[orpheusaoide]

“ it’s an old song, but we’re gonna sing it again. ”

𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐄. thirty - one. olympe.  𝐈. skeleton.           𝐈𝐈. dossier.          𝐈𝐈𝐈. connections.          𝐈𝐕. playlist.          𝐕. origin.

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒​:

Orpheus moves and it’s as natural as the way the sea ebbs and flows. Artemis unties her robe, messily drops it on a chair and her movements, too, are natural. This is a ritual between them, one that has lived even before they found themselves lip locked, entangled, impassioned. One that Artemis hopes will remain alive for years and years. 

She wonders, if it is selfish to rely on these things. To need these things. It feels both like humanity in its purest form as well as human fallacy, to depend on another person. That’s how it always is, within Artemis, though: never just one thing. Always both. Two sides of the same coin, a moon constantly caught between phases. But where she tends to hate so many of the people she loves, she has never hated Orpheus. That, still, remains a very pure thing.

There’s so few of those, these days.

Artemis slips into the bed, under the blankets. There’s warmth here, left by the imprint of Orpheus’ body. She lays her hand on the pillow, her head on her hand, and looks at them. Her other arm extends, fingers landing on an elbow, then their upper arm, then a wayward curl at the base of Orpheus’ neck. “I love to hear you sing,” she says, “But I’d rather talk. Maybe later, you can sing me to sleep.”

She scoots a little closer, feels her knees press against theirs, the warmth of Orpheus now coming from them directly, too. “I missed you too. And I always mean it, as well.” It’s true, as most words are when she is around Orpheus. This longing, in her chest, it differs from all her other little hungers: this is something not made out of a yearning for power, or independence, or even retribution. It’s just … them. For them. 

There’s no hesitation as she lifts her head, leans forward on her elbow and kisses Orpheus, softly and for almost a second too long. She moves from a curl to their cheekbone to their chin, fingers resting underneath their bottom lip. Artemis rests her forehead against Orpheus’, closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at them again. 

“Why can’t you sleep?” Artemis had given a lie, when explaining why she was awake, but maybe she would offer some truth now that she was comfortable. More importantly, she wants to be there for Orpheus, wants to show them her best sides, her kindest sides — sides that do exist, that Orpheus deserves even if Artemis feels like she’s falling short. “Something on your mind?”

They come together perfectly; like two halves of a whole, finally as one. Orpheus, almost instinctively, shifts to accommodate her movement, as though able to predict exactly where she might go, which space she might occupy. Artemis’ touch is electric, leaving gooseflesh in wake of her touch. A half smile, almost goofy in it’s being, takes purchase on their lips. They watch — no, they observe her; the rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyelids flutter, the curl and bend of her lips as she speaks. Orpheus believed they could get lost like this, in her being. She was a work of art, one they beheld with great reverie. 

Orpheus almost makes a joke, purely cocky in nature. A half thought that sits lazily at their lips; some retort about You love to hear me sing, huh? They don’t allow it’s escape, won’t let humor ruin this moment. Instead, their hand finds the gentle dip of her waist and rests there as they speak. “Sure, I’ll sing you to sleep.” A pause. “Anything for you.” 

A promise, sealed with a kiss. One waited for, anticipated since their first lonely night. They want it to continue, obvious in the way their lips follow after her’s in their retreat. But they do not pry, do not rush; instead, they relish in her touch, relish in the closeness of such a simple intimacy. A secret intimacy. Their own private oasis, for them, and them alone. 

Their gaze never leaves hers, even when her eyes close, they watch their movement behind the shroud of the lid. And, for a moment, they wonder what she thinks of, wonder what feelings might elude them. Then, she speaks, and they feel their smile grow, feel the baring of teeth. “I don’t think I like the water all that much.” They admit. “You might think ‘m exaggerating, but I swear I can feel the swayin’. It keeps me up.” 

A half truth, one that conjures a strange twist of guilt in their stomach. How can they begin to explain I’ve grown homesick, now, when she exists with them like this? How could they convey their loneliness in a way that does not demean their . . . this? Orpheus does not feel lonely when Artemis is there, but when she leaves, it’s an overwhelming feeling. She can’t stay with them forever, though they might wish otherwise. 

“‘M okay though. It’ll be easier to get some rest, now that you’re here.” They are the one to close their eyes now, burying their face in the crook of her neck. Hiding their guilt. “Feel like I haven’t slept right since we left Olympe.” Words spoken, muffled against her skin. There was a strange betrayal that accompanied the words; a betrayal to twenty-one years spent in Tartarus, that Olympe might now be synonymous with a version of home. 

Two homes, leaving Orpheus feeling divided, discombobulated, especially after Heteraidia. “’M having fun though, really. Been nice just, loungin’ around with Dandy.” A cushion, so that they might not sound entirely miserable. “You havin’ a good time? Enjoying yourself?” They gaze up at her from their burrow, lips mouthing gentle kisses against her skin as words are spoken. 

[orpheusaoide]

𝐍𝐘𝐗​:

Nyx had noticed Orpheus trying to catch her, of course. They seemed to be lurking around every corner on this Chaos-damned ship, desperate to throw themself into harm’s way. Nyx, for her part, wasn’t just ignoring them; she was genuinely very busy. But then, there was a part of her that hoped if she just kept avoiding them, they would give up.

Time away had made her forget how incredibly stubborn they were. Just another thing that made her burn with pride and despair all at once.

She’d heard that the drinks on Pontius were better than those on Olympe, so she’d decided to give them a shot herself. Decided to see if they might let her drown her anxieties over running into certain individuals on the ship. They still tasted watered-down to her, but they were an improvement, to be sure. She was trying a margarita, not her usual fare, when one half of the reason she was drinking plopped down beside her.

She stiffened at their words, gaze trained on her drink. The responsible thing would be to get up and leave, to make it clear to everyone that she and Orpheus had no sort of relationship, that they were free from the influences of Tartarus. She couldn’t make herself move. Finally, the more irresponsible, sentimental, stupid part of her won out. Fuck it. She had warned them. She had done all she could. She couldn’t stamp out their love for her, no matter what she did. Nor hers for them.

“Of course I’m busy. I’m an executive at the biggest tech summit of the year,” she said, tone characteristically dry, as if just making small talk didn’t make her chest ache. “You, on the other hand, seem to have nothing better to do with your time than to keep track of what I’m doing. How is being at the Kalavrian Summit advancing your career, exactly?”

& . . .

Orpheus half expects their words to be met by a cold silence. They could only pretend to be so surprised if she were to take her drink and leave them, alone once again, at the bar. When she speaks, though her words lacked even a hint of compassion, they can only just fight back a smile that tries to pry it’s way onto their lips. They hide what manages to slip through behind a sip of their drink, and that sickly sweet sentimentalism of theirs finds it’s way in — At least she’s talking to you.

“Ah,” They draw out the word, licking alcoholic residue off their teeth. “Guess so . . . Stupid question, on my part.” Though Nyx’s constant state of motion has made it far too difficult to find her alone, it also made Orpheus proud, in a way. In the business of performance, to be busy was synonymous with success. They could only assume the same of hers, could only assume her success. They tried to keep up best they could, but the grapevine could only convey so much. All they could assume was that their mother remained successful, and content, and happy. They could not bare to imagine otherwise.

