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Telemachus always looks at him with suspicion in his eyes, and Antinous likes it a lot.
It is different from how other suitors look at him, a hell lot different from how Penelope looks at him too. Usually, Antinous would meet people's gaze and they would harden their terror into steel, and pretend that they do not wish to look away. Telemachus is not like that at all. He is brazen with his wariness, shameless and arrogant in how his eyes narrow under the distrust. Telemachus always expects the worst from Antinous, but he never quite defines it with a single threat.
There’s always a “what are you staring at, prince?” question on the tip of Antinous’ tongue, and there’s always a “I’m watching you,” warning in the corner of Telemachus’ eyes. Whatever that could possibly mean.
People assume the worst from Antinous, and it shows in how their muscles tense, turning the body into an armour, even when Antinous’ hands are open, palms soft at the center. Telemachus expects everything from Antinous, his jaw always clenches, but his body is swift and agile, making it easy to move, to react to whatever Antinous delivers – a painful punch, a cup full of wine, a flash of a spear-like smile.
“Oh, the little prince wants to dance?” Antinous teased, earlier today, veins pronounced against his forearm from effort – a reminder that he, too, has a hot blood to spill.
“Even if I wanted, you got two left feet, anyway,” Telemachus snarked back, already reaching in hopes to stir chill in Antinous’ marrow.
It was not a surprise, really, to realize that Telemachus always carries finesse of tight courtesy on his tongue, and a knife fastened to his belt – a knife to cut if Antinous ever decides to demand more than a bruise forming beneath the blue eye.
The injury swells under the skin, bursting with color, a fruit that promises sweetness upon the first bite. Antinous can see it, ever so clearly, from his end of the table.
The wine swirls in his cup when he languidly tilts the goblet from one side to the other, careful not to spill. The liquid sloshes, shimmers with color – a deep shade of magenta bending around the edges of the cup with the darkness of the night. Antinous' hand stills for a moment and he looks between the wine and its match across the table. Telemachus’ bruise is just the same color, the rotten shades of blues, greens and yellows are yet to settle at the rims of the swelling.
Antinous barks a laughter, pretends it is a part of the conversation that he is having with Eurymachus, and lifts his cup without tearing his eyes away from Telemachus’ bruised face.
Gods, it must hurt the little prince like a bitch, and yet he does not show that. He smiles and laughs and converses as if his body didn’t carry the palpable memory of hurt, as if he has already forgotten of Antinous’ anger burning right in front of him. As if whatever fight they had wasn’t even all that important to Telemachus.
(Antinous’ wrist still stings where the grains of sand have bitten into his skin after he fell to the ground – an aftermath of one, rare moment when Telemachus had an upper hand for a split second. Antinous’ skin is still scraped raw and he wears wristbands tonight to hide the ragged patterns running over veins. Antinous remembers still the tang of blood, coating his tongue, and the haze of excitement fogging his mind as he rolled on the ground to kick the pretty prince straight in his stomach. It feels important to remember this.)
Suddenly, just when wine brings some moisture to Antinous’ dry lips, Telemachus’ eyes dart away from his mother, away from the advisors that surround them. The softness around them is squeezed as his eyelids fall lower, giving Telemachus’s expression a familiar sense of vigilance. Antinous lowers his cup when their eyes meet, making sure that Telemachus will catch the crooked slant of his lips, the echo of split skin in the corner of his mouth where Telemachus punched him just a couple of hours ago.
Perhaps, Antinous thinks, Telemachus will look at the bead of blood that gathers at the line of lips, glance into his own cup, and mistake his wine to be Antinous’ blood. And wouldn’t that be exciting?
Antinous’s tongue presses against the corner of his lips, licking the blood, mixing it with the wine that sits heavy on his tongue. He watches as Telemachus’ expression grows more pinched, as his eyes grow darker – their color, stealing violence from the darkness of the bruise – as the line of his mouth tenses with disgust. Again, there is a question stirring beneath his skin; complexion greying slightly at whatever suspicions raise in his head.
Telemachus doesn’t expect the worst from Antinous, he expects everything else.
