Chapter Text
The sun over the gymnasium was a heavy, gilded weight, turning the fine amber sand of the wrestling pit into a bed of embers. It was the kind of afternoon that felt thick with the scent of olive oil, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of adolescent energy.
Eurylochus, nineteen and already cursed with a frame that outpaced his confidence, sat idly on a wooden bench, watching the dust clouds puff into the air. His large hands resting on his knees, sweat dripping down his back, drying and leaving an itching crust of salt. Nearby, a group of boys—Polites and Odysseus among them—were occupied with a game of phaininda, one of the princes’s current favorite pastimes. Their voices rising in a discordant chorus of shouts, colliding bodies, and grunts.
On any other day Eurylochus would have joined them, opting to play alongside Odysseus. He didn’t fear getting his hands dirty and rather enjoyed the outlet for his restless energy. However, two weeks ago he bumped into his father—another reminder that his body was not as it had been before and that their family forge wasn’t built for two men—while handling a half formed blade in their forge. The hot metal had injured his ankle and foot, his leather sandals did little to protect him from the searing iron and it had left its brand on his flesh. A scar he would carry for many years to come. But the local physician claimed was healing nicely and had told him he could resume light work.
Even still, Eurylochus didn’t want to test his luck.
So, he watched them pass the soft leather ball amongst themselves, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his knees. A habit he had most definitely adopted from Odysseus, who could never keep himself still.
He soaked in the slow baking sun as it crawled across the sky. His attention shifted from the group of boys to a gathering of men who watched the wrestling, then back to the boys. He wiped the sweat from his brow just as another chaotic fit broke out between the stripped down youths. Plumes of dust stirred from the squabble, catching the golden rays of sun and giving the scene an almost dream-like quality.
Polites was in the thick of it, a blur of sun kissed bronze skin, dark curls, and infectious laughter. He wasn't the strongest—he never had been, that title usually fell to Eurylochus himself—but he was the quickest, darting between the larger boys like a swallow through a thicket. He moved with ease, like he shared the same kind of natural grace that the fish he spent his days catching had.
The ball took an erratic bounce, nearly striking a stone pillar before Polites scooped it up with a triumphant shout. He feinted a pass to Odysseus, tricked two other boys into a lunging collision. He sidestepped another boy’s attempt to grapple him. When he spun to dodge another he caught Eurylochus’s eye, a playful grin split his features and in a moment of what could only be explained as a youthful sense of immortality, gave a wink.
He was promptly tackled by a larger boy, Xenos—who was not from their usual company.
His startled cry was cut off by the heavy thud of bodies against sand. Another large cloud of dust was churned up, obscuring Eurylochus’s view of the grapple.
Eurylochus’s heart skipped as he flinched upwards, almost losing balance when he was sharply reminded of his own injury. Regardless he stood, brow furrowed and heart beating upon his ribcage.
The dust cloud from the tackle started to settle, revealing Polites caught in a harsh hold, face pressed into the ground and body curled protectively around the ball. Xenos was taking advantage of his heavier build to manhandle the smaller.
Eurylochus took a limping step forward, his breath hitching. His thoughts pressing against the confines of his skull with a low, persistent hum, like a wasp trapped in a jar. A rising chorus of mad voices that promised nothing but visions of pain and suffering. He saw Polites’ shoulder pinned at an awkward angle as Xenos ground his weight onto the other, hand shifting from Polites’s head to his neck.
"Careful!" Eurylochus warned before he could stop himself, his voice cracking slightly before settling into its deeper register. The other boys would tease him later for being so cautious, no doubt, but they ignored the call.
Despite everything, Polites—ever the optimist or perhaps just mad—didn't cry out in pain or gasp for air. Instead, he let out a muffled, wheezing laugh into the dirt. With a sudden, eel-like wriggle, he threw his hips to the side, dislodging Xenos’ center of gravity just enough to slide out and toss the ball to the waiting Odysseus. He popped up like a cork in water, spitting out a mouthful of grit and shaking his dark curls.
"You'll have to be faster than that, Xenos!" Polites chirped, though his chest was heaving and there was a red mark across his neck. The foreign boy paid him no mind, his attention already shifting to Odysseus and rejoining the fray. Polites didn’t jump back into the struggle, a fine tremor of adrenaline still vibrating through his limbs.