Nyx’s question was one Orpheus had asked themself many times since arriving in Pontius. So, it, to hear the thought echoed, earns a genuine chuckle from the individual as they down the last of their drink. “Now that’s a good question.” They think for a moment, settling into their not-knowing-an-answer. “I mean, some would say everyone worth knowing in Olympe, or, shit, maybe just everyone worth knowing period is here. If I hadn’t come, it would’ve been a boring two weeks at home . . . So, y’know. I’m here for networking —” The half truth is emphasized by dramatic finger quotations. “Trying to make some new connections. Maybe if I’m lucky, by end of the week I can be a guinea pig for some new augmentations . . . Leave here with some sick new body mods.” It’s only half a joke. Orpheus always said they’d never explore augmentation, whether or not they meant it was a whole other conversation to be had.

“‘M also just . . . Exploring. Never been to Pontius before. It’s pretty.” They pause. “Though, don’t think I’ll ever get used to being on water . . . Feels unstable.” Orpheus does not admit to their ulterior motives, to their desire to, once again, be in the same place as everyone they cared about, all at once. Though that feeling lingers behind their words, behind their actions. It’s obvious, in the way they’ve so desperately sought out their mother, but still, unspoken.

[orpheusaoide]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐓, 𝐌𝐈𝐃-𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊.  𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖/ @zagreusrhea

They stand at water’s edge, just close enough for a brush of chilled sea water against the tips of their toes before a frenzied retreat, returning wave to sea. Somewhere, further back, their shoes and bag are discarded on top of a dry enough cluster of rocks. And somewhere further, along the waterline, trots a contented Dandelion, stick as long as she is, balanced in her mouth. Orpheus stands in wait: waiting for Dandy’s return so they might frisbee the stick back down the waterfront, waiting for somebody else to join them. No, not just somebody. Zagreus. 

Two weeks were spent mulling, ruminating over the Heteraidia. Particularly: their mother’s harsh wisdom. They hardly expected to consider her advice, let alone heed it. And yet, when they contacted Zagreus, it was done quickly, discreetly, without the languid charm that became the Aoide brand. 

A location, followed by a simple message: Meet me here, drinks & sunshine? See you soon. It felt entirely strange, sneaking around in pursuit of friendship. This was not Orpheus. Orpheus cared not for secrecy or sneak; but Nyx’s words had a way of haunting. Orpheus had spoke harsh, plain: Even if it means pissing of Zeus. Words swayed by intensity, words Orpheus, now, was not sure they wholly meant. They could not risk what they had, not after all they had lost.

But they would not sacrifice their friendships. Not anymore. They just had to be smart about it.

So, Orpheus waits at the waterfront. Patiently, squinted gaze turned out to the horizon line, humming some half-discovered song. They stop only when they hear footsteps, turning to see an approaching friend. They smile instinctually, though the smile they offer is tired, worn.

“There you are.” They say, trudging up the waterfront, meeting Zagreus half way. “Was gettin’ kinda nervous you might not show.” But, of course. Zagreus came. Zagreus, friend, perhaps one of the best. This very thought crossed their mind often. Nowadays, friends seemed to be in short supply and so they grew particularly fond of those they still had. Orpheus did not voice this loyalty directly, but wondered, just as often, if he suspected, if he knew. He had listened to the new album, hadn’t he? Had he listened carefully enough to know: Patch of Soil, a lament to their friendship, their past, their home? Orpheus hoped.

“Sorry about the, uhm, weird secrecy.” They shrug their shoulders. “Ma kinda . . . Got into my head. About seeing you. About seeing anyone from Tartarus. ‘S weird.” There is an unsureness in their explanation. How could they begin to explain apparently, seeing you could ruin me. “But, you know me. Always did have issues with authority.” And there it is, the humor they use to break the ice.

[orpheusaoide]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐊, 𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄. 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄.  𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖/ @deathsknife​​

The roaming never stopped. From Helicon, to Kalavria, and back again; roaming, roaming, roaming. Somehow, somewhere in between, Orpheus always managed to procure the means of nursing a rather consistent buzz. Always making time for an extra drink before being whisked away to some demo on Kalavria. But, this roaming did not equate to boredom — far from it, in fact.

The Kalavria summit was innovative, Orpheus was not ignorant of this. Though, augmentation and immorality never had quite the allure to entice Orpheus — Orpheus, content with stopping their modifications at the human-coloring-book kind of covered in tattoos, and dying at the happy age of eighty-something-or-younger — it was entirely entertaining, being face to face with the future of technology. They did not understand this world, and did not try to. They humored those who might seek to impress Orpheus Aoide, but beyond that? This business venture for those far more important had turned to their playground. And they were enjoying themself.

And so, they roam around Helicon, always looking, always seeking entertainment. Orpheus had, in the lulls between events, taken to people watching. It was fascinating, the sheer amount of people drawn to the Kalavria Summit. Their gaze, shifts from face to face as they meander across the deck, landing on features they almost skip over entirely. A face they, at first, think they could recognize. They talk themself out for a moment, moving on, roaming on. 

But then, they stop, turn, single eyebrow raised in the person’s direction. “Thanatos . . . ‘S that you, buddy?” Ten years has a way of changing the people you love, in one way or another. Perhaps Thanatos had changed, only just recognizable to the traitor Asphodel. Or, perhaps, Orpheus’s memory betrayed them, molding and changing Thanatos in memory so that finding him in reality might become a battle against nostalgia. Either reality is cruel, unforgiving.

“It really is you . . . Fuck, man, you look like shit,” rolls off the tongue as their gaze meets. A joke, half obvious. One that makes Orpheus’s cheeks flash bright red before more words stumble out and over their teeth. “Shit, wait, I didn’t mean that.” I can’t joke like that with you anymore, can I? Thanatos did not find Orpheus at Heteraidia, nor did he make being found easy. Their distance spoke volumes: a privilege lost to a decade. A friendship lost? Orpheus hoped not. 

“What I meant was . . . It’s good to see you, is all. Sorry it . . . came out like that.” They force half a smile, mangled, strange. It is an odd feeling, to stand before someone you knew for a lifetime, and feel as though a stranger. 

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒​:

where — orpheus’ quarters, pontius when — week one of kalavria with — @orpheusaoide

It’s always like this. Artemis lives her days with little regard, flying through moments of indulgence and little enjoyments and then ending like this. Staring at her ceiling, going over little cruelties, her little moments of lack and abandon. The thing with Artemis Rhea is, of course, that she has always lived her life being watched, being witnessed. Silver sparkling in a spotlight. A thousand eyes watching.

Turn off the lights, take away the audience and what does it leave you with? A shell of a human, maybe, or maybe just a human. All little wants and regrets, all yearning and self-hatred. Tonight, she cannot sleep. She blames the soft rocking of the ship, the way these sheets are not her own, but she knows there are other reasons. Back in Olympe, when she gets like this, she sometimes turns towards the hallway, padding the floor on bare feet, creaking open the door towards Orpheus’ bedroom.

Why shouldn’t she do the same, here? She wraps her body in a robe, takes her phone and moves, quietly down the hallways of Pontius. Hopes no one sees Artemis Rhea slip in the room of Orpheus Aoide, because the last thing she wants right now is relationship rumours about herself and one of Gaia’s most in musical artists, even if they’d be true. Maybe especially because they would be true.

