SICK DAY
(Menelaus x Odysseus)
written by: Han Espiritu
Disclaimer: All story ideas from @makthemultifandomnonbinaryfellow I tried? HAHAHAHA I've been having Writer's Block soooo~
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“Menelaus, what in Hera’s name are you doing?”
Odysseus froze mid-step, scroll in one hand, and stared as the King of Sparta stumbled shirtless across the muddy camp, pale and flushed like a sunburned fish.
“I need—I need to speak with Agamemnon. Or maybe—maybe Helen—” Menelaus coughed hard enough to double over. “She… she needs to know I’m still fighting for her.”
“You’re barely standing upright,” Odysseus growled, already jogging toward him. “You look like you lost a drinking contest with Apollo and a fever.”
“I’m fine,” Menelaus slurred, waving him off—and promptly collapsed into Odysseus’ arms.
Odysseus almost went down with him. “Gods above—You weigh as much as your pride, you oaf.”
“Let me go,” Menelaus wheezed. “I must fight—”
“You’ll fight me if you try to move again,” Odysseus snapped, hauling him upright with a grunt. “Which, admittedly, would be hilarious. Half-dead Spartan versus cranky Ithacan. Let’s see who wins.”
“I am the king—!”
“And I’m the only one smart enough here to keep you alive!” Odysseus barked, practically dragging him back toward his tent.
Menelaus tried to resist—feebly. “You’re half my size.”
“And twice as stubborn.” Odysseus threw the tent flap aside. “Now lie down before I drop you on your royal ass.”
Menelaus blinked at the cot. “Is this where you sleep?”
“Yes. Now it’s the royal infirmary. Move.”
He groaned and collapsed into the bed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, so much.” Odysseus grabbed a blanket and threw it over him, tucking it in tighter than necessary. “I might knit you a little crown of wool while I’m at it. King of Stupid Ideas.”
“Odysseus—”
“No. Quiet.” Odysseus raised a hand dramatically. “You are sick, and I am now your overly invested, emotionally repressed caretaker. Just accept your fate.”
Menelaus laughed weakly. “You’re terrible.”
“You’re worse. You left camp in the freezing morning air with a fever because you thought Helen might feel your noble suffering through the wind?”
“I miss her,” Menelaus muttered, eyes dropping.
Odysseus paused. His voice softened. “I know.”
He busied himself boiling water, mixing herbs, pretending not to see the faint shimmer of tears in Menelaus’ eyes. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
Menelaus eyed the cup suspiciously. “You’re not poisoning me, are you?”
“Not yet. Maybe if you try to leave again.”
Menelaus chuckled and took a sip. “Gods, it tastes like sweaty sandals.”
“You’d know.”
They sat in silence for a while. The tent warmed with steam, soft rustling of linen and water boiling. Menelaus’ eyelids fluttered.
Odysseus finally sighed. “You don’t always have to bleed for her, you know.”
“She’s my wife,” Menelaus rasped. “I swore to protect her.”
“You’re not protecting her by killing yourself in the mud,” Odysseus muttered. “You think Helen wants you burning alive in your tent, shaking from fever and grief?”
“I don’t know what she wants,” Menelaus whispered. “She left.”
“That doesn’t mean she stopped caring.”
“How would you know?”
“Because Penelope hasn’t seen me in years, and she’s probably cursing my name every night,” Odysseus said, sitting on the edge of the cot. “But I still think about her. And I know she thinks about me.”
Menelaus turned toward him, tired eyes locking on his. “Does it get easier?”
“No.” Odysseus reached out, gently pressing the cool cloth to Menelaus’ forehead. “But you stop trying to carry it alone.”
Menelaus stared at him. “When did you get so gentle?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Odysseus whispered with a grin. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
A tired laugh escaped Menelaus. “I’d rather have you beside me in war than any Spartan brute.”
“Obviously,” Odysseus said, mock offended. “We all know I’m the prettier one.”
“Oh gods, your ego.”
“You love it.”
Menelaus gave him a lopsided smirk. “A little.”
Odysseus chuckled. “Sleep, Menelaus. I’ll be here.”
“Promise?”
Odysseus met his gaze, and this time there was no teasing in his voice. “I never leave my friends behind. Especially not the ones dumb enough to fall in love.”
Menelaus closed his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
When Odysseus glanced down a few moments later, Menelaus was asleep—finally resting, breath steady, a faint furrow still between his brows. Even in sleep, he fought.
Odysseus stayed by the cot, chin resting on his palm, watching him quietly. “You’re a damn fool,” he murmured. “But you’re my fool.”
---
Menelaus stirred in the cot, brow damp with sweat, mumbling incoherently into the thin air.
Odysseus was still seated beside him, elbow on knee, hand resting against his cheek, half-dozing until he heard the muttering.
Because even heroes need someone to hold the world for them—
“...Helen…”
The name was barely a breath. His fingers twitched against the blanket.
