Chapter Text
The hours dragged on and on and Odysseus couldn’t tell whether it was for the better or for the worse. Granted, he could still sit in his tent, unbothered by anyone — maybe presumed dead by Agamemnon — but that led him to thinking. At a moment such as that, that wasn’t too welcome but contemplations crowded his head regardless.
He chuckled at one point. He chuckled because he felt remorse. He couldn’t believe that. He, Odysseus, the great tactician, was haunted by guilt! One could say: at last!
Was that it, though? Was that the end? Was his doom incoming?
No, there could be no room for remorse. How else was Odysseus supposed to scheme and lie if there was something holding him back?
This wasn’t planned. Odysseus had always had everything planned ahead, with at least five possible outcomes ready to navigate through. His bond with Diomedes should’ve been similar. And it had been. Until something had bloomed in the very heart of wily Odysseus. Suddenly, there were no ways out outlined in his head. Odysseus realised that he’d been following an instinct, a feeling, for some time, which wasn’t a usual occurrence for him.
It had happened once before. It had been the time of that godsdamned oath that he’d used for his own benefit: to marry his dear Penelope. Since then, it had been only cold strategizing all the time.
Until it wasn’t.
Wine wasn’t going to fix his problem. But it surely would make it more bearable. Besides, he was still supposed to go and placate Diomedes. Some drink was bound to help. Boost his ego if required.
For some unspecified amount of time, Diomedes had been sat on his bed, staring at the tent wall opposite him. He hadn’t even eaten since he’d woken up. The only thing he’d done, apart from his thoughtless gaping, had been mixing wine to pacify himself. The fresh and crispy drink kept him inside his tent. He would’ve loved to rush into battle but he knew — he’d learnt — that it wasn’t a good idea in his state. Not that anyone else had been better regarding their psyche. Still, no one else had almost been stabbed by their comrade.
Best friend.
Lover.
Diomedes cursed under his breath and then tuned in to the footsteps and shuffling that he heard outside, in the distance, approaching. He wondered if it was Agamemnon but he dismissed the thought shortly thereafter. The King of Mycenae wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t that kind of a man. All he’d needed was to have Odysseus punished. He had had someone to do it and he’d been a content ruler again ever since. He wouldn’t come to check up on either Diomedes or Odysseus, or anyone else who wasn’t his brother
Not everything was so simple about Agamemnon, though. However, it wasn’t the time that Diomedes would’ve deemed worthy of dwelling over that. Not when the steps were getting closer and closer. The man must’ve stopped as soon as his name was called by none other than Menelaus.
Diomedes could’ve easily slipped out of his tent right there and then. But avoiding confrontation wasn’t something he’d do willingly, so, knowing who was heading to his safe haven, he sat still, waiting, anticipating. He didn’t want to eavesdrop, really, but some parts of the conversation reached him nonetheless.
Of course, Menelaus asked about Helen. Of course, Odysseus calmed him down with way too many words than necessary. Of course, he asked if everything had gone according to the plan. Of course, Menelaus praised Odysseus for a job well done and told him to repeat that to Diomedes once he saw him.
Of course, the younger son of Atreus asked if his older brother had awarded Odysseus and Diomedes accordingly. Of course, Odysseus lied.
Oh, what a jovial laughter — Diomedes wondered in how much pain Odysseus was, since the laughter sounded so healthily and genuinely — came from the two men! A clap on the shoulder and a friendly shove later Menelaus left Odysseus to his own devices. So, he let out an exhale and stood just outside Diomedes’ tent.
Odysseus calling Diomedes’ name was like a needle pricking the young king’s bubble of safety and solitude. His lip trembled; he opened his mouth but couldn’t say a word. He swallowed and got up only when the Ithacan called him for the second time. Diomedes hoped that his features didn’t betray him and that what Odysseus could read from his countenance was cold indifference.
He succeeded but it didn’t discourage Odysseus. Quite the contrary — it only spurred him on to make amends and not let Diomedes flee inside without him in tow.
“What do you want, Laertiades? Came to finish the job?” Diomedes spat out.
Odysseus looked at him sympathetically. “I have no idea what our lord marshal told you but it’s never been my intention, mighty Diomedes. You know I would never really try to kill you. I know you know. I’m not like that.”
The King of Argos scoffed and shook his head. “Out of my sight,” he said and turned around, briefly wondering if Odysseus would attempt to stab him in the back now too. Diomedes flinched but it wasn’t because of a dagger being stuck into his flesh. Instead, a hand grabbed him by the wrist as he was about to close the flaps of the tent.
