there’s a symphony on his lips, a hum age-old but familiar enough to sound like a fond remembrance to any ear it falls upon. there’s a spring in his step today, something jovial about the way he picks his way across the cobbled street. his mind says: you are a fool, you are a goaded fool; and yet his heart hushes it into quiet acquiescence and says: go forth into the blooming, she awaits you so –
and for all his follies, apollo is not a foolish god. he knows very well the service of his intentions, knows where they stem from – knows where they cannot must not go. ( it’s not necessarily that he has a penchant for best behavior, not even something akin to brethren in the god of the underworld – but it’s something more resolute, something filled with vitriol & acid. this is his punishment, as the lover scorned. he must bear it so, honorably as he can. )
there’s an indulgence in the way he lets himself fall prey to it—he could not resist it if he tried, not with the whims of eros and eris upon his back; but they are not the only culprits when he is the instigator—lets himself douse in the safety of sun-warmed love. ( and it is love, eros has said it himself so. ) his smiles tells of secrets his heart keeps; persephone must not know. if this is to end without spilling ichor, it is best if he keeps his own confession mum-lipped. persephone’s heart is her own first, hades’ second ( or perhaps of a varying order, apollo cannot pretend to know ) – and that is how it must stay.
so he hopes, so he wishes.
the flower shop blooms ahead of him. it is a tucked away thing, decorated with flora that sings of summer. there are bouquets lining the path to the door, and it is with quick fingers that apollo steals a rose from it – lifts it to breathe it in just as the door tinkles with the chime of his arrival.
and there she is – a vision. ( he cannot keep the curl of his smile from blooming just so. )
he speaks with dramatics, adds the coloring to his tone to make it less obvious how much he has come to mean his following words. “shall i compare thee to a summer’s day?” he intones, a lyrical ascent as apollo makes his way to the counter aside which she stands. elbows coming to rest upon the counter, he holds out the rose for her – all the while fighting to keep the mauve of his lips upturned to but a modicum of appropriateness. “—i can see why mortals are so enchanted with his words.” ( it is, undoubtedly, shakespeare apollo is referring to; a muse he’d known in another incarnate life. ) “he blossomed through his work, but he was a quiet muse, did you know? wore his affairs to heart. perhaps he teaches there is much to learn in the silence...his words certainly outlive him to the extent of a god.” ( @jxniel )