The corner of Antinous’ mouth lifts just a little bit higher, so do his eyebrows, and he schools his face into a picture of faux innocence. Telemachus’ nose scrunches, and he quickly looks away, visibly affronted. This is precisely why Antinous enjoys toying with Telemachus so much – one can almost see the torment that the prince puts himself through even without the suggestion of something openly hostile. Hundreds of thoughts run through that pretty, little head of his, and Antinous hopes that at least half of them plague his nights, keeping him away, waking him up from his nightmares as he gasps for air, imagining Antinous’ ghostly hand wrapping around the princely throat.
That is all he can get, realistically speaking.
Antinous, on the contrary to popular belief, is not stupid after all. He’d never seriously injure the prince. If anything the occasional scuffle is good for Telemachus. In the past, Antinous many times noticed the envious sparkle in Telemachus’ eyes when he watched the suitors fight; many times he caught the sight of the dainty princely fingers itching around the hint of his sword. And, well, who is Antinous if not a loyal servant to the throne, always ready to respond to the crown’s needs – even if said crown refuses to admit that raw brutality provides just the right outlet for the stress.
To be included is to be respected after all. Antinous would know.
His wrist tingles with the memory of scraped skin, his bottom lip throbs at the newly reopened cut.
He turns his head back to Eurymachus, and hides the smile behind his goblet of wine when Telemachus’ hand raises absently, and his fingers gently brush over the bruising beneath his eye.
Satisfaction settles in Antinous’ bones, as heady as the wine he’s drinking. The type of contentment that occurs only ever when you know that you live two lives – one within your own body, and one within someone else’s head.
The night slowly creeps between the walls of the Ithacan palace, sneaking through the windows, stalking the long corridors. The shadow of a man walks through the hallways that, by now, feel more like home than his family’s house ever felt like.
What do you call this feeling? How do you describe it?
Feeling homesick for a place you live at, knowing it could never be your home.
Antinous shakes his head quickly, pushing these thoughts far into the corners of his mind where they will gather dust until he, inevitably, once again misplaces the hollowness in his soul, placing it in his heart, instead of in his body. He can replace the emptiness of his bed with a warm presence anytime he desires. But his heart is a lonely affair; it’s best if it stays that way, even if the pang of pain chimes in his bones like an echo of the impending future.
He always puts faith into body. It bruises under the touch of love and agony alike. It burns with tangibility. Hearts are not real until they are cut out of the chest – and then, what use is there of them if they no longer matter to the long dead owner?
And yet, it is easy to fall for the trap set by the heart, easier even to bend your body into submission. So when Antinous, with the corner of his eyes, notices a twin shadow stealing space between the columns, he pretends he does not see it. He folds a thrill of fondness behind his teeth and swallows it up to warm his stomach. How good it is – to be remembered; how right he was to leave a message on one’s body, an incitement to be sought after.
A hand wraps around his arm and pulls him into the shadows. A firm tug, speaking of unexpected strength. Antinous would go even if the touch was feather-light, he is always quick to follow the charm of physical contact.
The prince pushes him against the wall, plants a hand over his chest, while the other drifts to the knife strapped to the belt. Antinous raises his hands, precariously. A nonchalant smirk teases the corners of his mouth, just in the way that he knows will piss Telemachus off.
Sure enough, immediately the prince’s eyes narrow, eyelashes laying thick shadows over his cheeks, darkening the bloom of the bruise, reminding Antinous of the unexpected beauty tangled into the web of animosity.
God, he hates Telemachus. But the way he carries his suspicions is… remarkable.
“What’s your deal, huh?” Telemachus hisses, fingers twirling the knife as he lifts it, as he presses it against Antinous’ throat.
Antinous humors him, pretending that disarming Telemachus wouldn’t be a child’s play. Antinous still remembers how sweet his wine was, and how much it looked like Telemachus’ swollen skin. This memory alone is what softens that sharpness of his smirk.
“Have no idea what you are talking about, my prince,” he replies, innocently, and nearly cackles when Telemachus leans to the side to spit on the ground.
“Don’t give me that shit,” Telemachus whispers harshly, his blade comically threatening against Antinous’s skin. “You know what you did.”
Antinous snorts.
“Like hell I do.” Because, in theory, he didn’t do anything above giving Telemachus the black eye and bruised ribs, but that was hours ago and he knows that Telemachus is not referring to that. “I am a perfectly civil man, and I know how to behave myself during a feast.” And that, too, is true. Antinous was raised as a nobleman, and if he turned out a little rough around the edges it was this place – this palace of forgery – that changed him.
