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...Have you ever wondered… if you’ll ever see someone again?... Despite of the fact that your feelings towards that person weren’t right…
Moonlight spilled through the open window and painted silver patterns across the stone floor, illuminating only fragments of the room while the rest remained swallowed by darkness. The ocean could faintly be heard from the distance. Ever since he was a child, Telemachus had found comfort in those sounds. The sea was constant. No matter what happened, the waves always returned to Ithaca's shores.
Tonight, however, they only seemed to emphasize how alone he was.
His father slept beneath the same roof after twenty long years away. His mother no longer carried the same exhaustion in her eyes. The palace had been restored, its halls cleansed of blood and disorder. Servants walked without fear, nobles spoke of stability, and every bard who passed through the island seemed eager to sing of Odysseus' glorious return and the justice delivered upon the suitors.
Everything was as it should be.
Everything had been fixed.
So why did he still feel as though something had been left unfinished?
Telemachus opened his eyes in the darkness and realized his pillow was damp. He sat up and blinked a couple of times, feeling tears running down his cheeks.
“Another dream… another chance… another death…”
It was like that once every quarter moon. A dream where things with Antinous unfolded differently, but they all ended the same way.
Sometimes it began differently. Sometimes the details changed. Sometimes entire years seemed to unfold before his eyes. Yet they all shared the same ending, no matter what happened, no matter what choices were made.
No matter how desperately his sleeping mind searched for another path… Antinous died.
Sometimes an argument ended differently.
Sometimes a conversation lasted longer.
Sometimes they met under circumstances that had never existed in reality.
Sometimes Telemachus found himself saying words he had never spoken. Sometimes Antinous did.
Yet the result remained cruelly unchanged.
Death always found him.
The prince cleaned the tears. The first time he was annoyed by them, even outraged and angry, because, how could he feel sorrow and mourn for a terrible and cruel man?
A man who had disrespected his mother beneath his own roof.
A man who had mocked him relentlessly.
A man who had intended to seat in his father's throne as if he had any right to it.
A man who had laughed, provoked, threatened and pushed every limit he could find simply because he enjoyed seeing what happened afterward.
Somewhere inside his heart there was a wound that refused to heal, and pretending it did not exist had accomplished nothing.
Eventually, he understood that… no matter how wrong… he wanted, needed, to mourn him in his heart… because even if he had wished for a long time for him to be punished…
He never wished for him to die.
How could he feel happy about his death? How? When he had seen all of him.
The terrible, the arrogance, the cruelty, the violent dog facet…
Yet that was not all he had seen. Whenever his mind attempted to settle comfortably into hatred, something else surfaced.
An unexpected act of restraint, a lingering moment of patience, the slight kindness to help him from time to time… the sunlight over his features and gorgeous ruby like eyes… everything graced by a soft smile right there over his thighs holding Antinous’ head and dark hair spilled over his chiton.
Ithaca’s sun rising with softness over a man who didn’t deserve it.
The prince’s lip wobbled and quickly bit down on it and wrapped his arms around his legs, curling into himself as though he could somehow hide from the feelings threatening to consume him. He wanted to hide. Why did he feel that way? Why did the grief return every single time? Why could he not simply let Antinous become another ghost among many?
After every failed way his mind attempted to save Antinous’ life, the need to cry for him returned.
But… at the same time, he couldn’t forgive himself for feeling hurt over someone like him.
He was grieving… but couldn’t share it.
How painful was that in reality?
Having to pretend and mourn all alone.
That was the cruelest part. Who would understand? His father certainly would not. His mother deserved peace, not old wounds reopened… The servants celebrated the day the suitors died… The kingdom celebrated.
…No songs existed for grieving someone everyone else was glad to lose…
So Telemachus mourned alone.
The worst part was that life refused to stop.
The sun still rose over Ithaca every morning, casting gold over columns and stone courtyards as if nothing had happened. Servants still swept the halls, merchants still arrived at the port, fishermen still returned with their nets heavy and their voices louder than necessary. The world continued moving forward with a stubborn determination that Telemachus had once admired.
There were mornings when he woke from another dream, another life, another failed attempt to change fate, and found himself staring at a perfectly ordinary day. The sea sparkled beneath the sunlight, birds crossed the sky, people laughed.
Meanwhile, while there was brightness and true happiness inside of him, somewhere else in his whole self, a fresh grave had just been dug.
The first few years were the hardest.
The dreams came frequently then, returning before old wounds could fully close. Some lingered for days afterward, leaving him distracted during meetings, absent-minded during meals, and quiet in moments where he would normally have spoken. Penelope occasionally watched him with concern, but he always offered a reassuring smile before she could ask questions. Odysseus noticed less. But well, that was natural His father had spent too many years surviving monsters and storms to recognize the shape of a grief that should not exist.