The dark haired boy turned toward Eurylochus, seeing his friend standing on one good leg like a worried heron, and smiling. A short bark of laughter interrupting his gasps, “Eury! You’re meant to be resting my friend!”
"I am resting," he countered, slowly lowering himself onto the bench once more. He let out a deep breath, trying to regain control of his racing heart, his shoulders dropped an inch with the effort. "Although, it’s rather difficult when I’m watching you try to get your neck snapped for a leather ball."
Polites shook his head and trotted over to the edge of the pit, leaving the game to the others and joining Eurylochus at his bench. He smelled of salt, sun-baked earth, and that distinct, metallic tang of youth. Without a word he picked up a flask of watered wine and took a long pull before offering it to Eurylochus, who accepted. The shorter boy’s eyes were bright, dancing with the adrenaline of the afternoon.
"I’m fine, big guy," Polites said softly, his voice dropping to a tone only Eurylochus could hear. Far more gentle than the taunting cry he had given the other boys. And as if he could sense the doubt rolling from Eurylochus, he laughed, plopping himself down on the bench with a small grunt.
"Xenos couldn't snap a twig, let alone me," Polites joked, reaching out to give Eurylochus’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. His hand was warm—burning, even—and for a second, the buzzing in Eurylochus’s head silenced. "You worry too much, brother. It’s just a game."
"It’s always 'just a game' until someone snaps their arm," Eurylochus grumbled, though his expression softened as he looked over the dark haired boy.
Polites shrugged off the concern easily, “Aye, but I am not a stubborn fool like Koalemos is. I would let the ball go.”
Eurylochus ignored the comment about their peer, instead he began to inspect the other more closely. He looked down at Polites’s neck, where the red from Xenos’s grip was already beginning to darken. Below it, just under his collarbone was a gash, most likely acquired from a stray rock in the pit. It was small, inconsequential really.
Still, Eurylochus frowned, gesturing to the cut "You’re bleeding."
Polites mindlessly wiped a hand across his collarbone, glancing at the smear of red on his palm with utter indifference.
"A badge of honor," Polites said, his grin returning as he wiped the blood onto the well worn bench. "Besides, I think Xenos took the worst of it. I'm fairly certain I landed a knee right in his ribs during that last tumble."
Eurylochus didn't share the amusement. His eyes remained fixed on the small, weeping line of red on Polites’s skin. In the harsh glare of the Ithacan sun, every blemish looked like a crack in a masterpiece. The buzzing in his head—that low, maddening hum—hadn't quite disappeared; it had merely shifted pitch. His frown deepened.
Polites rolled his eyes and leaned back on his elbows. His chin shifted up with a startling confidence, "You’re acting like an old hen.”
"Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you had more sense than a chick," Eurylochus muttered, though the edge was gone from his voice. He reached out, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed a smudge of grit away from the edge of Polites's scrape.
Polites didn't argue or pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch, his eyes softening as he hummed in vague agreement. His gaze wandered to the sky.
"The sun is dipping. Look,” He pointed toward the horizon where the sky was beginning to bruise into shades of violet and deep, burning orange. He was quiet for a moment before his smile fell, replaced with a furrowed brow, "My mother will have the table set soon, and if we're late, she’ll feed our portion to the hounds."
Eurylochus sighed, the tension in his neck finally beginning to unravel. He nodded, "I’d rather face a hydra than your mother when she’s been cooking all day and no one is there to eat it."
"Exactly," Polites laughed, springing up from the bench and extending a hand to help Eurylochus stand. “I’ll put on my chiton, you get a head start.”
Satisfied with Eurylochus’s nod, the nimble boy dashed off to retrieve his tunic and sandals. Eurylochus offered a brief farewell to Odysseus, who was locked in a heated debate with the others about the final score. And was rejoined by Polites at the entrance of the gymnasium.
The walk back to Polites’s home was a much needed cool down from the chaotic and fast paced nature of the gymnasium. Eurylochus limped with a quiet but rhythmic thump-step. Polites, mercifully, paced himself, matching his friend’s labored stride without making a show of it. To any other boy, the pace might have been agonizing, but Polites treated it like a leisurely stroll, stopping occasionally to point out a distant ship or to pluck a sprig of wild rosemary from the wayside.