He stilled. Jaw clenched, he waited for whatever other lies Odysseus had at the ready.
“Diomedes,” he said. “Please.”
Diomedes swallowed. So did Odysseus.
“Let me explain.”
“All’s clear to me.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Odysseus pried gently, his voice breaking a bit; he couldn’t tell whether it was purposeful or emotions had taken hold of him. “Please. Spare me a moment of your time. I am asking for nothing more.”
Diomedes’ resolve was being dismantled piece by piece. He couldn’t help but let it happen.
“Get in.”
Odysseus’ face lit up and he shortly passed Diomedes by, entering his tent. He was put to a rapid halt as he heard the younger man’s emotionless tone.
“Try anything, Laertiades, and I’ll end your life in this very tent.”
“Ah! Diomedes, that won’t be—”
“Remember what Achilles did to Hector’s body? I suggest you keep that in mind,” the King of Argos muttered as he walked by Odysseus.
The Ithacan’s throat went dry and he stood on his spot, watching Diomedes stop at a table. He leaned against it, hanging his head down. Silence.
Odysseus walked over and stopped two or three steps away from him. Diomedes still didn’t budge, his shoulders rose and fell as he took a breath and exhaled. He was only waiting for Odysseus to start talking. To hear him begin his rant.
“Dear Diomedes, I’ve come here to… apologise,” was all the King of Ithaca said.
Diomedes was a bit surprised that no more words spilled out of Odysseus’ mouth. He scoffed under his breath and stated, “the goddess has sent you.”
“Yes, she did but!” Odysseus said and quickly added, “but, with all due respect, you are terribly mistaken if you think that I don’t regret my… mistake.”
“Remorseful or not, you wouldn’t have come, would you? If the goddess hadn’t told you to.”
“Diomedes!”
“Would you, Odysseus?!”
The furious glare that Diomedes sent the other man over his shoulder had the latter tremble inside.
“I wouldn’t,” Odysseus admitted.
“You would've thought I’d let it slip. Forget it with time. Let it out in a battle. Kill some Trojans and be over it. Just as planned. Am I wrong?”
“By no means.”
“I thought so.”
Maybe Lady Athena was the Goddess of Wisdom. Maybe the gods weren’t often mistaken. But once in a while, they were. And with each word that came from Odysseus, Diomedes was becoming more and more convinced that it was one of those rare moments when Lady Athena had made a wrong decision. This conversation was leading to nowhere and Diomedes was considering just throwing Odysseus out of his tent, never to be invited in again.
But he would wait a while longer. Who knew — perhaps there was a twist coming, one that would make Odysseus redeem himself in Diomedes’ eyes. That, however, would have to be a great feat if it were to succeed and make the King of Argos change his mind about Odysseus.
“That’s your apology?” Diomedes asked bluntly and averted his gaze, looking to the other side. “No,” he huffed, seemingly talking to himself, “you can’t apologise for something like that.”
“Let me explain, Diomedes,” Odysseus replied and lifted his hands, a peace offering. “I admit it was not the best moment of mine nor was it the brightest one, either. I just couldn't… Don’t you have moments like that, Diomedes? Don’t you want to—?”
“That’s what you do, then?” Diomedes barked and turned around to face the other king. “You draw a sword and kill your comrades? Your friends? Your…?!” Diomedes inhaled sharply and the unspoken word had Odysseus’ guts twist. “Is that so simple?”
Odysseus stared straight into Diomedes’ eyes. The pain he saw in them wasn’t something he’d ever wished to witness. Not because of him.
“It is, isn’t it? More than a decade of,” he hesitated, “this thing between us and you just threw it all away. You destroyed it all. All that we…”
Diomedes’ voice wavered. His lungs lacked air and he briefly thought he’d collapse. He so desperately wanted to hear anything from Odysseus. Anything that would be relatively genuine. Anything that would make him feel less like a complete stranger.
Diomedes didn’t want to be a tool anymore. He’d stayed true to his resolution so far, he’d done his best to do so. Yet, when he started to confess all that bore down on his heart, his resolve kept falling apart. There was already a hole in it big enough for Odysseus to try to slip through and begin to wrap Diomedes around his little finger anew. Diomedes knew that. He would’ve loved to resist it. Maybe he still could.
“In the name of what, Odysseus? Pride? Glory?”
“Love.”
Diomedes snorted right in Odysseus’ face. “You wouldn’t know what that means.”
“Neither would you.”