Telemachus was grateful for that. He did not think he could have explained it even if asked. How was he supposed to tell anyone that he kept dreaming about Antinous? How was he supposed to admit that every dream was different?
That sometimes they remained rivals.
Sometimes uneasy allies.
Sometimes something stranger than either.
That in one dream they spent years arguing and never once reached understanding, while in another they sat beside one another watching the sea and somehow needed no words at all.
That in one dream he was biting his lip as his eyes were focused on the suitor’s lips as he commanded him to relax… Strong hands, each holding one of his wrists, as the blush kept raising in his cheeks, and the man’s own body was managing to pull apart his legs to settle dangerously in between.
The details changed.
The endings never did.
Years passed before Telemachus finally understood what his sleeping mind had been doing. It had never truly been trying to save Antinous. It had been trying to bargain with reality, trying to find a version of events that hurt less. A version where there was something he could have done. Yet no answer existed.
Some stories simply ended. Some people simply left. And no amount of longing could reopen a closed door.
The realization did not bring peace, at least not immediately. Yet life continued.
Slowly, almost without noticing, he found himself speaking Antinous’ name less often inside his own thoughts. The dreams still came, but there were longer stretches between them now. Seasons passed, then years. The pain no longer felt like a blade lodged beneath his ribs. Instead it became something older, a scar he carried rather than a wound that bled.
Sometimes he would walk along Ithaca’s cliffs and find himself remembering a conversation from years ago. Strange little moments that should have been forgotten: a sarcastic remark, an exasperated expression, the way Antinous would tilt his head when considering whether someone was worth listening to.
Fragments that survived when so much else had faded. Telemachus eventually stopped fighting those memories.
They came, stayed, and they left.
There was no point chasing them away.
One evening, many years after the slaughter, he found himself watching the sunset from the palace balcony. The sky had become a sea of gold and crimson stretching endlessly across the horizon. For reasons he could not explain, Antinous crossed his mind once more.
Not the man dying nor the blood staining his clothes and neck.
Just Antinous. His favorite color. The shade of his eyes.
For a long moment Telemachus simply stood there.
Then he smiled. It was a small thing. Bittersweet, almost sad. Yet genuine.
The years had taught him something valuable.
Forgetting had never been the answer. He would remember Antinous for the rest of his life.
The terrible, infuriating parts. The rare moments of kindness. The person hidden somewhere beneath all the arrogance and cruelty.
None of that would vanish.
And perhaps that was acceptable.
Perhaps some people remained with you even after they were gone. Not because you refused to let go. But because they had become part of the person you eventually became.
The thought lingered and when another dream eventually came, as he knew it would, he no longer searched desperately for a different ending.
Instead he stayed a little longer beside the version of Antinous his mind had created, listening to his voice, committing his face to memory once more before fate inevitably reclaimed him.
And somewhere in that dream, the prince smiled, thinking the words that would guide his life threat in the next destiny.
“Maybe this tale was never meant for us… I hope, we have another chance, somewhere, sometime…”
The sound was unbearable.
Telemachus groaned and blindly reached toward the source of the noise, nearly knocking a pile of books onto the floor before his fingers finally found his phone. The alarm stopped instantly.
Silence returned. For approximately three seconds. Then another alarm began ringing.
"Why do I even set more than one?" he muttered against his pillow.
The young man dragged the blanket over his head in a final, desperate attempt to negotiate with reality. Unfortunately, reality remained stubbornly unimpressed. A moment later someone knocked twice against his bedroom door.
"You're going to be late."
His eyes remained closed.
"I still have time."
"You said that yesterday."
"I wasn't late yesterday."
"You arrived seven minutes before your seminar started."
"See? Not late."
A sigh came from the other side of the door.
Telemachus smiled despite himself. Some things never changed.
"Get up," his mother ordered.
"I'm considering it."
"Now."
"That's a very aggressive tone for eight in the morning."
The answer came in the form of retreating footsteps and a barely concealed laugh.
Telemachus finally opened one eye.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting warm stripes across his room. Books were scattered over his desk alongside loose papers, highlighted journal articles, empty pens, and a coffee mug he should have washed three days ago. Several volumes on Ancient Greece sat stacked precariously beside his laptop, while handwritten notes covered nearly every available surface. A backpack rested beside the door, thankfully packed from the night before. Outside the window, the whole wide world was already awake. For some reason Argos was barking with impressive determination.
Ordinary. Everything about it was wonderfully ordinary.