She knocks, waits for two seconds, then checks the door handle. The door opens, surprisingly enough, and Artemis slips through the crack she creates herself. Eyes fall on Orpheus in their bed and she closes the door behind her, turns the lock and makes her way over. Doesn’t need to say it, but does: “I can’t sleep.” Even before they’d found themselves in their current situation – quietly and privately exploring the depths of their relationship beyond just friendship – they had slept together, in each other’s arms. So Artemis doesn’t ask if she can sleep in Orpheus’ bed, just waits for them to make room. “I think it’s the wind. It sounds like a ghost singing.”

& . . .

Orpheus was not too keen on the sea; not fond of the way it waved, and swayed, and left behind Orpheus, discombobulated in its wake. Perhaps, it was the lack of stability, the way it made their stomach turn and their head ache in the least desirable way. They had thought, before, that the sea was a wonder to behold. Toes, buried in the sand, seafoam kissing their ankles, and the sun ever beating, ever bright: the neat little bow to tie it all together. And then, they experienced that very same sea from boat, then barge, and quickly realized just how wild, untamable the waters could be. Orpheus would have found a poetic sort of kinship with it’s nature, had that very same nature not put them on their ass coping with seasickness. 

It grew better with time. Manageable, tolerable. Drinking helped, and there was no short supply of help around the ship, but when it didn’t? Fucking fates. 

And so, Orpheus falls to blaming that for their restlessness, the discomfort. They would not leave the warmth of their bed to find the twenty-four hour bar, they were not that desperate. So, the blame could fall to that, and not the plainness of their reality. The walls around them, a ship full of people surrounding them . . . And yet, loneliness, bitter, suffocating, come to rest in the pit of their stomach. 

They stare up at the ceiling, eyelids simultaneously lidded and heavy, and wide, pried open. “Fuck.” They murmur, turning over, seeking some magical position that might offer the comfort sought.

But, something better presents itself. On time, as always . . . Knock, knock. The sheets are just barely off their legs when the door creeps opens, and Orpheus mentally curses themself — I’ve gotta start lockin’ that . . . But, this night-time guest is only Artemis, now synonymous with a welcome sight. Orpheus relaxes back into the mattress, and offers her a smile, demure in nature, an expression unlike them. 

“I can’t either.” They admit, and slide from the middle of the bed creating room. It only feels right, that this bed be occupied by more than just Orpheus. It only feels right, that Artemis should be at Orpheus’s side. They had considered, sneaking to her room just as she had theirs, but the boundaries of . . . this were still unclear. They wouldn’t risk exposure, not now. But she finds them, and they are glad to be found. 

They offer out an arm, carving a place at their side made just for Artemis — Come to me . . . “The wind?” They muse, watching her. “I could sing to you instead . . . Drown it out.” It functions as half an offer, half a joke, their lips pulled into a half smirk in reflection. And then, they turn down, into a sweet sort of smile. “I’m real glad you’re here. Missed you . . . Feel like everytime I see you now a days, I say I missed you.” They speak, and the exact definition of here is left ambiguous: the room, the ship, with them, emotionally, physically, and perhaps . . . To an extent, all of it. A pause. “’N I always mean it.”

[orpheusaoide]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐊, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖/ @nyxerebvs​​

The Helicon Deck was a dangerous place for the likes of Orpheus; they, who could discover the cure to any ailment at the bottom of a glass. Any ailment, anxiety included. They had resolved to be better, half of Heteraidia lost to one too many empty glasses, one too many hits of the pipe. The Kalavria Summit would not be the same.

But, just one drink couldn’t hurt. Not now.

Now, corralled in unfamiliar territory with far too many familiar faces. Ten years without Tartarus, ten years longing for the family, the places, the people lost to them. Ten years of idolizing reunion, all come crumbling and crashing to a halt behest the historic Heteraidia. At least at Heteraidia there had been distraction amidst the heartbreak, shows to perform, fans to please. Now? Distraction had to be found, lest anxiety wreck its havok. 

But Orpheus was equal parts apprehension, and determination. The very idea terrified them, but they had to right the wrongs of Heteraidia. It was fate’s hand that threw Orpheus to their family’s mercy once more, so soon. 

They would not waste this opportunity.

More-so than the rest, the heartbreak of their mother provided ample devastation. Nyx’s tears stung still, as though they were Orpheus’ own. They would never forgive themself, for being the cause of her anguish, her disappointment. But they had meant what they had said, every word, every syllable, genuine.

Next time, we’ll try again.

Though, they hadn’t expected next time to be so soon . . . Nor had they expected Nyx’s avoidance. Orpheus thought it a coincidence, at first. They would find her, ready for a second conversation, a second try . . . and then she would find an occupation: a conversation, a passtime, anything to keep her away from Orpheus. And then, the pattern continued, and along with it came the stabbing realization.

Even your own mother is avoiding you. 

Ouch.

And still, perseverance. Nyx would have been wise, to expect Orpheus’s stubbornness. From the moment they came to the House of Hades, obstination was in their very nature. 

They find her, finally alone, at the bar on Helicon. One drink couldn’t hurt, not now. So, they order their regular, and wait, lingering just within earshot, offering her a chance to speak, to say anything. They receive their drink gratefully, downing a steadying gulp before considering words. 

“Hi.” The word comes out small, unsure. Even they aren’t certain the noise comes from their mouth. Followed immediately by, “Enjoying yourself, so far?” Their gaze dares not find hers, instead trained intently on the bartop, the glass they hold in shaking clutch. They were acutely aware of the way they spoke, discomfort setting into their bones. They spoke like a stranger, making small talk in the hopes of gaining some temporary friend. This is mother, not stranger. Or, perhaps, after all this time —

They wouldn’t dare entertain the thought. “You’ve been pretty busy today, huh?” You’ve been avoiding me. It comes out choppy, forced, as though they had decided not to say it just as they began speaking. 

[orpheusaoide]

𝐍𝐘𝐗​:

WITH: @orpheusaoide WHERE: The Styx WHEN: June, 2118

Musicians were a rare thing in Tartarus. Performers were not, really - there were entertainers in every nightclub throughout the Styx - but anyone of any actual talent left for Olympe as soon as they got the opportunity. So when Orpheus got on stage, everyone paid attention.

Orpheus was a rare thing in Tartarus, too. So full of life, of love, in a world devoid of both. Nyx was infinitely grateful that they had found their talent in music. That they could avoid, for now, the violence that drew in most others in Tartarus. She would protect their innocence as long as she could — though she wasn’t sure how long that would be. Some days, it felt like only a matter of time.

For now, she would savor it. She stood in the far corner of the nightclub, watching them sing above the din of the crowd. When they stepped off stage, she caught their eye, motioned for them to meet her outside of the crowded club. There, in the neon-lit tunnels of the Styx, she said, “You did good tonight, Canary. You have a gift.”

This — this was as good as it was going to get. A long accepted truth, that hovered just over the shoulder at each performance, during each encore, after each step off the stage. It would never get better than this. There was a time, a short time, but still time nonetheless, after the sting of a first rejection where Orpheus considered walking away from it: music, performing, hope. They had plans to pawn their guitar for some cash, and find work. Stable, consistent work. Something that didn’t require body and soul the way music did, something that didn’t make the future terrifying. 