Odysseus leaned in. “Menelaus?”
But Menelaus didn’t respond. His head rolled slightly toward Odysseus, eyes fluttering beneath fever-heavy lids.
“Stay… don’t go,” he whispered. “Please…”
Odysseus’ breath caught. “Hey—hey, I’m here,” he said quickly, pressing the cool cloth back to his forehead.
And then—without warning—Menelaus grabbed his hand.
Firm. Clammy. And utterly unaware.
“Don’t leave again, Helen,” he murmured, voice ragged and broken. “Don’t go where I can’t reach you.”
Odysseus blinked.
“Oh, gods,” he whispered. “He thinks I’m Helen.”
He looked down at their joined hands.
“I should let go,” Odysseus told himself. “This is... wildly inappropriate.”
But Menelaus’ grip was firm. Desperate.
So he didn’t.
He sat there, holding the Spartan king’s hand in a tent that smelled like thyme and sweat and ancient regrets, while the sick fool whispered apologies meant for a ghost.
“...I’m sorry I wasn’t enough... sorry I didn’t stop Paris…”
Odysseus closed his eyes.
“You were enough,” he said quietly. “You still are. You’re just a goddamn idiot.”
He gently rubbed Menelaus’ knuckles with his thumb, scowling at how soft he was being.
“If Diomedes walks in right now,” he muttered, “I will never hear the end of this.”
---
By afternoon, Menelaus’ fever had broken, but he was left half-conscious, bleary-eyed, and sniffling like a war-beaten puppy.
Odysseus returned with a bowl of soup, ducking back through the tent flap with a sigh.
“I threatened the cook until he gave me real meat and not that watery gruel he calls ‘stew,’” he announced. “You better be grateful.”
Menelaus blinked up at him. “Odysseus…?”
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” the Ithacan said. “You tried to die dramatically, but alas, I was here to ruin it.”
“What… happened?”
“Oh, just a touch of plague, a hint of hallucination, and the part where you clung to me like a lost lover.” Odysseus grinned. “Very poetic.”
Menelaus blinked rapidly. “I what?”
“You called me Helen and begged me not to leave you.”
“I—what?!” Menelaus turned beet red.
Odysseus held up their still-intertwined hands. “Also, you wouldn’t let go of me for a solid hour. I started wondering if you were secretly in love with me.”
Menelaus groaned and covered his face with his free hand. “Gods kill me now.”
“Nah, you’re too entertaining.”
Odysseus set the bowl down and dipped the spoon, then paused dramatically.
“Alright, open your royal mouth. It’s time for the feeding of the man-baby.”
Menelaus scowled. “I can feed myself.”
“You’ll drop the spoon and splatter hot broth all over my blankets.”
“Then don’t use your bed.”
“Well, you looked cold and tragic, and I am a gentleman.”
“You’re the most insufferable man in this camp.”
“Eat the soup, Menelaus.”
The Spartan king sighed and reluctantly opened his mouth, glaring at Odysseus like a child forced to swallow medicine.
“You are enjoying this,” he grumbled mid-chew.
“Oh, immensely,” Odysseus replied, spooning another bite. “You’re never this still unless you’re unconscious. I’m savoring every second.”
Menelaus paused, frowning softly. “Thank you.”
Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “What for?”
“For... staying,” he muttered. “For not treating me like I’m made of marble or madness.”
Odysseus’ expression shifted, just for a moment.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. Just don’t do it alone, alright?”
Menelaus looked at him. Really looked. “You say that like you don’t.”
Odysseus’ jaw tightened. “I fall apart when no one’s watching. Big difference.”
“Well,” Menelaus said, leaning back against the cot. “Then we’re both fools.”
Odysseus gave a soft laugh. “You more than me.”
“Maybe,” Menelaus said, voice quieter now. “But it’s good... knowing someone would drag me back when I forget how to stand.”
“Always,” Odysseus said. “Though next time, I expect a gift basket.”
“Filled with what?”
“Ambrosia. Olive oil. A tiny bronze statue of me.”
“Arrogant bastard,” Menelaus murmured, but his smile said otherwise.
---
Later that evening, when Menelaus had finally fallen into a peaceful sleep, Odysseus sat by the candlelight, arms crossed, watching him with a scowl that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered.
He watched Menelaus breathe slowly, chest rising and falling with no more wheezing or fever. Just peace. Just... warmth.
He reached over and adjusted the blanket over his shoulders.
“Sleep well, Spartan,” he murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”
And outside, the storm raged on—but inside the tent, where Odysseus stood guard over his stubborn, grieving friend, it was quiet. Safe.
Because sometimes, the gods give you brothers not born of blood—but of battle, of loss, of laughter through cracked lips.
And sometimes, holding someone’s hand through fever is the most heroic thing you can do.
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⚠️ Plagiarism Warning:
This work is original and written by HAN ESPIRITU. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission. Plagiarizing or claiming this story as your own is strictly prohibited and will be reported.