With a groan, he forced himself upright and ran a hand through his hair. His phone informed him that he was, in fact, closer to being late than he had originally believed.
"Traitor," whispered to the device.
Five minutes later he stumbled into the kitchen wearing a hoodie and carrying approximately half of his consciousness.
His mother, already looking professional as every day—something to be expected as the major boss of the company Telemachus would inherit one day—slid a plate toward him.
His father lowered the newspaper he was reading.
"Morning."
Telemachus grunted.
"Good talk," his father replied with a chuckle, passing the page of the newspaper.
The smell of coffee immediately improved his outlook on life. He sat down and reached for the mug waiting beside his plate while his parents exchanged amused looks over his head.
The house was quiet despite its size. Framed photographs lined the walls, many of them featuring his father standing beside research teams, ships, excavation sites, and the countless places that had eventually inspired the bestselling memoir that had made him famous. Shelves overflowing with translated editions of Odysseus' books occupied an entire section of the room, interrupted only by awards, plaques, and souvenirs collected from around the world.
Beyond the open living area, glimpses of polished wood, modern architecture, and carefully curated décor reflected his mother's influence just as clearly. As CEO of one of the largest companies in the country, Penelope had a reputation for excellence that extended even to their home. The distant hum of the climate control system blended with the faint sounds of the city far below the hillside estate.
Home.
The word settled naturally inside him. His mother poured herself another cup of coffee before sitting across from him.
"Do you have classes all day?"
"Almost."
"More Greek history?"
Telemachus pointed at her with his mug.
"It's a master's degree in history specializing in Ancient Greece. What gave it away?"
"The six books about Sparta on your desk."
"Those are for one paper."
His father snorted into his coffee.
"One paper."
"It's an important paper."
"You said that about the last one."
"The last one was also important."
His mother shook her head fondly.
"Library afterward?"
"Probably."
His father raised an eyebrow.
"Probably?"
"Definitely."
"That's not what you said five seconds ago."
Telemachus pointed his fork toward him.
"I'm a graduate student. Certainty is a luxury."
His father laughed and his mother rolled her eyes before checking the time on her phone.
The conversation drifted toward familiar topics after that. Assignments. Weekend plans. Whether he was sleeping enough. The eternal debate regarding how much coffee a human being should consume before it became medically concerning. At one point his father asked how his thesis proposal was progressing, which immediately prompted a dramatic groan from Telemachus.
"Don't remind me."
"You chose this."
"I know."
"You love it."
"I know."
"Then stop complaining."
"No."
Eventually Telemachus checked the time and nearly choked.
"Oh no."
His parents immediately started laughing.
"You're late, aren't you?" his father asked.
"I'm not late."
"You just made the face."
"There is no face."
"There is absolutely a face."
Telemachus grabbed his backpack, kissed his mother on the cheek, quickly hugged his father and headed toward the door.
"Love you!"
"Drive safely!"
"I will!"
"And don't skip lunch!"
"No promises!"
Still, his mind was already drifting toward the presentation he had to give later that morning, a discussion on shifting interpretations of Homeric Greece and the difficulties of separating myth from history. He had spent weeks preparing for it, and despite his complaints, he was looking forward to it.
Soon he was jogging down the front steps toward the driveway, keys already in hand. The morning air was crisp and carried the scent of freshly cut grass from the grounds. Sunlight glimmered across the fountain near the entrance while gardeners worked farther down the property, tending to flowerbeds that seemed to stretch endlessly along the winding drive.
Telemachus climbed inside his car, tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat, and started the engine. The gates opened automatically as he approached.
Beyond them, the road curved through the hills toward the city.
The drive had become second nature over the years. Familiar turns wound through quiet residential areas and stretches of countryside before gradually giving way to heavier traffic, taller buildings, and the steady pulse of urban life. By the time the skyline filled his windshield, the radio was playing softly in the background while he practiced the presentation on his head.
History had always fascinated him. Especially Ancient Greece.
There was something about it that drew him in more than any other period. The stories, the archaeology, the fragments of lives preserved across millennia. Sometimes he could spend hours reading about it without noticing the passage of time.
He had never really understood why. He only knew that every time he studied it, something felt strangely familiar. Not enough to be unsettling, just enough to make him pause occasionally when reading a passage or examining an artifact.
A fleeting sensation. A strange sense of recognition.
One that would always disappear.
The city swallowed him completely as he merged into the morning traffic surrounding the university district. Students crossed intersections carrying coffee cups and backpacks. Buses rolled past crowded sidewalks.