And then, they would perform — for audiences they insisted got bigger each time — and doubt would give way to ambition, that flourished and grew with each successful show. They kept going, keep writing, keep aiming for something more.

But more meant uncertainty. At nineteen, nothing terrified them more. More meant actually leaving Tartarus, their family, their home in search of something that might not even want them when they found it. There was a difference, between late night, intoxicated day-dreaming about escaping, and leaving — actually leaving. More was scary, and thrilling at the same time. That night, as they bounded off the stage, applause and excitement coursing through their veins, all they could think about was the pursuit of more.

But, more is silenced by Mother. Mother, who watches, who dotes, who is fan #1. They find her outside the club, their face beaming, cheeks blotchy and red from the uneven club lighting, wild curls stuck to their damp forehead. “Mama!” They exclaimed, eyes gleaming under the neon fluorescence. “Ah, man, I’m real, real glad you liked it! I performed some new stuff, ‘n I think they actually liked it! Pretty soon I’ll have a whole album under my belt!” Canary, they had always adored that nickname and the affection it bore. Orpheus, the little songbird, painfully aware of the cage that bound them but simply content to have a song to sing. “Dunno about a gift, but I think I’m pretty okay. A gift would mean people outside of Tartarus would have to like my music . . . Not too confident they’d dig my vibe but . . .” They shrugged, displaying an indifference they didn’t possess. Not then. They wouldn’t earn that sort of confidence for a very long time. 

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐎​:

“It’s almost as if when somebody blatantly ignores you, it means they don’t want to speak to you. Or did you not get the hint?” Alecto feels the sparks of anger hit the underside of her chin. It flickers into the clench of her jaw, into the way she straightens her shoulders, holding them upright as if to bare the weight of this conversation– the weight of watching Orpheus’s face fall as Alecto spins cruelties off of her tongue. 

From the moment she spilled her secrets unto Orpheus’s ears, Alecto knew that things would never be the same. When Orpheus had first left, the Fury swore them off. Their hurt was deeply rooted in an abandonment that not even they could quite understand. Even when they’d grown close, silence pulling them like marionette strings. Say one more thing, just one. It’d been comfortable, and even though Alecto couldn’t see Orpheus’s smile, she could hear it– Chaos, she could always hear it. But it’d been a hard pill to swallow, the realization that Orpheus’s lightheartedness, no matter how tender– their kindness, their ability to be soft in ways that Alecto never would be, that none of it had been for her. Not in the way Alecto had needed, or in the way Alecto had wanted. 

“We spoke. Plenty. I don’t have anything left to say to you. I thought that was clear, what with not answering your messages and all.” What Orpheus could want with somebody as callous as her, thorns erupting from every visible surface – meant to inflict pain, not to heal, not to cure, Alecto would never be able to understand. But hadn’t that been it? Hadn’t Orpheus turned their back on that cruelty? Hadn’t they proven Alecto right? If logic were to dabble, Alecto would admit that it hadn’t been her venom.

They raise their brows at Orpheus’s chosen ignorance and let out a low whistle. “I’m sure if you sit with it, write a song– I don’t know, you’ll figure it out. Don’t play dumb.” Alecto’s bruised ego swells and paints a vivid picture of the terror she may inflict upon her empty room tonight.

“Not like this with you?” Alecto sinks her teeth into the side of her cheek. Crimson threatens to bloom across her tongue, but she releases as soon as the skin swells. “Tell me how I’m supposed to be, then. With you.” Alecto motions towards Orpheus. “Am I supposed to pretend you didn’t make the decision to leave us?” Alecto deflects, because falling into the reality of what this is, that it’s so much bigger than Orpheus’s departure all those years ago, does very little to quell the storm building in the pit of her stomach. Against their better judgement, they move closer to her, and from here, it’s easier to pick out the amber in their eyes. Golden flecks you wouldn’t be able to see in Tartarus, but because Orpheus is here, amongst the stars ( because they are one ), it’s apparent. The smell of tobacco, familiar, but distant all the same – the comfort in the sharp inhale, the way it reminds Alecto of a different kind of home, the kind before it became complicated. There are so many things different about Orpheus now, but still, she remains. “How do you want me to be? Go ahead, tell me.” 

Pain, it takes hold, burning from the inside out. Orpheus’s chest aches, stinging, but hollow with each each word that tears away at heald flesh over an old wound. A wound, open once again. Alecto’s voice become brandings on their heart; sentiments to be carried until forever, their very own world atop their shoulders. No apology, no affirmation would make this pain go away for Alecto. Maybe, in hurting Orpheus, they thought it might. Transferable: if Alecto hurt Orpheus, then Alecto’s pain could go away, finally, peace . . .

And, perhaps that is what keeps them present, keeps their hands against the burning coals that was Alecto’s rage. Catharsis for her, and retribution for Orpheus. “I got the hint.” They speak plainly, trying to remain steady in the face of her rage. “Believe me, I did. Maybe I just value our —” Don’t say friendship. “Relationship enough to not just . . . Let that be the end!” Exasperation breaks through their even tone, anxiety apparent in the way they’ve begun picking at the hems of their jacket sleeves. Tearing at the frayed threads in a comfortable rhythym. 

Their resolve is steeled. It hurts, more than they imagined, but they knew. Knew this wouldn’t be easy, knew forgiveness was not guaranteed.  And yet, thirty one years of maturity are reduced to nothingness beneath Alecto’s harsh gaze. Suddenly bashful, suddenly ashamed to think they might find her any other way — full of rage, full of resent.

But that was not Orpheus’s Alecto. 

Orpheus did not expect rage, for she had never reserved rage for Orpheus. For Orpheus there was sweet, there was genuine, there was companionship. This was not Orpheus’s Alecto, and perhaps that is why they endure. 

“That isn’t what this is about.” They take a step forward, and pause. “You and I both know that.” They want to speak explicitly, with that uncensored rapport they once shared. But they’ve got them, their attention, be it steeped in contempt. It was more than the freeze out of the past few months. They would not scare her away now. “And . . . I’m sorry.” Genuine; firm, but genuine. “I . . . I guess I, fuck, I dunno. I could’ve handled it better. You deserve better.” They stumble. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I fuckin’ betrayed everyone. I’m sorry I betrayed you, but —” There was a time, a naive time influenced purely by anxiety, that Orpheus grew convinced they could simply ignore it out of existence. That one day, they’d return to Orpheus like no time had passed, and things could go back to the way they were.

They were wrong.

Months of ignored phone calls, text messages left delivered, radio silence proved just how wrong they had been. They were greedy, selfish. They knew this much. To want Alecto back in their life despite the pain it might cause her . . . Their cruelty surprised even themself. And yet, here they were, all but on their knees, fighting for something. They could not offer her what she wanted, but they could offer her something.

“You’re one of the best people in my life.” An admission, eyebrows knit in a strangled sort of pain.  “I . . . I haven’t been the same. Since you just, froze me out. This shit sucks, Lecto!” And there it is, Lecto. The name that once felt so simple, so easy, now rolling off the tongue like a curse. Like something that belonged to them no longer. “I just . . . I know! I do, I know what it feels like to hurt, and I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I just . . .” 

Inhale.

“I need you.”

Exhale.

“I need you not to . . . hate me, anymore.”