The Ithacan’s eyes sparkled and the young warrior huffed in annoyance and took a step to the side, an attempt to avoid the eye contact with Odysseus. The older man didn’t want to let that happen, though, so he grabbed Diomedes’ by his wrist only to have it yanked out of his grip shortly after. Odysseus’ brows lifted and his mouth fell slightly open in disappointment.
“All these crimes for your family… I can’t tell if they should be grateful or disgusted by you, Laertiades.”
“Leave them out of this,” Odysseus said, his voice low in warning.
“Why? Aren’t they the reason why you wanted me dead?” Diomedes snarled, staring at the tent wall. “You talk of love, so why renounce it now? Or is it love and adoration towards your own self that drives you? It’s the latter, isn’t it?”
“You would be fucking surprised, Tydeides!” Odysseus suddenly yelled, nearly right into the taller man’s ear.
Diomedes huffed and flinched away, grimacing.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“And whose fault is that, oh wise Odysseus?”
Of course, it was the Ithacan’s fault. He may have given Diomedes some reasons to trust him but besides that, he’d never denied the others’ claims of Odysseus lying left and right. Effectively, seeds of doubt had been planted in Diomedes’ heart and mind but he’d never truly cared for that. To him, Odysseus had never been all that he’d been said to be.
So terribly mistaken all the time? Could that be really it?
In all that contemplation, Diomedes inhaled sharply as Odysseus laid his hand on his shoulder. The young warrior shuddered but didn’t push Odysseus away this time. A delicate tilt upwards graced the Ithacan’s lips. Maybe he’d fix it yet.
Tentatively, he rubbed the tight muscle and still Diomedes didn’t spare him a glance. So Odysseus smoothed the fabric of the King of Argos’ tunic as he ran his hand down his shoulder blade, and then added his other hand to the caress. He stared at Diomedes’ nape for a while and then rested his forehead against his back, letting out a deep sigh.
What Diomedes was awaiting was a stab in the back. A sharp, shooting pain that’d make his blood run hot. Then, a chuckle of satisfaction. Some tsking about how careless Diomedes had been. But none of that happened. Odysseus just stood there, listening to the quickened breathing of the younger man. Feeling how his whole ribcage was expanding and contracting in turns.
And then, just like that, a man without a heart, Diomedes took a step forward. He felt himself tremble and hoped that Odysseus didn’t notice. The young warrior had promised himself that he wouldn’t care and he was keeping that promise, no matter how hurt he was. Despite the tears that had welled up in his eyes. The tears that he didn’t want Odysseus to see either.
“No, please…” muttered the King of Ithaca but the other man stood tall, seemingly unfazed. On the inside, however, he was in tatters.
Odysseus gaped at Diomedes’ back, mouth hanging open. He lifted his hand up to maybe touch him again but promptly resigned from the idea. Having cleared his throat, he wetted his dry lips.
“I don’t want it to end like this,” he said.
Then, there was a sniffle and a mute thump. Diomedes winced and couldn’t help but peer over his shoulder and then turn around.
Odysseus couldn’t know that; he was on his hands and knees, head hung low and eyes squeezed shut. Tears spilled still. Miserable sobs shook his whole body and he clutched the ground beneath him, digging his nails into it, as though trying to dig a hole for his own self.
“Diomedes, oh my dearest Diomedes!” he cried. “On gods, this… all that we have! We can mend it, we can rebuild it if only the gods allow! But you, my perfect Diomedes, mighty son of Tydeus, you’re the one to decide. Not the gods. You.”
Diomedes grunted and raised an eyebrow.
Odysseus choked down a sob. “Forgive me, please. Godlike King of Argos, forgive me for everything I’ve done.”
The Ithacan shuddered when a large, calloused hand grabbed his jaw and lifted his chin up. A truly pathetic sight was what Diomedes saw. Eyes puffy and red, tears rolling down flushed cheeks, lips far from any kind of smile or smirk.
Odysseus inwardly begged Diomedes to kill him. He was expecting him to do just that. A dagger in the chest or gut or a snapped neck. How perfect it would be if all guilt simply ceased to exist.
He dreamed on about this, wishing for Diomedes to squeeze his throat and crush it in his hand. Watch life leave Odysseus’ body, watch him struggle for air. Relish it. Do it on his own, without anyone else telling him to. The Ithacan was all there for Diomedes to use. To abuse.
How great was his surprise when instead of a sharp pain, he felt lips pressing against his own. It broke him. Weakness embraced him. He sought stabilisation, so he rose to his knees and cupped Diomedes’ face between his hands.