Telemachus drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change. The radio murmured softly in the background, competing with the sounds of traffic and the occasional impatient honk from somewhere behind him. His attention remained fixed on the presentation he would be giving in less than an hour, mentally rearranging arguments and citations for what felt like the hundredth time.
Maybe he should have opened with the archaeological evidence instead.
No, that would make the introduction too dry.
Perhaps the Homeric passages first.
Then the material evidence.
Or maybe—
A familiar melody drifted through the speakers. His train of thought immediately derailed.
"Oh."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Now that was better.
The song had always been one of his favorites. He couldn't explain why. There was simply something about it that made long drives easier and stressful mornings less irritating. Turning the volume up slightly, he settled back into his seat and let the music fill the car while the red light stubbornly refused to change.
Movement to his right caught his attention.
A motorcycle rolled to a smooth stop in the adjacent lane. Telemachus glanced over automatically before looking back toward the intersection. Then he looked again.
The rider had removed his helmet and was running both hands through long black hair that had undoubtedly suffered from being trapped beneath it. Dark strands spilled over the shoulders of a leather jacket as he gathered them back with the practiced ease of someone who had clearly done it hundreds of times before.
For a moment, the scene aligned strangely with the music still playing through the radio.
The sunlight, the confidence of the movement, the complete lack of self-consciousness when he placed the helmet somewhere behind and took out a pair of sunglasses to complement his style.
Telemachus found himself watching longer than intended.
The guy looked about his age, perhaps a little older. Tall, broad-shouldered. The sort of person who seemed perfectly comfortable occupying space without asking permission from anyone around him. A silver chain glinted briefly at his waist when he shifted position on the bike.
Definitely one of those people.
The kind who walked into a room and somehow convinced everyone else they belonged there more than anyone else.
Telemachus wasn't entirely sure why that thought immediately made him want to roll his eyes.
The rider pulled a hair tie from his wrist and began securing the dark strands into a loose tail. The motion exposed a sharp jawline, several earrings, and an expression so thoroughly unconcerned with the opinions of others that it bordered on offensive.
Yep. Definitely one of those people.
The realization amused him far more than it should have.
A horn sounded somewhere behind them. The light had turned green.
The motorcycle accelerated smoothly forward, disappearing into the flow of traffic before Telemachus had fully processed the fact that he had been staring.
"Right."
He cleared his throat and pressed the accelerator. A ridiculous thing to get distracted by. Just some guy. A guy he would probably never see again.
Within a few moments, his attention returned to his presentation, then to finding parking, then to the long list of responsibilities waiting for him on campus.
By the time he reached the university, the motorcycle—and its rider—had already begun slipping from his thoughts.
Mostly.
For reasons he couldn't quite explain, however, the image of long dark hair catching sunlight lingered in the back of his mind for the rest of the morning.
The following week passed much faster than Telemachus would have liked.
Between classes, readings, presentations and the endless stream of research required for his master's degree, most days blurred together into one long academic haze. By Thursday afternoon, he had reached the point where every article seemed to contradict the previous one and every author appeared determined to wage war against their colleagues through footnotes.
His brain needed a break.
Or caffeine.
Preferably both.
Which was how he found himself stepping into a small café near campus instead of heading directly to the library.
Warm air greeted him immediately, carrying the scent of freshly ground coffee and pastries. The place was busy enough to feel alive without becoming overwhelming. Conversations drifted between tables occupied by students, professionals and the occasional professor pretending not to grade papers while drinking espresso.
Telemachus joined the line and pulled out his phone, absentmindedly scrolling through notes for an upcoming assignment while he waited his turn. He remained focused on his screen until the newcomer stepped into line beside him.
A flash of black.
Long dark hair.
Leather.
The thought surfaced before he consciously looked up.
When he did, recognition came almost immediately.
Oh.
Motorcycle guy.
The realization caught him completely off guard.
Not because he had expected to see him again.
Mostly because he hadn't realized how clearly he remembered him.
The man stepped into line beside him, one hand loosely hooked into the pocket of his jacket while he glanced toward the menu overhead. Up close, he looked much the same as he had at the traffic light a few days earlier. Dark hair fell over one shoulder, partially escaping whatever attempt had been made to tie it back. A pair of sunglasses rested atop his head despite the fact that they were indoors now, and there was an easy confidence about him that somehow managed to draw attention without appearing to seek it.
Telemachus immediately looked away.
Then looked back.
Briefly.
Purely for scientific reasons.
Obviously.
The man was objectively attractive. There was no point pretending otherwise. The sort of attractive that seemed unfair to the rest of the population. The sort that probably knew exactly what effect it had on people.
Which was mildly annoying.
Telemachus returned his attention to his phone.