Telemachus’ face twists with disgust and disbelief.
“You’re plotting again,” he accuses. “All you do is plot.”
Antinous raises an eyebrow, playing along. Curiosity burns in him to the point his chest starts growing a little bit too warm for his own comfort. He hasn’t the slightest idea about what Telemachus accuses him of this time. This is the fun part really. Trying to figure out all the little, sick and outrageous scenarios that Telemachus cooked up in that pretty brain of his. All Antinous really has to do is tilt his head and hum. Which is precisely what he does.
“You overestimate me, my prince,” he adds, just to shake things up a little. “What could I possibly be plotting so meticulously?”
Telemachus inhales sharply, as if the mere suggestion that Antinous is toying with him – when really Antinous is just trying to peek into the cards they are playing, to figure out the game and the stakes – is offensive on its own. Telemachus’ fingers grip the knife tighter, his canine, the crooked one, the one that is the first foretelling of a smile and a threat alike, teases the bottom line of his mouth.
“Seduction,” he hisses up, his voice frying around the whisper, anger burning the edges of the word.
Antinous’ eyes widen. He was almost certain that Telemachus once again suspected him of harbouring the plans of regicide, or whatever word applies for killing the crowned prince. The usual accusations of mutiny were also a safe bet. Not this. Not… seduction. It throws him off the loop enough that his voice grows a pitch louder with confusion when he speaks again, the ridiculousness scrapes the back of his throat with amusement.
“I highly doubt that your mother would fall into my ploys so easily, and I am surprised that you think so lowly of her,” Antinous points out, painfully aware of how out of his role he sounds. Quickly, he corrects himself, as if he was adjusting a sword in a sheath. “Or do you think that she would, if I looked at her the right way?” he leans in, allowing the blade Telemachus holds to press against his skin.
He doesn’t know what he expected but it’s not this. It’s not for the prince to suddenly look away, his hand itching back, his eyes hiding under the canopy of his eyelashes. The moon is just bright enough to cast some light over Telemachus’s golden skin. His cheeks seem darker than usual.
“My mother would never,” Telemachus rasps, still refusing to meet Antinous’ eyes.
“Then who–” Oh, oh. Antinous cuts himself short as the implications all come together.
His mouth nearly splits under the pressure of his smile; no, not smile – a grin. He hums knowingly, and when Telemachus tries to step away, Antinous quickly grabs his wrist, pressing his thumb against the veins thrumming with racing blood. Telemachus will not look at him, which speaks louder than words, but Antinous – for all that he is worth – for once feels like the worst version of himself; the ‘everything’ version of himself that Telemachus wants him to be.
“The prince thinks that I am after him?” He asks deliberately slowly as he leans down, blowing a little bit of hot air to tickle Telemachus’ ear. “Imagine how scandalous would that be.”
“Let me go, Antinous,” Telemachus wheezes quickly, and tugs at his wrist, trying to set himself free from the grip.
Antinous could point out that if Telemachus really wanted to escape, slashing Antinous’ throat open would work like a charm. But he doesn’t feel like dying today, and the warmth in his chest works on his senses like a good wine – so his fingers press deeper into the skin, catching the rhythm of Telemachus’ adrenaline.
He pulls Telemachus closer. Just an inch, but enough to lay the temptation open. Antinous is good at temptations. He drags his breath against the roof of his mouth, just the way his hot blood tends to drag against the walls of his veins whenever Telemachus’ eyes narrow at him. Antinous takes in the flush sitting across Telemachus’ cheeks for a moment longer, before he lets go of Telemachus’ wrist.
He’s not stupid, after all. He can draw the line before what he can and cannot have. He can have a picture of a bruise beneath a bright blue eye, but he cannot have the same bruise painted against the smoothness of a golden neck. Telemachus isn’t just some girl Antinous can pull into a backalley and fuck against the wall, without a care in the world whether she has a husband, waiting for her or not. Telemachus is fucking crowned prince, and his one word could get Antinous kicked out of his palace anytime he wanted. His one word could get Antinous’ heart to be ripped out of his chest, before Antinous even learns what it means to have a heart.
“I– what?” Telemachus startles, as if Antinous forced him into something, instead of giving him a free way out.