As they left the gymnasium behind the sky finished its transition from the golden light of afternoon to the ethereal glow of dusk. The bleeding indigo making firelight dance like falling stars. The limestone path beneath their feet, which had been scorching hours ago, now radiated a dying, gentle heat. The air was cooling, the cicadas beginning their evening lullaby, and the chaotic noise of Ithaca was starting to settle into a drone as the people returned to their hearths.
Polites kept them both entertained with recounting the latest gossip he had overheard—something about a merchant's daughter and old crone that lived on the south side of the island—as they made their way through the sloping streets towards the outer docks.
The house of Polites was tucked away on a gentle slope, smelling of dried herbs and the savory, heavy scent of roasted lamb. A humble establishment that seems to radiate a welcoming light. Polites’s mother, Kephissa—a short woman with silver streaks in her dark hair and a voice like a warm hearth—ushered them in with a flurry of scolding and worn affection. She fussed briefly over the general disheveled appearance of her own son but didn’t comment further. She didn't miss the red mark on Polites’s neck or the way Eurylochus favored his leg, but she settled for pressing extra helpings of bread into their hands.
Dinner was a loud, comfortable blur. The table was a landscape of coarse bread, olives slick with green oil, and the steam rising from the lamb. Eurylochus beside Polites, across from his younger sisters. They shared the same brave optimism as their older brother, chattering away about the day’s events like starlings. Polites told a dramatic retelling of the game, hands gesturing wildly as he made himself out to be a titan among men. Eurylochus watched him, the orange light of the hearth fire dancing in Polites's eyes, making the boy seem just as untouchable as he liked to believe.
Between bites of honeyed bread and hearty lamb, Eurylochus engaged in conversation with Kephissa about business back on Same, his voice a low rumble beneath the family's high-pitched laughter. The meal ended with the sisters being shooed toward their room with hushed giggles and Kephissa retiring with a heavy, contented sigh. The two boys, bellies full and limbs heavy with the day’s exertion, retreated to the small room Polites shared with no one—a luxury of being the man of the house.
The room was small, but comfortable and lived in. Lit only by the flickering amber glow of a single oil lamp that Polites had carried in. It smelled of cedarwood and the cooling night air drifting through the high, narrow window. After the noise of the dinner table, the silence felt thick, almost heavy.
Eurylochus collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a groan that was half-relief and half-pain, his injured ankle throbbing in a steady, rhythmic cadence. He closed his eyes for a moment in hopes it would get the persistent whispers of failure from his mind. They had quieted some during dinner, the restless energy and drone of conversation had outspoken them. But in the stillness of Polites’s room they had returned.
Polites, on the contrary, was more energetic. He placed the lamp on his desk beside his bed and kicked off his sandals. Humming some thoughtless tune as he peeled his chiton over his head in one fluid motion, leaving him in only his loincloth. He folded the chiton neatly and placed it next to the lamp. He looked over at Eurylochus, who was still fumbling with the ties of his own tunic, his large fingers clumsy.
"Here, let me," Polites said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped into the intimate pool of amber light. He swatted Eurylochus’s hands away with a playful click of his tongue, not waiting for a response. He began to undo the knots at the shoulder, his fingers nimble and quick, a stark contrast to Eurylochus’s thick, scarred knuckles.
Eurylochus sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall. The proximity brought the scent of Polites back in full force—warmed skin and the lingering sweetness of the wine they’d shared. As the fabric loosened and pooled around his waist, the cool night air hit Eurylochus’s chest, making his skin prickle. He felt suddenly, acutely aware of how large he was in this small space, and how much smaller Polites seemed when standing between his knees.
His brows furrowed at the odd thought.
The oil lamp flickered, casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls. Polites didn’t pull away once the tunic was loosened; instead, he leaned in, his thumb tracing the line of Eurylochus’s collarbone with a distracted sort of curiosity. His fingers delicately circling a small scar that Eurylochus could only assume came from the heated debris of the forge.