Three seconds later he realized he had not actually read a single word.
His eyes drifted upward again.
Just for a moment.
The stranger was ordering now, leaning slightly against the counter while speaking with the barista.
That was it.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing particularly interesting.
And yet Telemachus found himself remembering the sunlight catching in that same dark hair a few days earlier while they waited at the intersection.
Why?
He had no idea.
Maybe because the man looked like the kind of person who belonged in a movie rather than standing in line for coffee on a Thursday afternoon.
Maybe because he had a memorable face.
Maybe because Telemachus had spent far too much time reading ancient burial records and desperately needed a social life.
That explanation seemed the most likely.
Thankfully, his coffee had not arrived yet, which was probably for the best.
Telemachus remained near the pickup counter, phone in one hand, trying very hard to focus on anything other than the stranger standing a few feet away.
It was not going particularly well.
As he glanced up again, intending only a quick look, he found the man already looking in his direction.
Their eyes met.
For a brief second, the stranger tilted his head slightly, as if curious about something.
Telemachus's stomach gave an unexpected little flip.
Then the stranger winked.
Actually winked.
Just like that.
Casual. Effortless. Completely unbothered.
And then he turned back toward the register as though nothing unusual had happened.
Telemachus stood frozen for half a second.
What?
Heat immediately rushed to his face.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
He was not dealing with that.
Thankfully, his name was called a moment later.
He stepped forward a little too quickly to collect his coffee, muttered a distracted thanks to the barista, and made a strategic retreat toward an empty table near the window.
Once seated, he wrapped both hands around the warm cup and stared determinedly at the screen of his laptop after pulling it from his backpack.
His notes appeared.
Words filled the page.
None of them registered.
People definitely did not wink at complete strangers and then proceed with their day as though nothing had happened.
His eyes flickered upward before he could stop them.
The stranger was still waiting for his own order, standing near the counter with the same infuriatingly relaxed posture as before.
Telemachus immediately looked back down at his laptop.
A perfectly reasonable conclusion.
Unfortunately, the tiny traitorous part of his brain appeared to have abandoned reason entirely.
Telemachus managed nearly ten uninterrupted minutes of work before finally rewarding himself with a sip of coffee.
The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he frowned.
That was... Different.
He lowered the cup and stared at it suspiciously. The label clearly displayed his name.
Telemachus.
Exactly as it should.
Yet the drink itself was significantly stronger than usual. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just unexpected. The coffee carried a bitterness he wasn't accustomed to. Maybe they had changed brands, or maybe he was imagining things.
Maybe he had finally consumed enough caffeine to lose the ability to distinguish between different roasts.
Deciding none of those possibilities warranted serious concern, he took another sip and returned his attention to the article on his screen.
A shadow soon after fell across the table.
"Excuse me."
Telemachus looked up.
And immediately found himself staring into familiar ruby-colored eyes.
Well.
That certainly wasn't helping his concentration.
The motorcycle rider stood beside the table holding another coffee cup. Up close, he was somehow even more difficult to ignore. Dark hair framed sharp features, and there was an ease to his posture that suggested he was entirely comfortable approaching strangers.
Telemachus blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His brain chose that exact moment to stop functioning properly. Fortunately, the stranger continued speaking before the silence became concerning.
“I’ve got a theory and I need your confirmation,” said, glancing between the two cups, “did you happen to taste something different than your original order?"
Telemachus looked at his own drink.
Then at the cup in the man's hand.
Then back at him.
"...Maybe?"
A grin immediately appeared.
"That's not a reassuring answer." Still, he looked back at the young barista looking from the counter. “Solved our mystery.”
"I switched them, didn't I?"
"You switched them," Antinous confirmed.
"I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," Telemachus assured her. She was probably new, had never seen her face around before.
"I can remake both."
Neither man seemed particularly bothered.
Still, the employee looked ready to bury herself beneath the counter from embarrassment.
Still, the employee looked ready to bury herself beneath the counter from embarrassment.
The stranger offered her an easy smile.
"Don't worry about it. Nobody died."
The poor girl looked immensely relieved.
"I'll have the right orders ready in a minute."
As she hurried away, the stranger glanced down at the empty chair across from Telemachus.
Then, without the slightest hesitation, he sat.
Telemachus blinked.
Well.
Apparently they were doing this now.
"Hope you don't mind," the stranger said, settling comfortably into the chair. "I'd rather sit than stand around pretending to examine the pastry display for five minutes."
The corner of Telemachus' mouth twitched.
"You're not interested in pastries?"
"I am."
The stranger leaned back slightly.
"I've just already examined them."
That earned a small laugh before Telemachus could stop it.
