boy. Red flushed his face.
Scratch what I said earlier, now this was a tomato.
| • ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ • |
Telemachus was always told love stories growing up. The romance between his parents…about Hades and Persephone…How the mulberries were dyed red…
All of it.
…And soon, he started dreaming himself in those stories.
That he was the one to hold someone's hand. That he was the one to steal someone's heart.
He became a hopeless romantic…or, maybe just hopeless. Who knows?
No matter how much he tried, Telemachus couldn't ever feel the same way for someone—someone real—as he could for someone fictional in those stories.
Then you came along.
Telemachus thought his idea of what love is was already accurate. He knew enough from the stories. That's what he thought.
He could not have been more wrong.
First, it was like a disease. Unnoticeable. Innocent.
Then, the symptoms raged in. Telemachus finally managed to diagnose himself.
By that time, it was too late.
Too late to save yourself from heartbreak, just as it would be too late to save yourself from death.
Those two are a little similar, aren't they?
Telemachus remembers the first time you met.
He sat on the dusty cliffs behind the thick forest. Even as an adult, he wouldn't ever get tired of the music of nature.
The waves of the ocean smacked against yellowed stone. The birds chirped and sang songs he could only hope to decipher.
Everything, for once, could be controlled.
He even tried to bring his father along, talking about how the water could soothe anyone's nerves. Sadly, Odysseus seemed terrified. (I wonder why.)
It was Telemachus’ safe space. Somewhere the suitors couldn't reach him. Somewhere to run to.
He felt selfish for leaving his mother alone in that palace, with those wretched men…but he didn't want to face any responsibility. Maybe even for just a minute.
Then, the firstborn of the top gardener saw him. You.
You saw him crying, his knees pulled to his chest. You saw him vulnerable, ranting about some stupid thing Antinous tried to pull. You saw…him.
Maybe that's what made something click inside of him.
From then on, you were close friends with the prince…no matter how much he wanted something more.
| • ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ • |
Music was loud within the palace walls. Food, drinks, and everything were served. Odysseus gave a toast and a prayer for the peace of his crew.
Perfect.
Except for one little detail.
The celebration was meant to be happy, but Odysseus found his son sulking.
It was obvious why.
For a little wolf so brave to fight alongside his father, Telemachus was a coward. Sigh. If he wouldn't speak to you, then Odysseus will.
Cutting through the crowd, he approached you.
“Y/N, correct?”
You almost jumped, snapping your head in his direction. A slow chuckle left his lips.
“Yes, my great king.” You put a hand on your chest, straightening up a little. “Do you need something?—”
“Relax.” Odysseus smiled, “I simply wanted to ask if you wanted to join the circle?”
He nodded his head at the dancing circle. The Great Hall was cleared out to make space in the middle.
“Sire, I'm a lowly servant. I should be serving, not dancing.”
Odysseus smirked. “Surely the firstborn of the finest gardener of all of Ithaca wouldn't be afraid of a single dance?”
“Sir, I—” But he already looked expectant. “Of course, my king.”
Oh, what an experience. The king of Ithaca, of all people, had dragged you into a dance. Joining the circle, he made sure to hold your wrist firmly.
Sigh, there wasn't escaping this.
Odysseus turned his head towards you, grinning like a madman.
“See, now, isn't this nice?”
“Y-yes, my king.”
You were struggling to keep up. It was funny…well, to Odysseus. He looked straight ahead, moving much more in sync than you did. He was definitely flexing.
“Well, Y/N.” A wicked smile was still plastered on his face. “I've heard you may have an interest in my son?”
You almost tripped on your feet.
“My king—”
“Now, now…” he started, “You may drop the title, well, if you are to be my in-law.”
You were speechless. The bard’s music seemed to drown under the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.
“Did the cat catch your tongue, friend?”
“My king, are you sure—”
“Odysseus, to you.”
“Odysseus,” you corrected, “...are you sure about what you're saying?”
His smile grew sharper. “When am I not?”
Then the music stopped.
Before letting you go, though, Odysseus had one last thing to say.
“Promise me you'll talk to him, alright?”
…
Sadly, you agreed to it.
Finding Telemachus wasn't too hard, the problem was how he looked. Like he was about to cry.
“Telemachus?” you called.
He didn't seem to notice, walking out of the Great Hall. Damn him and his long legs, he disappeared through a hallway.
“Excuse me,” you mumbled, brushing past guests to follow him.
Telemachus was in the garden, head leaned back on the wall. He dragged a hand down his face.
Slowly, you approached. “Telemachus.”
“Oh, Y/N!” He almost jumped in surprise. “Hey,”
His smile looked too strained.
“Are you okay?” You lifted a hand, fingers barely brush his cheek.
Telemachus turned away. “Why are you here?”
…a slow exhale leaves your throat. He didn't answer your question.
“Stop avoiding.”
“Can we ignore it just this once? I don't want to talk about it to you. Not yet.” His gaze flickered back to you. “...please?”
Damn those god-gifted puppy eyes.
“Fine,”
You tried to take your hand back, but he didn't let you. Instead, Telemachus brought your palm closer to his face.
“What were you here for?” he murmured.
“Well, your father told me—”
Telemachus ran cold, dropping your hand. If Odysseus told you some embarrassing story, he might just cry.
“He what? What did he say?”
“Well,” You cough into a fist, “...it was about, er…”
What if the king was wrong? What if you'll just ruin everything?
“To confess to you?” It came out like a question. “I think.”
“You think?” Red colored the tips of his ears, “Well, do…you?”
“Do you? ” You echoed.
Both of you just stare at eachother. Awkward. Terrifying. Please, Mother Gaia, swallow us both whole.
Then, Telemachus laughed. Laugh, laughed. He almost doubled over.
“Telemachus,” You tried to warn. Is he laughing at you?
“So,” he began, “Have I been an idiot this entire time?”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned down, lips hovering yours. “What do you think?”
A pause.
“Can I?” he whispered, closing his eyes.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, “Please.”
Telemachus closed the distance, his hands reaching out to find your hips. He pulled you closer against him. Your fingers curled in his tunic, and he lets out a whine.
Tilting your head, you deepened the kiss. You take advantage of his lips parting.
Finally, you pull away for air. His forehead rested on yours. For a minute, his half-lidded eyes looked into yours, breath shallow and shaky.
Then, he turned you around, backing you up against the stone wall. His lips found yours, and you ran a hand through his hair.
“Telemachus,” you gasped into the kiss.
He can't stop now. Not after finally finding out he wasn't the only one obsessed. Your fingers gripped his shoulder harder. Another whimper left Telemachus’ throat.
He pinned one hand beside your head on the stone wall. His other cupped your jaw. You had to bite his lower lip to remind him to pull away.
“S-sorry,” he stutters.
Telemachus looked like a mess. His brows slightly furrowed, cheeks were flushed the prettiest red you've ever seen and his hair was a mess (courtesy, your hand).
You giggled. “Are you serious?”
Telemachus looked away.
“I didn't mean to—”
“No, it's okay.” You gave him another, softer kiss.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
It was starting to rain, sure, but he doesn't think he could ever survive letting go.
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