“This one is new,” Polites murmured, his voice vibrating in the small space between them. He tapped it again, his mouth curled down into a slight frown for a moment before he pulled away, taking the discarded chiton and folding it beside his own. “Did it hurt much?”
Eurylochus let out a huff, contemplating the small scar for a moment. Honestly, the young man didn’t even recall getting the scar. His own hand wandered up to trace it curiously, “I don’t believe it hurt, or if it did it was mild enough for me to forget.”
Polites laughed, a soft, breathy sound that seemed to hang in the air like incense. He shook his head as he turned to face Eurylochus again. "You've got too many to count, my friend. One day you’ll be more scar than man, and I’ll have to be the handsome one."
"Unfortunately, I do believe that Odysseus is keen on claiming that title," Eurylochus retorted, though there was no heat in it. Polites lifted his brows in silent agreement, letting out a huffing laugh once more. Eurylochus shifted, his weight creaking on the wooden frame of the bed. The room felt smaller now, the shadows stretching and dancing as the oil in the lamp burned low.
Polites didn't head to his side of the mattress immediately. Instead, he stood there, looking at Eurylochus with an expression that was hard to read in the dim light—something between mischief and a new, quiet gravity. Then, without warning, Polites grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. He lunged forward, catching Eurylochus off guard and shoving his shoulder, “First to the pillow gets the wall side!”
"Hey!" Eurylochus barked, a startled laugh breaking through his gloom as he tried to regain his balance before he fell off. He spun to face Polites—who was halfway to the pillow—and caught him by the waist, hauling the smaller boy back with a grunt. Eurylochus winced, his injured foot giving a sharp twinge at the sudden movement but it was easily ignored in favor of dragging Polites back.
Polites let out a squawk of protest, though his brilliant grin remained in fact. His heels and hands dug into the mattress as he was dragged backward, scrambling and squirming like a fish in a net. “Cheater! You use your brute strength because you're slow!”
"Brute strength is the only language you seem to understand, brother!" Eurylochus countered, his voice rumbling with a genuine mirth that finally drowned out the last of the stinging whispers in his mind.
“I’m sure Xenos believed the same thing,” Polites huffed as he tried—and failed—to twist himself away once more, amusement twinkling in his eye.
They rolled across the narrow bed, a tangle of limbs and muffled shouts—Eurylochus careful to keep his weight off of his injured leg. They wrestled more like boys than the men they were meant to be. Eurylochus used his weight to pin Polites’s legs, but the smaller boy was made of nothing but quicksilver and stubbornness. Polites arched his back, twisting like a snake, and managed to plant a foot against Eurylochus’s chest to shove him back.
“Slow! Heavy! Like a mountain with legs!” Polites wheezed, his face flushed a deep, healthy crimson under the flickering amber lamp. He lunged for the single, long bolster at the head of the bed, his fingers grazing the rough linen.
Eurylochus only grunted and reached out, his massive arm sweeping across the mattress to snag Polites by the ankle. He tugged, and with a yelp, Polites slid backward again, his fingers grazing the fabric of their prize. The smaller twisted, delivered a swift kick to Eurylochus’s shoulder with his free leg, and lunged for the bolster once more.
This time, Polites finally managed to get a frantic, two-handed grip on the pillow, a triumphant laugh escaping him as he pulled it closer. He hugged it to his chest, curled into a ball, and kicked out blindly to keep Eurylochus at bay.
“Mine!” he declared, his voice high and breathless, chest heaving and eyes wide and bright, “I have the prize! The wall is mine by right of conquest!”
Eurylochus huffed ungracefully and lunged one last time, not for the bolster, but for Polites’s ribs. He dug his fingers into the sensitive skin of the smaller boy’s sides, and Polites folded like a crushed leaf, erupting into a fit of breathless, hysterical laughter. The pillow was forgotten within seconds, slipping from his grasp as he thrashed against the assault, trying to push the larger away.
"Mercy! Eury, mercy!" Polites gasped, his voice thin and wheezing, cut off by fits of laughter as he squirmed desperately. “I yield!”