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄​:

“Silence can be good.” He rolls his shoulders, like he’s not sold on it either way. His eyebrows wiggle until Orpheus passes the flask. “Useful to accept it. Even more useful to expect it, in this business. But change?” Ariadne takes a deeper gulp. “That’s the best force to roll with. Learn to weather it and you have life in the bag. I like to take it in ever-growing doses, myself.” There’s another twist of his lip. “Not much to know about Pontius beyond that. Aegea is the synthesis of change, thrown back against itself. Here you go. More metaphysics to top up the poetry.”

He props his knee against the cushions. The plush material sinks again, and Ariadne lets it do the job for him. It makes this room look like the end of a work day; it drops them one, two, three measures under the pitch of events, into a place where the hours are slower, the stakes looser.

Then, for a while, they just talk about music. They roll it out with an indulgence that’s timeless, reserved for people with no leg in the game. Green-room dreaming; ghost chase for the sake of it. They both understand it’s a farce. It’s not quite clear how proportionate it is, this understanding—but from Orpheus’ last question, he already guessed it’s a fair amount. 

In the end, their conversation will count just as much as every deal made in Olympe. The back-channel, shadow-room, bathroom-stall concessions. The bargains struck over hesperia powder and sugar-rimmed cocktails. The information traded for chips, coins, future obol bounds; for handies and bail outs. This isn’t a reality where the word official exists anymore. The official, like the factual, is being built with shallow truths and useful untruths. With reciprocal handcuffs.  

In the end, no one needs to put a rubber stamp on anything. Not right now, which is all the advantage of informal affairs. Overt commitment is simply not how the cookie gets made. This high up, people are too smart - or too jaded - for checks in white. But they do need the promise - tacit, assumed - that when the time came the magic would materialize. That’s a promise someone like Ariadne can deliver. Even if Orpheus Aoide knows better than to ask it out loud.  

Ariadne slows down their sentences. He wouldn’t rush them to it, not now. Poseidon gave him the permission for a flank attack, but it was their call when to lead it. “So, yes. All critical theory can be pared down to this: the moment you swear on it, the moment you think it’s immutable, the moment you take lived examples and make them into some objective entity, you already lost. Music just happens to be a great way to prove that. Like science, but… . Condensed. Fucking illustrative, really. Inside it, nothing is permanent and nothing is ours. It’s a revolution stretched into meter. Product, rather than process; but, in the end, the same result. Transience.”

Orpheus liked to think themself a linguist, a master of word. Give them a pen and scrap to write on, and they could spin gold. But this stranger, this tentative friend, did not deal in gold the way Orpheus did. No, this stranger speaks with purpose. Purple purpose, shrouded in pomp and circumstance, but purpose nonetheless. 

What do you want with me? The desire for candor, truth. 

Instead, they indulge. Indulge in the moment, indulge in the company, indulge in the conversation. Somewhere amidst a chuckle and a shift Orpheus finds an awareness. Of the situation, of their situation. This new friend would leave with something more than a pleasant memory and a steady buzz, such was the game. Though, Orpheus could not ascertain the nature of his goal. 

And yet, for once, Orpheus finds themself a willing participant. In their career, they had grown acutely aware of how desperate people fought to get things they wanted. From something as simple as an autograph, to the dealings of vices, desire brought out the ugliest features one possessed. And yet, there is genuity to the interaction. Perhaps, fabricated. Carefully crafted to lure Orpheus into a sense of safety . . . But they are unaware, or simply deliberate in their uncaring. 

But, what do you want with me? The thought echoes once again. Orpheus did not think themself important, especially not to the game. They had voiced this much to their mother, which garnered only frustration, rebuttal. Perhaps, their mother and he alike saw something in Orpheus that they did not. Potential, perhaps? They were unsure. 

“I’ve always thought theory just . . . Conceptually was interesting.” They hum, drumming finger tips against their knees. “Was one of the things I gave half a thought to in school, one of the things I can understand and yet . . . When you make a living doing what I do? Doesn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Music can be a science, it can be studied, day and night for years, and there will always be someone who comes around and fucks up critical understanding of it.” Half a smirk quirks onto their lips. “Like to think I’m doin’ just that.” 

Makin’ music, screwing up theory, and disappointing your family — Ah, there it is, the influence of alcohol. 

“You should take my number.” They assert, fishing their phone out of their pocket. “This was good . . . No one does this anymore, you know? I mean . . . People do this, but not with this much substance. You’ve got substance. I dig it.” An invitation, allowance for future connection. 

[orpheusaoide]

𝐙𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐒​:

Asphodel enemy number one. Now that’s not quite true, but he supposes the Asphodels smatter the spectrum, with Zagreus on on end - happily popping Ambrosia bottles backstage - and Meg on the distant other. 

Orpheus can choke.

Come on Meg, you don’t mean that. 

Zag used to chastise plenty - when it was him half asleep in the twilight, and her wide awake, turning a knife in her mind’s eye. He’d try to smother such thoughts with the roaming of hands or kisses planted - love should be the universal balm, shouldn’t it? - but it never quite worked. “Not for all of us” Zagreus says now because he’s never really found it in himself to lie.

The Ambrosia is uncorked and Zagreus would never deny an old friend’s request. He technically does have a Khton dinner, one of those annoying events that sounds like a fun time but is actually lesson in the old ‘bait and switch’ - an after hours rendezvous that is just a meeting a that could have been an email wearing a bad mustache disguise. 

“Anything I’m supposed to be doing, is not as important as this.” He lets them lead the way back to the greenroom, eyes already roaming with wonder. “Stan-orpheus is going to be so jealous. You know they have these little, fan cams of you? Ones where they give you little cat ears and everything! Do you find that weird? Or does it just, blend into the background now?”

The greenroom is settled. There’s the usual: body tape and set lists and a monitor in the corner set up to show the stage. There’s more: stacks of headshots and gift baskets and fully-stocked mini-fridge. And then, of course, there’s a well-loved photograph, tucked into the corner of the mirror, slightly crumpled at the edges. You can’t miss it. Eurydice stares at you as you stare back at yourself. 

“Holograms will last longer than the vintage stuff, you know.” Zagreus says, tapping the corner of the photo. It has to be over a decade old. Eurydice is far younger, just as bright. He’ll pry, in a second, because he always does, the ‘not now’ of earlier so quickly swept away. In his defense, that was two minutes ago, when Zagreus didn’t think he was sticking around for a drink. Everything’s fair game now. 

“What are we drinking out of? Or do you just want to pass it back and forth?” Like they used to do on the rooftop of Elysium. He picks up a vase that might have once been used for congratulatory flowers once. “This?” He smiles. 

Zagreus speaks, and Orpheus listens; a smile prying it’s way onto their lips in their attention. It is entirely unlike their practiced smiles — sweet, suave, and far too natural looking — that grace the covers of fan-sites and tabloids on Tala, but instead wide, lopsided, toothy. A smile saved for moments like these. That being, the moments that transport them to another time, another place; back to the home that once was, with a family that once was. Had they not already been drinking, perhaps melancholy would have taken root. Instead, in its place, sprouts a pure, child-like glee. 

I’ve missed you, hangs in the air, unspoken, but plain, apparent.  

“Glad we’re on the same page.” They muse, gingerly placing the decanter atop an already adorned side table, covered in various consumables provided behest their rider. “Management’s gonna have a fit when they realize I’m drinkin’ ‘fore a show, but . . . Oh well. Such is life.” 

