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Here is Achilles: spear aloft, rallying his men atop a craggy tor. Behold the sculpted elegance of his raised arm, and his golden cascade of curls, swept back by the same wind that carries the billows of his green cloak. And below that, a pair of muscular thighs which--well.
It's a very good wall scroll.
When he'd mentioned it to Achilles, the response had been ruefully flattered--a familiar look on his mentor's worn face. Too kind, the look seems to say. Zagreus is always too kind for Achilles' tastes. When pressed as to why, Achilles has spoken with distaste of his former self--bloody-armed and brash, full of fire and pride. Boastful, even, he’s said. Strange to imagine, now, but the more Zagreus plays with the thought, the more curiosity it seems to stir.
Probably not Achilles' intention, he thinks, taking a seat on his bed to consider the scroll from a distance. The likeness on it is both recognizable as the Achilles he knows and entirely unlike him. Either way, it's... Zagreus continues to stare, searching vainly for a word that doesn't seem too disrespectful.
It’s...inspirational. A warrior, a great hero, valorous and strong--everything Zagreus would like to be. But more than that, the artist seems to have taken great care indeed with certain specific details. The hard line of Achilles' jaw. The shape of his lips, parted in a valiant call to arms. The twist of his body, broad at the shoulders and tapered beautifully at the waist. Even the rendering of his pteruges seems faintly salacious, hinting at the curve of artistically flexed buttocks beneath them.
Again his eyes catch on those bare, perfect legs, and he looks away, blushing inexplicably. Why? Zagreus has seen plenty of legs in his life; nudity is the natural state of humans and gods alike, nothing remarkable. And yet, by sheer dint of Achilles hiding them away, the sight of his naked thighs seems oddly indecent.
Zagreus returns his gaze to them anyway, and then back to the determined face, the raised spear. He must have been incredible... bloody-armed and brash, full of fire and pride. Zagreus tries to paint those qualities over the man he knows, imagines meeting him in his youth, face-to-face. Would Achilles have been impressed by Zagreus’ skill in battle, back then? If Zagreus were like the Olympians, he could have wandered the surface freely--meeting mortals, answering prayers and bestowing blessings. In such a way, one day he might have encountered the pride of the Myrmidons...
In his budding daydream, Zagreus carries Varatha--or, wait, that doesn’t make sense. But what does it matter? Some spear, anyway, is the important part. That seems the likeliest weapon with which to impress Achilles.
And there he is, tall and beautiful, with golden mane and steely eyes. His voice is the same one Zagreus knows, albeit bolder, without that undercurrent of gentle sadness. He levels his own spear at Zagreus. Hold, stranger! What business do you have here?
Zagreus, now happily ensconced in the concept, skips through their conversation to the fight. A thrill runs through him at the thought: Achilles in action, as indomitable as he is now but aggressive, merciless. (Even these days, Achilles will leave openings for Zagreus to spot when they spar--always the teacher, never the opponent.) In his mind, they’re neck and neck, equal in every regard, and Achilles grins fiercely, recognizing his skill.
Not bad, godling. (Achilles knows he’s a god, somehow.) Let’s see you handle this.
He imagines heat and breath and sweat, close dodges--the blade shearing through his chiton, leaving him exposed--and here his imagination blurs, bounding ahead without him. Now he’s pinned to the ground--Achilles atop him, victorious at last, his voice rough and breathless, saying…
Well. I’ve never had a god before.
“Oh,” says Zagreus out loud. “Okay, wait--”
...And you are a pretty one.
Zagreus’ face is on fire. The voice is so clear in his mind, and it feels like betraying Achilles, to imagine him saying such things. After all, he would never... Would he? Perhaps he might have, once upon a time…
“He wouldn’t,” Zagreus tells himself aloud, even as, in his mind, he bucks willingly up against Achilles, against the weight and heat bearing down on him. Arches his body and sees appreciation in those keen eyes--gods-- He falls sideways onto his bed, surrendering. Imagining Achilles’ mouth pressed ravenously to his, biting and sucking (Zagreus turns his face into his pillows, groaning softly). Hands groping at him, becoming familiar with his body (Zagreus clutches at his own chest, strokes his belly).
So strong, but not a single scar on you...are you invulnerable, like me? Then, soft and insinuating, in his ear-- Or perhaps it’s just that no one has ever been rough with you. (This all on its own has Zagreus scrambling furiously to pull down his leggings, eyes squeezed tightly shut, the better to forget reality.) In the fantasy, he unleashes a torrent of praise and admiration, everything he restrains himself from saying now, everything his Achilles (his Achilles--?) would just sigh and smile sadly at. You’re incredible, you’re beautiful, there’s no one like you, no one even close--
The Achilles in his mind doesn’t sigh, doesn’t say, “You’re too kind, lad.” He laughs, proud and lively, his face glowing as he rolls their hips together. Zagreus imagines clutching at his gorgeous bare thighs, fingers crawling over warm, smooth skin, sliding under his chiton…
No, wait, no--a new idea, a better idea--Achilles, fresh from a skirmish, bloodstained and euphoric, praying to him-- Lord Zagreus, your blessings led us to victory and glory, let me offer my thanks-- not reverent but fierce, wanting, already hard. Zagreus imagines going to him, being pinned against a wall (the exact location is less important than there being a wall to be pinned against). Imagines Achilles’ fiery gaze on him. Those calloused hands, which have corrected his fighting posture with light, professional touches, now viselike on his hips. The curls of his hair against Zagreus’ cheek, smelling of sweat and dust--
Lord Zagreus, growled low and urgent against his neck between bites, like an animal. I thought of you, in battle…I thought of this...
Zagreus rolls over on his bed, facedown, hips lifted and twitching as he thrusts into his hand. He would have watched, seen his chosen warrior in action, hungered for his body in return. Never has the idea of being a true god, a God of Something, seemed so appealing. You were magnificent, he tells Achilles in his mind, and Achilles groans upon hearing it, tearing at his clothes with almost brutal impatience. He’s strong enough to lift Zagreus, who wraps his legs around the man’s waist and (ah, he’s so close, skip to the good part--) then Achilles is fucking him, deep and fast, saying his name, claiming him as spoils of victory, which is, gods--the best part, that voice, so familiar but carrying the dirtiest things Zagreus can conceive of, moaning in open pleasure. Achilles, no longer the picture of restraint but raw and wild, driving into him so hard that it’s all Zagreus can do to hold onto him and take it--and then, just as the ecstasy of it narrows into an agonizing pinprick, the voice changes subtly, soft and intense in his mind’s ear--
Good lad.
“‘chilles sir--!” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, hadn’t meant to say sir, but even so he repeats it, muffled and drooling into his pillow, legs splayed as he arches against his mattress.
--
Later, Zagreus furiously bundles up his sheets, casting them into a dark corner of his room to be dealt with later (burned, hopefully, so that Dusa never has to see anything untoward). The poster he shoots a heated glare before he leaves. It’s the wall scroll’s fault, obviously. The wall scroll, and whatever cursed hand drew it.
Still, Zagreus thinks he’ll leave it up. Just for a little while.