After a few more chaotic seconds, Eurylochus was satisfied. He finally let go, falling back against the mattress with a heavy thud that made the wooden frame groan. They lay there for a long moment, side-by-side, their chests heaving in odd intervals, eyes bright with adrenaline. The air in the room was warm, smelling of the oil lamp and the salt of their exertion. The frantic energy of the wrestle began to settle, morphing from the sharp edges of a game into a soft, buzzing weight.
Polites turned his head, his dark curls spilling across the shared pillow. His face was still flushed, his eyes shimmering in the dying amber light. He looked at Eurylochus, a slow, quiet smile replacing the jagged grin of the victor.
"My heart is wild in my chest," Polites whispered, still breathing hard. He hesitated before taking Eurylochus’s large hand and pressing it against his ribs.
Eurylochus felt the rapid thud-thud-thud beneath the skin. It was vibrant, alive, and so very close. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, his callused fingers spread, feeling the warmth of Polites’s chest, the slight dampness of lingering sweat, and the softness of his skin. He hummed in agreement, “Yeah, it is.”
The silence that followed was no longer the heavy, anxious sort that plagued Eurylochus in the dark. It was a new kind of silence—thick and humming, like the air before a summer storm. Not the kind of storm that shook the trees or carried the gods’ wraith, but the kind that cleansed the earth. His scarred thumb moved almost of its own accord, tenderly tracing the curve of Polites’s ribcage. The laughter had died down, leaving behind a curious, elective tension. Neither boy moved, their chests slowly synchronizing in more controlled breath.
They had slept in the same bed hundreds of times to escape the winter chill or after long nights of drinking, but this was the first time the silence felt like a question. Eurylochus kept his gaze fixed on the hand that rested on Polites’s chest, his brows furrowing as he mused over the stillness.
"Eurylochus?" Polites whispered, his voice barely a breath but shattering that fragile silence between them.
The larger boy shifted his gaze from their hands to Polites’s face. In the flickering amber glow, the planes of Polites’s features looked softer, less like the man he was pressed to be and more like the boy he still was, that youth his spirit always carried. Polites didn’t look away. There was no fear in his eyes, only a wide, searching curiosity that seemed to pull at the air between them.
"Yeah?" Eurylochus rumbled, his voice dropping into a register that felt heavy in his own throat. His fingers finally stilled on the other’s chest, his full attention shifting to the dark haired boy next to him.
Polites didn’t answer with words. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath and moved with that same swallow-like grace from the wrestling pit, sliding closer until their shoulders pressed firmly together. He propped himself onto his side, eyes looking down and tracking every slight movement Eurylochus made. He reached over, his nimble fingers brushing against Eurylochus’s jaw. The touch was tentative, a question asked in the language of skin and heat.
Eurylochus felt his heart hammer against his own ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the one he’d just felt under Polites’s palm. The mad voices that usually whispered of disaster were oddly quiet, replaced by a localized, searing focus on the point of contact. He leaned into the touch, his large hand moving from Polites’s ribs to the back of his neck, his thumb grazing the red mark left by Xenos.
His gaze dropped to Polites’s mouth. He saw the way Polites’s tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, a nervous, expectant gesture. Eurylochus felt a strange, magnetic pull, a gravitational shift that made the space between them feel both miles wide and nonexistent. The air in the small room seemed to thicken, the flickering oil lamp casting their shadows against the cedar-planked walls until they merged into one.
Polites was the one to move first—much to Eurylochus’s relief. He leaned in further, closing the gap, the scent of wild rosemary and warm skin filling Eurylochus’s senses. When Polites’s nose brushed against Eurylochus’s he hesitated, pulling back with a startled blink. Before he could completely draw back Eurylochus moved, leaning up to close the distance between them with a graceless and uncertain desperation.
When their lips finally met, it wasn't the practiced grace of a hero from the songs, but the hesitant, clumsy fumbling of two boys standing on the precipice of something they didn't yet understand.
The kiss was clumsy, a collision of teeth and the scratch of budding facial hair, hesitant and dry. But then, Polites made a small, soft sound in the back of his throat—a sound of discovery—and tilted his head, deepening the contact. His hand shifted from his jaw to slide and settle at the nape of Eurylochus’s, his fingers tangling in the shorter, coarser hair there.