They turn, crouch, and begin the search for glasses, allowing Zagreus a moment to investigate. Every space occupied is a space to make their own. Since the beginning, since leaving Tartarus, Orpheus has taken care to leave a piece of themself behind in places enjoyed. A convoluted  promise — I’ll come back to you. This green room is no exception. For the time being, they’ve made it their own, every nook, every cranny. They expect nothing less than curiosity, after a decade it was well earned, well deserved. They’d let him snoop, let him question, if it meant building back lost rapport. 

“I think it’s fuckin’ great, actually!” They call over their shoulder, still digging. “Love the enthusiasm. I was thrilled the first time someone made something for me. Couldn’t give two shits what critics think of my music, so long as the fans still dig it. You know?” 

Orpheus pops up, two glasses, obviously mismatching, in hand. “Wha—” Their gaze lands on Zagreus’s reference, and their smile turns smaller. Genuine, but more reserved. Almost private, the kind of privacy Orpheus was not known for. “Ah, yeah. I know . . . The memory feels more genuine that way, though. To me.” They place the glasses besides the decanter before moving across the room to their bag, rummaging once again. From it, they produce an old, leather wallet, peeling at the seams and eternally stained by a spilled bottle of cologne. 

They flip it open, and out spills a trifold of aged, yellowing polaroids. Memories from Tartarus fill the slots, the bulging plastic suggesting an abundance. One of Eurydice occupies the first slot, the word beautiful scrawled in the margain beneath. Then, another of Alecto, displaying a fresh stick-n-poke for the camera. Each Asphodel given their own dedication subsequently; blurry, authentic, something to miss. The bottom most slot is occupied by sneaked photos of Nyx and Hades. Even they, given their own spot, their own dedication. 

“‘Ve got one of everyone . . . Contrary to popular opinion: just cause I left doesn’t mean I stopped caring.” They toss it onto the dressing table, to be examined, or to be discarded. “Keep them on me always.” A pause. “Everywhere I go, to keep you guys with me.”

They fill their hands once again with the glasses, offering the larger of the two to Zagreus. They wouldn’t allow sentimentality so quickly. Orpheus was aware of the influence drinking had on their emotions, and found no desire to damper the shared drink with blubbering tears and declarations of lost love for the Asphodels. “Oh, c’mon. This is good shit. Not gonna make you drink out of that thing . . . Though, ‘m pretty sure I kept lavender in there last. Might be kinda floral, if that’s your jive.” They crack a smile, uncorking the ambrosia once again. Two drinks are poured, heavy handed. 

“Look at us.” They hum, raising their glass in cheers. “Just like the good ‘ole days.” The good ole days, when they’d sneak around after dark, backpack muffling the clanging of glass bottle against glass pipe in their pursuit of adolescent adventure, their harmony of laughter filling the night sky. Now, there is the luxury of drinking, of laughing, of enjoying openly. They take a long sip from their glass, pleasantly aware of the swish and sting of Ambrosia against their gums. 

With the sting, an acute awareness. Just like the good ole days, minus everything good about them. For a moment, they wonder if the others know where Zagreus is, what he’s doing. Were they aware of his visit, and scorned him for it? Or perhaps unaware, kept in the dark for his own sake? Orpheus possesses a curiosity akin to Zagreus’, though far more indirect. “So, what, not universally Asphodel enemy number one, but no one else wanted to come with?” A roundabout way of inquiry. “Not that I’m complanin’, always had too much fun when it was just the two of us . . . Just hope they didn’t give you too much shit on the way out.”

[handmaidensabe]

[on date] *winks flirtily* and btw i am soooo haunted by the ghosts of my past mistakes and how preventable their consequences were. do you want me carnally

[orpheusaoide]

𝐍𝐘𝐗​:

Friends, family - Nyx had very few of the former that she didn’t consider the latter, so she merely frowned at the distinction Orpheus made. But their assertion that they weren’t important enough made her blood boil. They were so much like Hypnos and Zagreus in so many ways. This, the undervaluing themself, underestimating their own use, was perhaps the most infuriating. She couldn’t understand why they didn’t see their worth. To the world, to her, but most importantly to those who would seek to use them.

“Yes, he would. Zeus is a petty, selfish, egotistical excuse for a human being who would do anything to keep his ugly little empire safe. He would destroy you in an instant if he believed you were a threat to it. And if you make yourself look like some sort of Tartarus spy by hanging around -” by hanging around actual Tartarus spies, “- your family, he might begin to think you’re a threat.”

She took a shuddering breath. She didn’t want this either, any of it. Of course she didn’t want to argue with them, not when it might be her last chance to ever see them. Still, she couldn’t hold back a sharp, frustrated retort. “You’re telling me you didn’t think leaving Tartarus, running away and coming to Olympe, would make it difficult to see your family?!”

She exhaled, forced the anger out of her in one long breath. It wasn’t them she was angry with. “I don’t want this either. I never wanted any of this. I’m sorry I failed you, Orpheus.” Because in the end, she could never blame Orpheus for seeking out a place that they could flourish in. She could only hold herself responsible for not making Tartarus that place.

& . . .

Their pain is the tangible kind; the kind that manifests in the wrinkled furrow of their brows, the deep, red nail marks stabbed into their palms, the stinging tears pooling in the corners of their eyes. It manifests in ways that leave Orpheus feeling uncomfortable in their own body, uncomfortable in their own space. For so long mother had been synonymous with safety, but now . . . When had that changed?

The answer was quite simple, really: when they left Tartarus. A fact so simple, so plain, so easy to rub in, like salt to the wound. A fact Nyx was unafraid to remind Orpheus of — Orpheus, synonymous now with naive, foolish, selfish, traitor. The very thought sends a tear spilling down and over their reddened cheek, a tear which they are quick to brush away out of existence. 

“I thought . . .” What had they thought? “Dunno what I thought. Whatever it was, though, clearly I was wrong. I can’t change the fact that I left. But I can try ‘n make it right now.” A pause. “Even if it means pissing off Zeus.” 

They search for words, affirmations, offerings of peace. You didn’t fail me, they want to say. They don’t. How can one begin to convince their own mother of such a fact? “I should . . .” Stay, their heart begs. “Go.” And they feel something in their chest snap in two, leaving a cavernous aching in their chest. Home, pushed much farther out of reach now. “Stuff to do, you know. ‘M kind of a big deal now.” They try to joke, try to put on a smile through this unfolding tragedy. But it is forced, their voice cracking, words haunted by that ache. 

For a moment, they contemplate a hug. Some last show of good faith. Proof: I’m still yours, I’m still your child. And, they almost follow through, taking a step forward, hands twitching up. But something stops them, keeping them reserved within themself. “Next time,” They say. “We’ll try again. Next time, we’ll do better. It’ll be sweeter. It’ll be the reunion we deserved.” And their momentum, instead of into her arms, sends them past her to the door. They open it with a shaking hand, and step aside for her. Still, respecting; You’re still my mother. They did not accept this ending, they couldn’t. There had to be a next time. Had to.

𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑺𝑯 . . .