A look of satisfaction crossed the man's face as though he considered that a victory.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"So," he said, nodding toward the laptop open between them. "What are you working on that requires caffeine at this time?"
Telemachus glanced at the screen. It wasn't really late... but it wasn't early either. That was probably the reason for the last part of the question.
"A research paper."
"That sounds exciting."
The tone suggested he believed the exact opposite.
"It is."
One dark eyebrow lifted.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
The stranger stared at him for a second.
Then laughed.
"You're one of those people."
Telemachus narrowed his eyes.
"One of what people?"
"The people who genuinely enjoy studying."
"We exist."
"I thought you were a myth professors invented to scare everyone else."
Telemachus rolled his eyes despite the smile threatening to appear.
"I'm doing my master's."
That seemed to catch the stranger's attention.
"Oh?"
"Ancient History."
The smile widened immediately.
"Okay, that's actually kind of cool."
Telemachus looked mildly suspicious.
"You don't have to pretend."
"I'm not pretending."
The stranger gestured vaguely toward the laptop.
"Ancient civilizations, archaeology, old ruins. That's objectively cooler than whatever my friends studied."
"And what did your friends study?"
"Business."
"Fair."
"See? You understand."
Telemachus found himself relaxing despite his better judgment.
The conversation flowed surprisingly easily.
Perhaps because the stranger spoke with the confidence of someone who never worried about sounding foolish. Perhaps because he seemed genuinely curious rather than merely making conversation.
"What about you?" Telemachus asked. "University too?"
A brief grin appeared.
"Nope."
"No?"
"I lasted about a semester."
Telemachus blinked.
"A semester?"
"Give or take."
"You dropped out?"
The stranger nodded without the slightest embarrassment.
"I did."
Most people would have looked uncomfortable admitting that. He somehow managed to sound proud of it.
"What happened?"
"I got bored."
Telemachus stared.
"You dropped out because you were bored."
"When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible."
"Because it is irresponsible."
The stranger laughed again.
A warm sound.
Easy.
Unrestrained.
"I had another opportunity."
"What kind of opportunity?"
For the first time, something almost boyish appeared in his expression.
The confidence remained, but excitement slipped through it.
The change was immediate enough that Telemachus noticed.
"I'm a professional motorcycle racer."
Silence.
Telemachus blinked once.
Twice.
"...You're what?"
The grin that followed could probably be seen from space.
"A professional motorcycle racer."
For a moment Telemachus genuinely wondered if he was joking.
Then he remembered the motorcycle.
The leather jacket.
The confidence.
The way he'd handled that machine at the traffic light.
Suddenly it made perfect sense.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
The realization was unexpectedly fascinating.
Telemachus knew almost nothing about professional racing. The entire world felt distant from his own life, filled with things he had only ever seen briefly online or on television.
"You actually race professionally?"
"National circuit right now."
The stranger shrugged.
"Hoping to move higher eventually."
"That's incredible."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
To his surprise, the stranger looked genuinely pleased by the reaction.
Not smug.
Not arrogant.
Just pleased.
And for the next several minutes, Telemachus found himself asking questions he never would have expected to ask.
About races.
Training.
Travel.
Motorcycles.
The risks.
The adrenaline.
Meanwhile, the stranger seemed more than happy to answer every one of them.
By the time the corrected drinks finally arrived, neither of them had noticed how much time had passed.
“Well,” the man said, standing up. “I’d love to keep chatting about this, kid. But, I really need to get going.”
“I’m not a kid,” Telemachus corrected with a smile and a rose eyebrow, “just one last question before you go your way.”
Maybe he knew what would happen, maybe not, perhaps he was truly just curious.
“Yeah?”
“Is the scar because of your profession?”
For a second, Antinous simply looked at him.
Then a slow smile appeared.
“Wouldn't you like to know?”
Telemachus rolled his eyes immediately.
“Well, obviously, that’s why I’m asking.”
Antinous laughed.
“Maybe I'm trying to preserve an air of mystery.”
“You ride motorcycles for a living.”
“And?”
“You lost the mystery when you walked in wearing leather.”
That earned another laugh.
A genuine one this time, bright enough that several people nearby glanced over.
“You've got an answer for everything, don't you?”
“No.”
Telemachus gathered his laptop charger.
“Just for people who refuse to answer simple questions.”
“Fair enough.”
For a moment, Antinous looked as though he might actually answer.
Instead he simply picked up his coffee.
“Well, I'd love to keep chatting about this, kid, but I really do have somewhere to be.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Telemachus opened his mouth to argue.
Antinous was already walking away.
Unbelievable.
A smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
Shaking his head, he turned back toward his laptop and took another sip of coffee, already preparing to force his attention back toward the paper waiting on his screen.
It lasted approximately ten seconds.
Something slid into view between him and the laptop.
A folded napkin.
Telemachus blinked.
Slowly, he looked up.
Antinous stood on the other side of the table once more, one hand still resting atop the napkin.
The expression on his face was entirely too pleased with itself.
“What's that?”
“Take it and find out.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Everything sounds suspicious when you say it like that.”
Telemachus hesitated.
Then reached forward.
Only after his fingers closed around the napkin did Antinous finally let go.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Now I can leave.”
Then he turned and headed toward the exit.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he disappeared outside.
For several seconds, Telemachus remained staring after him.
Then he looked down at the napkin.
Unfolded it.
And immediately forgot whatever article he had been reading.
Written in surprisingly neat handwriting was a phone number.
Beneath it, only two words.
Antinous.
Curious enough?
Telemachus stared at the napkin for a long moment.
Then looked toward the door again.
The motorcycle racer was already gone. The smile that slowly spread across his face arrived entirely without permission.
The first text took him three days, not because he was trying to play some elaborate game, nor because he wasn't interested.
The opposite, unfortunately.
Telemachus had discovered that the more interested he was in something, the more he tended to overthink it.
By the third day, he had written and deleted at least six different opening messages. In the end, the one he sent was embarrassingly simple.
So... is the scar because of a race or a cat got you one time?
The reply arrived less than a minute later.
History boy lives.
Telemachus stared at the screen, then at the message, then back at the screen. A second notification appeared.
Good. I was starting to think you lost the napkin.
That conversation lasted until nearly midnight.
The next one happened the following day. And the day after that, aaand the day after that.
Somewhere along the way, messaging Antinous became part of his routine.
The strange thing was how easy it felt. They should have had very little in common... and well. they did? But also they didn't? It was... weird... in a good way though...
One spent his days surrounded by books, research papers, and centuries-old civilizations.
The other spent his racing motorcycles at terrifying speeds while apparently treating basic concepts such as self-preservation as optional suggestions.
Yet somehow the conversations never seemed to run dry. Antinous sent photographs from racetracks across the country. Telemachus responded with pictures of museum exhibits and archaeological discoveries he found interesting.
Antinous mocked his reading assignments, meanwhile, Telemachus mocked the interviews he occasionally found online.
Antinous insisted professional racers were highly intelligent athletes and after bickering about it, Telemachus informed him that willingly driving at two hundred kilometers per hour suggested otherwise.
Neither changed their position, the arguments eventually and pretty soon becoming their own kind of language. One that neither seemed eager to stop speaking.
Looking back, Telemachus could never quite identify the moment things changed.
There was no dramatic realization, only countless small moments that accumulated quietly until one day he noticed they were there.
The first time Antinous called while driving home from another city because he was bored.
The first time Telemachus fell asleep with their conversation still open.
The first time Antinous showed up outside the university simply because he had been nearby and felt like seeing him.
The first time Telemachus stopped feeling embarrassed at the other students fawning over him and pretending those visits didn't make his entire day better.
The first time Antinous began greeting him with an arm slung over his shoulders as though it belonged there.
There was never really any pressure.
Well... there was an incident where Telemachus brought Antinous to his house and the man met the parents... that was so strange because of the reactions Antinous had. Particularly with his father, according to the black haired, as soon as he saw Odysseus, he felt as if there was air leaking through his neck... strange... but anyway...
There was never any need to impress one another.
They simply existed together.
Sometimes talking for hours. Sometimes sitting in comfortable silence while Telemachus worked and Antinous scrolled through his phone. Sometimes sharing meals, or sometimes wandering through the city without any particular destination.
Neither questioned it and none seemed eager to define it. The simplicity of it became one of Telemachus' favorite things.
One evening, months after they first met, they found themselves sitting on the grass of one of the gardens in Telemachus’ home. According to them, it was to see the stars, as, in the city, starlight was ever so rare.
But here, it was way more visible. The sun had already disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving behind a sea of distant lights scattered across the darkness.
Telemachus had been speaking about something.
A professor, perhaps, or an assignment, meh, he couldn't remember. What he remembered instead was looking sideways in the middle of a sentence.
And finding Antinous already looking at him, as though whatever Telemachus had been saying genuinely mattered. The realization stole the rest of the sentence from his mouth.
For a moment neither spoke. A cool breeze stirred dark strands of hair across Antinous' face.
The silence felt different, familiar, almost like a déjà vu somehow.