Antinous shrugs, and nonchalantly leans against the column he was pushed against.
“A freedom of choice is a seduction on its own, princeling,” he tilts his head, smiling smugly. He lifts his hand, and because they are still playing a game, he makes sure to crook his wrist as an invitation and a rejection alike. He can be an asshole, if he wants to be.
Telemachus, of course, immediately zeroes on this gesture, and his nose scrunches and the vein on his forehead grows more visible, and there’s displeasure in the corner of his mouth. As if once more Antinous has done something to mess up with his head. Perhaps this time – he did so knowingly.
That’s for Telemachus to decide anyway.
“You’re just going to let me go?” Telemachus asks, bewildered, and to that Antinous snorts.
He spreads his arms a little bit wider, and he thinks he ought to look like an idiot. A crowned prince, who is perpetually furious with Antinous, is standing right before him, accusing him of unwanted attention, and he holds a knife in his hand, where Antinous is completely and utterly unarmed. He sets himself an easy target, knowing that if pushed hard enough – Telemachus can strike without a warning. The prince sees a taunt in the slightest quirk of lip, in a singular twitch of muscle after all. A long time ago, he classified Antinous as “dangerous” in ways the human mind cannot comprehend.
“Well, it’s either that or you give in to my seductions,” A playful lilt seeps through Antinous’s consciousness to heat up his voice, and he looks at Telemachus just right – a measured glance, not enough to peel off his chiton, but enough to advocate for taking it off.
His eyes rake over Telemachus’ body, stop at his mouth just for a brief second, before he rests the back of his head against the cool stone and allows his eyelids to fall down. Sometimes Antinous likes to imagine Telemachus’ expressions instead of seeing them. Fills up the gaping hole in his heart and all that – a game that grants him the possibility of not relying on his body and body alone.
“You’re…” Telemachus huffs through his gritted teeth. His voice sounds thick with fury. Antinous can bet that the line of Telemachus’ mouth is set taut, he can bet that his pupils are needle-thin. He can bet that his body is as strong-willed as it is soft under the hint of fear.
What is there not to like in Telemachus anyway?
Antinous is already straining his ears to hear the insult burn into the tissue of his brain, when suddenly someone yanks the front of chiton (and really that can be only one person), and then someone’s lips are pressing against his own in an uneven attempt of a kiss.
Antinous’ eyes fly open immediately, but there’s not much to see other than the angry press of Telemachus’ eyelids, a hint of the bruising, and a whole lot of murkiness of the night. He can feel as Telemachus’ fingers twitch over his chiton, an outline of fingernails against Antinous’ chest, and a flutter of breathlessness against his lips.
Antinous never even attempted seduction at the palace; he only ever wanted to catch the eye of the people who mattered. At the core, this is what it is – right at the center of his heart, he refuses to acknowledge. An unbearable yearn to belong somewhere. To his country, his people, his family, to someone. To be interesting enough to be seen and thought about. To be considered a possibility, not just the worst thing to grace this land. To live twice – on his own and for someone else.
It’s a lot to want, in full honesty.
He thinks of the bruise beneath Telemachus’ eye, and of the wine in his cup, and the suspicion that keeps Telemachus occupied at all times. He doesn’t even realise when his hands find Telemachus’ waist to pull him closer. He doesn’t even realize when the kiss melts from initial shock to pleasant burn of victory.
But he does realize when Telemachus’ lips part to kiss him open-mouthed. And suddenly, it all becomes all too real to be pushed away and played off as something insignificant.
He can turn this around, use it in his favour. Become a possibility growing out of hundreds of suspicions.
Antinous’ lips move against Telemachus, coaxing him into a less frantic rhythm, into something that rolls over senses and smoothens the edges that they both point at each other at all times. It covers up the bone that sticks out like an open wound whenever Telemachus grinds his teeth, and Antinous punches the breath out of him. A kiss to replace the memories that these bodies store – the ache of injury, and the sting of losing blood. Antinous’ fingers draw circles right above Telemachus’ hipbones, wrinkling his chiton, pulling his body into a gentle lull of humming pleasure.