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒​:

Her body is an instrument, a marketable product, a thing for people to lay their eyes on as she stands on a stage, a moon, a combination of flesh and bones and skin and everything in between, and it’s hers, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Artemis is starting to feel like a teenager again, twirling for the crowds, tip-toed-silver-eyelid-flick-of-hair prettiness, wanting to come home and not only zip off her dress but her body, too. Long story short: she is tired, in that way she often gets these days, tired of the eyes on her but at the same time not knowing who she is if not watched. This is why she ventured into smaller movies, with smaller teams, with shorter press-tours and less of a media circus.

But Heteraidia is inescapable. It’s the birthday gift for her father and so much more, especially this year. She does not see the full picture, is not sure if she wants to, but she throws herself head-first. A break will come after this, she says. So, her phone buzzes merrily, most notifications read but not replied to. That’s the case with the pin dropped by Orpheus, Artemis opening it and setting her course as she replies to the person she was supposed to meet and canceling, forgetting in the process to answer Orpheus. 

Artemis flies through the backstage, rejecting conversation starters and avoiding people from her network she’s still supposed to speak to. She wants Orpheus, one of the few people in Olympe in front of which she feels, maybe, like the person that sits in the core of her being. A constant in the chaos, a fellow-celebrity, but not one she competes with — simply Orpheus, from lazy Sunday mornings in their flat, from the easy comfort of shared dinners, from friendship in the way it ought to be. “Orpheus!” Her voice echoes theirs, and they meet in the middle, Artemis quick to give a sideway hug, to glance at the drink and to immediately feel the yearning for one of her own. “I did, I did, fuck — forgot to reply, didn’t I? But yes, I did, and I’m on the same page. The Orpheus-withdrawals are real, I’m telling you.” She’s quick to move to the minibar, crouch down and search for something to drink. Artemis pauses her hunt to look over her shoulder, “Next year, maybe, we should perform to— actually, no. Next year, we should just plan in a mandatory check-in of fifteen minutes, minimum, every day.” She remembers performing with Apollo, all those years ago and now again, too, and how it had nearly set everything aflame. A divide between work and personal relationships, really, is best for Artemis: even if it seems impossible, with everything so fucking entangled. With Orpheus, at least, there’s some control in that regard.

She grabs a mini bottle of something pre-mixed, no glass, and moves closer to Orpheus again, eyes darting around in search for a place to sit. “How’re you?” A question she asks so many people here, but there’s more sincerity to it when it comes to Orpheus.  Artemis twists the bottle open and takes a sip. “Doing okay?”

They linger there, in that half hug, for a moment too long; relishing in the warmth that is Artemis. An action,  a feeling, they attribute to the empty glass in their hand. They are a servant of flesh, finding comfort in the arms of another. Perhaps it is for this reason that a restless night’s respite can be found at her bedside. Perhaps, it is something else.  Orpheus finds themself, eyes glazed, and cheeks a twinge too red, mulling over the thought, before they finally snap to. Back to the conversation, mid sentence. They offer an affirmative mhm, an attempt to prove attention. “Yeah, yeah you did, but ‘s all good now. You’re here, ‘s all that matters.”

Around Artemis, they are able to relax, in a way the Heteraidia had so far hindered. Their shoulders slump and their attentive expression falls into a more inert, resting face. The truest sign of friendship: comfort. They reach in the fridge after her, producing a bottle of whiskey that is far too fancy, and two-thirds gone. Half a glass, a squeeze of lemon, a quick stir, and they’ve gone back to sipping, languid and slow, more for the occupation than the act of getting drunk.  “That uh, that sounds real nice. I’d like that.” They crack a smile around the stir straw. “As much as I’d love to perform with ya, Art, you know I don’t mix business with pleasure.” A sip, a smirk, and a sly wink all before an uncharacteristic giggle befalls the crest of their lips. “Makes everything messy, y’know? Besides . . . I think the media would explode if we gave in and did that crossover.” 

There is a desperation, a desire to meet her enthusiasm. As so to say look at me, I’m doing great! The idea of, even for a moment, Artemis worrying over them sickened Orpheus. They never wanted her to worry, not about them. “Yeah . . . Yeah I’m okay.” Their voice goes up on the last syllable, their easiest tell. Orpheus never had been too good at lying. They move on quickly. “Just, a ‘lil tired. This shit is exhausting . . . More-so than other years. And —” They hold their tongue for a moment, contemplating. If they couldn’t confide in Artemis, who could they confide in? And so, they continue. “I’m seein’ everyone. From Tartarus. Trying to heal old wounds, patch up relationships, really try and make good and . . . Let’s just say it hasn’t been easy on the heart. But . . . Yeah, ‘m good.” It is the most they can give away without succumbing to melancholy, without spoiling their moment.

“‘Nough ‘bout me, how are you? If this has been crazy for me? Shit, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.” They look at her now, closer. Eyes roams over her features, a pleased smile replacing their amused one. “I really did miss you. Dunno if I’ve said that yet. Just thought I would, just in case.” Orpheus was not ashamed to admit that, in all their years of companionship, they had grown rather dependent on Artemis. Being apart from her for so long was strange, and far from pleasant. They wanted her — or, they wanted to be around her, be with her. They wanted, and this was enough to satiate.

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐎​:

There had been a sliver of hope, something built on a promise that Alecto once carried deep within their heart. It devolved into something sickly, something to be mourned the moment their truths split from their tongue, pouring and oozing– tar-like and ravenous. Alecto wasn’t the type to feel – those around her did not expect such. But she felt, and she felt deeply. The rage, the ferocity – it is not lost on her that most of the time, she can be likened to a caged animal. 

But still, it never does well when an individual whose own wrath has swallowed them whole comes to terms with the idea of love. Alecto had loved, and she had lost. She held onto the love for those in her life, those who hadn’t strayed, but for the ones who had slipped from the hold she had? Who had purposely bent back her fingers, knuckles forced into separation, to allow them to flee? Alecto held contempt, and in that contempt, her fury knew no bounds. 

As they walk, shoulders hunched, the sound of her footfalls quiet against the consistent chatter that surrounds them, they hear their name. And it’s familiar, and it makes their heart race and sink at the same time. Sweat beads the back of their neck– nerves dancing along their skin. 

Not here, not now, not here, not now. 

There’s an embarrassment that coats her mouth, and it’s slick like oil, making it hard to swallow, to breathe. Alecto clenches their jaw as they turn around. To bystanders, there is only Orpheus, but even to Alecto, it’s only her who stands against stalls of golds and silvers. 

“Don’t give yourself too much credit. It wasn’t like I was trying to hide.” 

Had she hoped Orpheus would come looking? 

No, no, no. 

“What do you want?” Turn around, please. I can’t do this, not right now. 

Alecto looks at them, and it’s the first time in a long time that they aren’t viewing them through a screen. She looks down at the way they fidget, long fingers twisting a ring that they’ve always worn. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a fan sign or some shit?”

Her venom is palpable, something akin to fury fueling every word. Perhaps, Orpheus was a fool to have expected anything less. And, perhaps, they were even more a fool to believe it could all be an act; this contempt she so openly displayed. They couldn’t tell, not confidently . . . Not anymore, at least. Orpheus had fallen from Alecto’s grace long ago. Though, not so long ago as the rest, just long enough to leave a strange sort of longing in her wake. 

There is a desire, the overwhelming sort, to fall to their knees, and beg forgiveness for their transgressions. Come back to me, please, friend. 