“We can’t let Agamemnon snake between us, Diomedes,” Odysseus muttered against the other man’s mouth after he crawled on top of him. “Sow discord — that’s what the bastard craves!”
“More or less,” the King of Argos grunted in response, grabbing Odysseus by his hip.
“What does that mean?”
A growl of irritation rumbled in Diomedes’ chest. “He said the truth. He hates you. Everybody does.”
“And you?”
“I despise you.”
Odysseus’ eyes grew wide and he knit his eyebrows. He opened his mouth to retort but got cut off as Diomedes pressed his large hand against it, muffling any words that were on the brink of spilling out. Only a muted whine could be heard as the young warrior slid into Odysseus.
With his hands on Odysseus’ flanks, Diomedes kissed him. He kissed him, languid and passionate, while the older man was straddling his lap, rocking back and forth or up and down to bring pleasure to both of them. Cradling that young king’s face, he rubbed his cheeks with his thumbs, smearing the sweat that trickled down Diomedes’ temples.
“If you hate me so, why, Diomedes, would you show so much affection in your deeds?”
Odysseus was right and Diomedes hated that too.
“Know my kindness, Laertiades,” he hummed. He ran his hand up to the Ithacan’s throat and held it there, squeezing, feeling Odysseus swallow. Watching him leave his mouth open. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“Oh, is the mighty son of Tydeus planning to—?” he bit back but coughed and gasped for air sooner than he’d thought. He gripped Diomedes’ forearm with both of his hands, digging his nails into his skin. “Is that it?”
Diomedes groaned quietly.
“Is that what you want?” Odysseus croaked. “Do it. Kill me. Please.”
If this is how it shall be from now on, end my suffering, dearest Diomedes.
“You wish.”
Diomedes was resting on his back with Odysseus by his side. Their heaving chests had long calmed down by now and sweat had managed to drip onto the furs atop the bed. Odysseus turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand, elbow bent. With his other hand, he reached to Diomedes to remove the stray locks of his hair from his flushed face. When the last strand was gently tucked behind his ear, Odysseus stroked his cheek but wasn’t even given a glance in return.
“Diomedes…” he sighed. He swallowed and quietly said, “please. Forgive me.”
He got no answer. His heart hurt when Diomedes swapped his hand away.
There was silence that seemed to stretch into eternity. Odysseus flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
They lay like so for minutes or hours. Until finally Diomedes spoke up.
“How does one forgive a friend, a… a very close friend such a betrayal?” he whined silently. “One doesn’t do that. I’ve told you already.”
Odysseus was sure that Diomedes muttered it to himself, just as he’d done before, not really seeking answers from the King of Ithaca. But he was going to provide them anyway. Right there and then, Odysseus was going to be on the level with someone for at least once in his life.
“Diomedes, as unreasonable and unthinkable as it may seem, I did that because I lo—”
The young warrior didn’t let him finish. His hand was once more covering his mouth. It was as if Diomedes materialised himself on top of Odysseus, crowding his space, rendering the older man uncertain whether it was making things easier or harder.
“Don’t you ever dare say these words to me, Laertiades,” he growled and added, “understood?”
The fire in his eyes was allowing no other options, so Odysseus nodded and gulped once Diomedes withdrew his hand. He then looked at it and then back at Odysseus, whose eyes were searching Diomedes’. Odysseus was on the verge of saying something but each time he opened his mouth, words got stuck in his lungs.
“Leave,” Diomedes whispered.
Odysseus froze. “Excuse me?” he asked, his voice all shaky.
“Leave. Get out of here, Odysseus.”
Diomedes moved away and sat on the edge of the bed. Elbows propped on his thighs, he hung his head low. An exhale had his shoulders slump.
“Now? Why?” Odysseus sat up and wiped the tears that suddenly rolled down his face.
“On gods, which part of that do you not understand?”
There was the last attempt at placating the young man. Odysseus crawled to him and laid his hand on Diomedes’ shoulder. Again. He rubbed it slowly. Again. And he begged Diomedes to forgive him.
All that the King of Argos did was brush the Ithacan’s hand off of himself. He flinched right after and Odysseus’ heart sank to the bottom of the sea. He felt small, useless and used. Unwelcome in a space that had been his home from home the day before.
At last, he understood that it was how his dearest Diomedes felt. But multiplied by a hundred.
“Why?” Odysseus breathed, boring a hole in the back of Diomedes’ head, a naïve and desperate attempt at willing the young man to look at him, if only for a split second.
No hesitation. No sentiments. No Odysseus.
“It’s over.”