The kiss grows less ragged, even if Telemachus’ lips remain feverish as if begging to be torn open – to match everything that Antinous’ carries with his smile; a promise of bite, a suggestion of sanguinity. Telemachus, for all the golden fluff and polished marble that he is, sometimes aches to be turned blood and bone; Antinous is all but happy to provide, but he’ll do it slowly, turning himself into a lover rather than a scoundrel that he is.
“You gave in,” Antinous breathes against his lips, mumbling into the cavern of his mouth. “Don’t blame me.”
He can feel the stinginess crooking Telemachus’ lips.
“I always blame you.”
Antinous’ thumbs still, where they were tracing patterns over Telemachus’ waist, and without a warning, he spins them around, switching their positions, pinning Telemachus to the wall with his hands and his hips.
“And what have I ever done to deserve this treatment, hm?” Antinous hums, leaning down, nipping the side of Telemachus’ neck. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough for his mind to supply his heart with the possibility of leaving a mark. It has to be enough.
Telemachus makes a tiny noise at the back of his throat. Not quite a moan, rather a sound of disagreement if it took the shape of a whimper.
“You know what you’re doing,” he tries to hiss still, but it comes out broken, unconvincing. “Meddling in affairs that do not involve you.”
“Like my homeland?” Antinous’ voice takes a sharper edge, his fingers teasing the hilt of the knife that Telemachus has long placed back into his sheath. “Or rather your feelings?”
“Both,” Telemachus barks back, but it comes out softer than intended – squashed between Antinous’ teeth, squeezing the spot where Telemachus’ neck and shoulder meet. “Neither,” he adds, almost immediately.
“Mhm, see that doesn’t make sense,” Antinous clicks his tongue, lifting his face to glance at Telemachus. “Perhaps you should think through your answer then.”
Telemachus eyes are slightly hazed over, but – on Gods – they narrow still as if what Antinous just said now was again something that can be used to overthrow the royal state. Antinous laughs, a quiet sound, and leans back in to kiss Telemachus again.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles. “I kick your ass at your request, and you act offended. I kiss your mouth at your invitation, and you act like I seduced you into this. I care about Ithaca as my blood begs me to do, and you think of me as a parasite.”
“You are a parasite.” Telemachus huffs, but his eyes are glued to Antinous’ lips which makes the insult almost… irrelevant.
“No, Telemachus,” Antinous nears his mouth to the shell of Telemachus’ ear; his hands travel high enough to reach the bruising that decorates Telemachus’ ribs. “I’m just home,” he adds and for a split second it feels right – a memory of him painted on another body, an echo of his name submerged in the deep wine, a whisper of him in the shadows haunting the palace.
“This isn’t your home,” Telemachus shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tensing slightly.
It’s a game, it’s a gamble, and Antinous is not stupid, but he is reckless enough to take a measured risk, even if the illusiveness of his heart is at stake.
“Well, then kick me out,” he drops his voice lower to hide how strained he sounds. His fingers tighten, digging into Telemachus’ skin until the prince gasps as hurt unwinds in his body. “You can’t. You know why? Because even if I left, I’d still be here,” Antinous lifts his hand and taps Telemachus’ head. “And in there, I am much, much worse than I am in reality, am I not?” he adds and steps away.
Telemachus stumbles a little, as if his body was strung to Antinous, but before his feet move, he raises his chin high – in all of his royal glory and glares at Antinous, his eyes burning. He says nothing, his breathing is harsh and labored, and he looks every bit of himself after another sparring session. Antinous’ lips tip upwards, just slightly, now with intent – with seduction, now that he’s allowed to play his cards this way.
It was Telemachus who allowed for this to happen anyway.
Telemachus’ eyes narrow, a familiar uncertainty flashing past his irises. They look at each other for a moment longer. There’s a bruise beneath Telemachus’ eye that is turning green around the edges. It could be healing, it could be the sign of decay, and neither of them would be able to confirm the outcome just yet. Antinous’ smirk drags wider, warmth in his chest bursting into open flames.
The suspicion rimming Telemachus’ eyes is changing too. Could be an opportunity, or could be a symptom of a life sentence.
Antinous tilts his head back, his eyes gazing at Telemachus – a measured glance, not enough to confirm his suspicions, but enough to disturb their predictability. When Telemachus frowns, Antinous laughs quietly, and then, without a word, walks away.
Telemachus always looks at him with suspicion in his eyes, and Antinous maybe can use it against him now.