Eurylochus’s heart hammered in his chest as his fingers hesitantly drifted from Polites’s chest to his midsection, wrapping around his waist to weakly pull him closer. Polites let out a sharp intake of breath, a small gasp of surprise that turned into a hum of approval as he shifted his weight, draping a leg over Eurylochus’s hip.
"Eurylochus," Polites whispered against his lips, his voice trembling slightly. He leaned out of the kiss, drawing back with a gasp, his pupils wide and gaze hazy.
Eurylochus followed suit and pulled back, his face flushed, eyes wide with a sudden flash of panic. His hands falling away from Polites’s waist to hover awkwardly in the air. “I—I’m sorry, I should… I didn’t—“
Polites silenced him by pressing a trembling finger to Eurylochus’s lips.
"Hush," Polites interrupted, panting, his voice a breathless, airy thing that seemed to float in the warm room. He didn't pull away any further. Instead, his fingers moved to trace the frantic pulse in Eurylochus’s neck as he tried to regain control of his breathing. "Don't be sorry. It’s just... it’s new."
The panic in Eurylochus’s chest didn't vanish, but it transformed into a jittery, electric heat. He watched Polites’s chest rise and fall, the small gash from the wrestling pit a dark line against bronze skin in the amber light. He nodded, his own chest heaving with panting breaths as he watched something intense flicker in Polites’s eyes. Slowly, he moved his hands back to the smaller’s waist.
After a brief pause Polites was the one to lead the way, his curiosity outweighing his caution. He shifted his weight, fully straddling Eurylochus’s waist and leaned down, pressing his forehead against Eurylochus’s. He sucked in a deep breath as he settled over the larger boy, his hands mindlessly wandering Eurylochus’s chest.
"Is it okay?" he whispered, closing his eyes as he stilled his hands.
For all of ten seconds Eurylochus couldn’t seem to process the words properly. They spun around his head, finding no traction and gliding over his mind like an oil covered marble. But mercifully the words finally caught on something, and he blinked. Was this okay? He didn’t know. Not really. He had never felt this way about Polites before, nor had he ever looked at any of his friends with this kind of interest.
But he wasn’t sure if he could back out of this without spending the rest of the night wondering what could have happened. Something had sparked deep in his gut, curiosity perhaps, and it coiled tightly around his chest at the thought of stopping.
He nodded.
"Yes," Eurylochus rumbled, the word vibrating deep in his chest. "Yes, Polites."
Polites nodded, smiling nervously and huffing a forced laugh. He licked his lip again, Durylochus could feel his hands shaking against his chest. His voice was quiet, almost lost in the sound of cicadas outside. “Alright… Yeah. Good.”
Neither of them moved.
The stillness in the room became a physical thing, a heavy velvet curtain that separated them from the rest of Ithaca. Polites was the first to break the paralysis; he drew a breath, nodded to himself and he leaned down once more. However, this time his lips found the sensitive hollow where Eurylochus’s neck met his shoulder. He gasped. The sensation was electric, a jolt that traveled straight down Eurylochus’s spine, making his toes curl against the rough wool of the blankets.
When Polites drew back Eurylochus met his lips again, this time with more intent. The kiss was wetter, more urgent. He tasted the watered wine and the salt on Polites’s skin. He felt the smaller boy’s mouth open under his, a soft invitation that he met with a low, rumbling groan. His large hands, usually so careful to avoid breaking things, now gripped Polites’s waist with a firm strength. He wanted to pull him in until there was no air left between them.
"Oh gods," Polites whimpered into the kiss, his hands moving from Eurylochus's chest to his shoulders, fingernails digging in slightly. "Eury... you're so warm. Everything is so..."
"Polites," Eurylochus growled his name, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
Polites replied with a sharp, needy moan into Eurylochus’s mouth. The sound was like a spark to dry kindling. They began to move against each other, a frantic, uncoordinated friction. Eurylochus’s hands wandered, tracing the lean muscles of Polites’s back, feeling the sweat-slicked skin under his palms.
Everything that followed was a series of firsts—uncoordinated, breathless, and marked by a profound, trembling reverence. There was the first time Eurylochus felt the full weight of Polites against him without the buffer of a wrestling match; the first time his hands ventured beneath the waistband of a friend’s loincloth, his palms sweating and his pulse roaring in his ears like the Sea. There was a frantic, honest hunger to it.