And both ruby and sapphire were staring into each other, as though both of them had arrived at the same conclusion and were waiting to see who would acknowledge it first.
Telemachus' heartbeat suddenly became impossible to ignore. Unfortunately, Antinous noticed everything, so a slow smile appeared.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"There it is."
Telemachus frowned.
"There what is?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you start overthinking."
"I do not have a look."
"You absolutely have a look."
"I don't."
"You do."
Telemachus rolled his eyes and Antinous laughed.
"You know..."
Telemachus glanced toward him, the teasing expression had disappeared.
"What?"
For once, Antinous hesitated. Only for a second, but it was enough to catch Telemachus off guard.
"I don't think I've gone a single day without talking to you in months."
The confession landed softly between them and my oh my, Telemachus felt his heart stumble.
Because he knew exactly what he meant.
And because he couldn't remember the last day they hadn't spoken either.
A message.
A call.
A photo.
A stupid argument.
Something, there was always something.
"I know."
The words came out quieter than intended. And in such a silence that followed, the distance between them suddenly seemed much smaller than before.
Telemachus became aware of every detail:
The wind moving through dark hair.
The faint scent of adrenaline and leather that always seemed to follow Antinous.
The warmth radiating from him despite the cool evening air.
And then, before he could overthink himself into oblivion, he did something reckless. Something very reckless: He leaned forward. Only enough to close the final few inches himself.
For the first time in months, Antinous looked surprised, but just for a minute, a smile appeared.
"There you are."
Telemachus had absolutely no idea what that meant.
Unfortunately, he didn't get the chance to ask because Antinous closed the remaining distance.
Familiarity.
As though they had somehow arrived exactly where they were supposed to be. And it seemed their mouths knew this, for, somehow, they clicked in a way that shouldn’t be possible for a first kiss.
Was that the so called chemistry? But, why did Antinous knew exactly how much Telemachus liked to be held by the chin while kissing? And how did Telemachus know how crazy Antinous’ heart turned when he teased him with bites to his bottom lip?
Magic of the moment, perhaps.
When they finally pulled apart, neither moved very far. Telemachus stared at him and Antinous stared back.
It just felt right, something that, not really knowing, they had been waiting a long time to do.
Months later, Telemachus would struggle to explain exactly when Antinous became part of his life.
Not his routine nor his schedule.
His life.
The distinction mattered.
At some point, the motorcycle racer had stopped being someone he made plans with and started becoming someone he instinctively included in them. When he saw something amusing, his first thought was often to send it to Antinous. When he discovered a new café, he found himself wondering whether the other man would like it. Good news immediately made him reach for his phone. Bad days made him want to hear a familiar voice on the other end of a call. The realization should have been alarming. Instead, it felt strangely natural, as though a space that had always existed quietly inside his life had finally found someone capable of filling it.
The strangest part was that Antinous seemed to feel exactly the same way.
Not because either of them said it aloud very often. They didn't. Neither was particularly good at putting those kinds of feelings into words. Instead, it appeared in smaller ways. In the way Antinous would show up outside the university after difficult exams carrying coffee and absolutely no warning. In the way he remembered insignificant details from conversations Telemachus himself had forgotten. In the way his arm naturally found its place across Telemachus' shoulders whenever they walked together. In the way Telemachus stopped pretending he minded and eventually began leaning into the contact without thinking.
In the still creepy but marvelous way their bodies knew each other… somehow…
The relationship itself turned out to be surprisingly uncomplicated. Not perfect. They argued far too often for that.
Telemachus remained convinced that Antinous drove like a man with a personal grudge against speed limits. Antinous remained convinced that Telemachus worried enough for both of them and several neighboring countries. Neither changed their position, and neither seemed particularly interested in trying. Yet somehow every disagreement ended the same way it always had: together.
Perhaps that was what surprised Telemachus most.
In another circumstance, with another person, he might have questioned every step forward. He might have worried about where things were going or whether they were moving too quickly. With Antinous, however, everything seemed to happen naturally. There had never been a moment where they sat down and decided to become inseparable. It simply happened. One shared meal became another. One conversation became hundreds. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, Antinous settled himself into every corner of Telemachus' life with the same effortless confidence he brought to everything else.
Not that it was entirely free of strange moments. Still, those moments accumulated quietly, one after another, until eventually Telemachus found himself unable to imagine a version of his life where Antinous wasn't there.
The city continued moving below. Life continued moving with it.
And perhaps that was alright. You know?
Coffee growing cold in his hands.
A ridiculous man leaning against him.
A future neither of them could predict.
And the freedom to discover it together.
…
No prince.
…
No suitor.
…
No ghosts.
…
Just them.
At last.