“Maybe not,” A pause. “Also weren’t responding to my texts . . . Makes it a lil harder to find someone, no? When they don’t give ya the time of day?” They speak with an nonchalance, gilded in humor, and ease. But somewhere, buried beneath their own act, is hurt. A hurt they’ve struggled to put words to: late nights haunted, hunched over paper, hands smudged with ink, trying to capture this hollowness.

I’ve done nothing wrong, they want to say. You’ve done nothing wrong, follows. 

“I want you to talk to me.” It comes out harsher than intended, teeth instinctively coming down on the inside of their cheek, gnawing at the tender flesh. “You just . . . You stopped talking to me, and I still don’t even know why.” A lie. They’ve committed to this deliberate ignorance. 

That night, a secret to be kept, sat fresh in their mind. Their words reflect hers, her confession: When I talk to you, when you talk to me, I feel like I’m being swallowed by something I can’t see . . . Even now those words nag, whispering truths into their ear they don’t want to acknowledge. A similar feeling encroaches on Orpheus, shoving insecurity down their throat. Though of a similar nature, it does not stem from the same place . . . Does not harbor those same feelings which a drunken Alecto so carefully confided. Perhaps, if it did, everything could be easier. 

“Don’t do that.” Half a plea, half a demand, wholly desperate. “You aren’t like this with me. Don’t start. Please don’t start.”

[orpheusaoide]

𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄​:

This whole set up is more than humiliating. Not being in the room, of course, but what Ariadne had to do to get there (what he keeps having to do to get there, even now). After botching it with Apollo, full shit-the-bed royalties, they had to reroute. In other words: after failing to secure a benign favour from a one-sided friendship he’s been puffing up for two years, Ari was right back where he started. He could’ve asked Artemis to get them a meeting with Orpheus, sure. But that was the wrong twin to get a leg on. She would’ve caught him at it; not because of morality, or friendship, or some illusory divide between profit and loyalty. Because she was smart. People like Ariadne did not have starstruck crushes. They barely had any interests beyond the game. There was only one reason someone with his position wanted a sit-down with Olympe’s most promising phenomenon. It wasn’t heartrobbing, and it wasn’t fame.

Orpheus was a symbol. If Pontius hoarded anything, finessed them like shingle and bone, it was exactly that. Stray bits of iconography. Revolutions in promise, game changers thrown off course. Wraiths haunting the road until you gave them purpose. Some named that purpose future. Others named it home.

Ariadne looks at Orpheus, buzz-eyed and wired, and wonders which one they’ll be.

He reaches for the flask. Takes a deep swig and sits down by their side. The alcohol washes out watery words for stronger ones. It drowns the taste of what he did to get this press assignment, so preciously reserved for Olympians alone. Not courage: it’s been years since he needed that. But clarity. As liquid as it ever is. He hooks an arm around his knee and bends closer.

“Don’t sweat it. I can guarantee you we’ve never met. ‘m actually not supposed to be here at all. My team’s on Pontius.” He brings out the tattoo code. His arm hangs over the plush cushions.

 “Technically. But I’ve always been a fan of this genre, so I pulled some strings. Haven’t heard your songs before, though. I think Pontius is sort of… more focused on making its own culture right now, rather than keeping up. Can’t say if that’s good business tactics or not. But as far as art goes, it’s pretty tight. An insular sphere trying to gather sounds from all over the world, all over history, and turn them into something else. A memory that makes a clean break from the past. Building newness with nothing.” He gives a short, curt laugh. Leans his head on his arm. “Blink twice if you never want to listen to cultural theory again. My bad. I think silence is probably what you’re after right now. Some time alone with your thoughts. Should I get you anything?”

Their mouth falls open, a silent ah ghosting over their lips. A sign of acknowledgment, free from judgement, and they receive the flask. Perhaps, taking another drink is a fool’s mistake, and still they do. Half their reserve now drained, placed back from where it had been retrieved, a silent and continuous offer to their new friend; Drink with me. “I see,” They pause, an amused sort of smile crackling to life on Orpheus’ lips. “You’ve gotta tell me how you pulled that one off — Actually, don’t. I don’t wanna know. Ruins the magic, I think.” They laugh, not at their own words, but his. Team he says, and makes a show of his code. The very notion was far too foreign to tender Orpheus that just the idea made them laugh. Were they nothing more than a member of team Olympe, they were surely confined to the sidelines, timed out after one too many red flags. 

A moment’s consideration befalls them, gaze turned down to their own code. Branded by Olympe with half a heart left in Tartarus, it would’ve felt cruel, had it not been a self imposed fate. They lean forward, resting their elbows on their knees as they listen. The stranger talks the same way Orpheus writes — with the loquacious sort of verbosity only an artist might appreciate. Or a politician, perhaps two sides of the same linguistic coin. “’M not blinkin’, promise . . . You speak like poetry, y’know that? May be cultural theory but you kept my attention. That’s an impressive feat, whether you realize it or not.” With little effort, Orpheus is able to convince themself he is an affable companion, worth keeping around. At least for now, at least until he proves otherwise. 

"Ah, I actually don’t do silence. Kind of suffocating, no?” There were tortured artists who thrived in the silence of between, but the very concept made Orpheus pale in the face. Now, the idea of being left alone with their thoughts made their palms sweat, their eyebrows knit together in an uncomfortable sort of intensity. They should’ve accepted his leave, should’ve embraced a between’s respite. And yet, their mouth keeps moving, scrounging up words to form half coherent thoughts. “I, ah, think it’s real neat. What you guys are doin’ over in Pontius. I’m not too informed on Olympe’s — oh what did you call it — cultural theory myself, but I still think ‘s real neat. Really. I’m always rooting for change, you know? Whatever keeps it fresh, keeps things churnin’ ‘n changin’. I get so bored with how things can stagnate. Same reason I don’t make the same music twice, same reason I won’t be mad when the limelight moves on.” They find themself rambling, speaking with an unearned sort of familiarity. 

How long had it been since they could speak like this, freely and uninhibited? Perhaps it was the alcohol at work, turning the tips of their ears peak and loosening their lips into a lazy smile. Sharing counsel with a stranger, there was no baggage of the past, no obligation towards feeling, or fear of how idle chatter might be later used against them. They speak without too much thought, and in return, company is kept. “So, what . . . You’re just . . . Really into rock’n’roll then; rock’n’roll, ‘n critical theories and shit?” A pause. “Either that or you’re lyin’ and you’re actually just some . . . Press junkie journalist, here for the hottest goss.” The very thought makes them snort. He seems too . . . too something, to be a journalist. They can’t quite put their finger on it. Then again, it doesn’t seem like they’re trying to.

[orpheusaoide]

ORPHEUS AOIDE READS THIRST POSTS ON TALA

“ Yeah so, funny thing, right? This isn’t my first time seein’ this sorta stuff like . . . There’s a LOT of it out there and most of it is WAY saucier than this. But, uhm, my management keeps like, my logins ‘n passwords from me so when you’re @-ing me, and taggin’ me in stuff to flirt . . . You’re not actually flirting with me, you’re flirting with my poor social media agent.  

. . . No, yeah I totally have a private [TALA account] that I’ll sometimes interact with fans on. I can’t publicly announce that it’s mine, but I’m also not hiding that it’s me. Sometimes I’ll, like, comment thanks, or give praise or whatever and no one ever believes it’s me. They think I’m an impersonator trying to get their money or something. Shit’s hilarious. ”