They explored with the earnestness of those discovering a new map, hands tracing the lines of muscles and the softness of skin. Hands that knew how to grip a spear or a forge-hammer now learned the curve of a waist, the sensitive skin of an inner thigh, and the heat of a bared chest. It was a discovery of friction and pulse, a frantic exploration fueled by the curiosity of nineteen years of life finally finding an outlet.
It was awkward at times—a knee catching a hip, a whispered instruction lost to a gasp—but there was a profound sense of trust in the fumbling. In the heat of it, the world outside, Ithaca itself, seemed to cease to exist. They were just two boys in the dark, seeking a way to turn their friendship into something tangible, something that burned.
There was a moment of sharp, stinging reality when the finality of what they were doing hit Eurylochus. He felt Polites tense, a sharp intake of breath catching in his throat as they navigated the final, clumsy threshold of their curiosity. It wasn't the seamless union described by the poets; it was a tangle of limbs, a sharp gasp of discomfort that quickly melted into a low, grounding heat, and a shared, wide-eyed realization that they had crossed a line they could never un-cross.
They moved together with a hesitant, burgeoning rhythm, a language they were learning in real-time. Eurylochus kept his eyes squeezed shut, his large hands anchoring Polites as if the smaller boy might float away into the rafters if he let go. Every sensation was magnified: the slickness of sweat, the friction of skin, and the overwhelming, terrifying closeness of another soul.
When the storm finally broke, it left them washed up on the shores of the mattress, trembling and utterly spent.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, but it was heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. Polites eventually collapsed onto Eurylochus’s chest, his dark curls damp and sticking to his forehead as he rested it against Eurylochus’s shoulder. Eurylochus reflexively wrapped his arms around him, his heart still knocking against his ribs like a bird in a cage.
The oil lamp flickered one last time before the wick drowned in its own melted offerings, plunging the room into a deep, velvety darkness. The only light remaining was a thin, silvery sliver of moonlight slicing through the high window, illuminating the dust motes that danced over their tangled limbs like silent witnesses.
Eurylochus stared up at the ceiling he couldn't see, his senses heightened to a point that felt almost painful. He could feel the cooling sweat on Polites’s back where his hands still rested, the steady, slowing drum of the other boy’s heart against his own sternum, and the faint, rhythmic whistle of Polites’s breath. Polites was mindlessly tracing the muscle on his shoulder with a slow rhythm that seemed to mock the sheer intensity of what they had experienced.
Finally, Eurylochus cleared his throat.
"Does this... change things?" Eurylochus asked, the question hanging heavy and dangerous in the air. His voice a hoarse whisper, trembling delicately. Something youthful in his chest stirred at the idea of things changing, of losing what he had to something else when already so much was changing.
Polites was silent for a beat, his fingers finally stilling. Then, he pulled back just enough to look toward where he knew Eurylochus’s eyes were, though they were little more than shadows in the dark. He reached up, his fingers—still trembling slightly—finding Eurylochus’s cheek. He traced the line of his jaw with a devastatingly soft touch.
"Everything in this world changes, Eury," Polites said, his voice regaining a sliver of that characteristic optimism, though it was tempered now with a newfound gravity and a strange softness. He moved his head back down to rest it on Eurylochus’s chest with a weary sigh. "The tides turn, the seasons shift, and we grow too big for our tunics. But I’m still me. You're still you."
The silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic chirping of the cicadas outside. Eurylochus felt the weight of Polites’s head against his shoulder, a solid, grounding presence. "We are still us," Eurylochus repeated softly, the words tasting like a vow.
Polites let out a small, contented hum. He shifted, detangling their legs with a tired grunt and rolling onto his side, though he kept one hand draped across Eurylochus’s stomach.
"Sleep," Polites commanded softly, throwing his leg over Eurylochus’s hip once more, claiming his space with the same easy confidence he always carried. His voice trailing off with exhaustion that mirrored Eurylochus’s own. "The sun will be up soon enough, and Odysseus will be at the door shouting for us before the dew has even dried."
So sleep, Eurylochus did.