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It is not until he is back in his chambers and cleaning himself with a cloth at the water bowl that he wonders if he himself was in fact, the seducer.

It’s true that I kissed him, Telemachus thinks. Not the other way around.

It would be easier if it had been Antinous who had crossed that line. In all the ribald stories passed around at the banquet table there a hundred stories about lustful older men who preyed upon the young and innocent.

There were fourteen years between them after all. If they were going by tradition then Telemachus would be playing the part of the pretty youth.

Although Antinous is hardly an old man, he thinks and then a wave of shame grips him so strongly he feels almost as if he will vomit.

How can you stand here, a voice in his head asks. And think such things? How could you have panted under him like a dog? Your mother’s suitor, your father’s enemy. If you had any honour you would have sooner let him drop you over that cliff edge.

It occurs to Telemachus, somewhat belatedly, that what he has just done can never be undone.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he stares at the wall without seeing it. It seems strange to think that in one evening and with one action he could completely disrupt the course of his own life.

But nothing had changed, really. Not yet. Not unless anything came of it, which it wouldn’t.

He could not undo it, but he could make sure it was never done again.

Of course, it can’t happen again, he tells himself. And if it never happens again, then it will be as if it never happened at all. He will say nothing and I will say nothing and when I think of it, I will think of it as a dream I had once. If it changes nothing then it might as well have not happened at all.

The most important thing of course, was to avoid Antinous at all costs. Which was rather easy to do, for now at least.

He did not sleep that night but lay in his bed until dawn, when he got up and went about his day as if it were any other. He was so focused in his training that even Eumaeus had little to say and he ate the midday meal with his mother in her chambers. They spoke of the practicalities of the wedding without emotion; what must be prepared, where it would take place. He caught her watching him at times, wondering perhaps where this sudden change had come from, but she said nothing.

In the evening he dresses in formal leather cuirass and fustanella, strapping on the decorated bronze wrist guards gifted to him by his mother on his eighteenth birthday. At the feast, he forgoes his usual corner and takes a prominent seat at one of the long central tables. Mentor says nothing but joins him and they eat in silence. The suitors watch him warily at first but soon they almost seem to forget he is there. The atmosphere is still tense; the old revelry has not returned.

He drinks perhaps more than he should, mechanically lifting the cup to his lips.

The men around him are talking, with obvious discontent of what they will do after the wedding. Some of them are planning journeys home. Others mention women, more loudly than they ever did before. Perhaps it is because Penelope is not sitting behind her screen. Perhaps it is because there is no need to pretend anymore.

At a certain point he becomes aware of a whispered conversation taking place at the table behind him.

“Tonight,” a voice is saying. “It must be tonight. There is no moon.”

“What of the servants?” Another voice asks.

“They avoid that corridor. My girl has told me so.”

“I don’t blame them. Pompous bastard, I bet he’s making the most of that handmaiden of his.”

“You would think so but my girl says different. Apparently he got sick of her as soon as the thing was done.”

“What thing was that?” There was a burst of laughter.

“Not what you’re thinking of. But lower your voice.”

Telemachus risked a glance at Mentor, who met his eyes. He too, was hearing this then.

“What time?” the second voice presses.

“Not here. I’ll tell you later. Outside.”

There was no more after that. Telemachus says nothing, continues to eat slow and tasteless mouthfuls of meat and bread.

He watches two men leave, not long after that, moving quickly, heads lowered. Telemachus watches them go and looks down at his plate. He reaches for the wine jug and refills his cup.  

It would be so easy to let them do this thing. It could not have come at a better time in fact.

Antinous dead. He had wished for it, many times.

Except…

Without consciously deciding to do so, he stands abruptly, rattling his plate on the table. Men look up at him, startled.

“My lord,” Mentor says softly, looking up at him. “Some events must play out as they were meant to.”

Telemachus feels his hands curling into fists at his sides and he takes a breath and lets them fall loose.

“I know this,” he says, sitting back down. “But how do we know what events are meant to be?”

“Only the gods know that, true, “ says Mentor. “But you would have no blood on your hands if you let this happen. These men have only themselves and their own wickedness to blame for their fate.”

“What fate is that?”

“Death,” Mentor says simply, grey eyes cold.

 Telemachus feels a chill travel down his spine. He feels suddenly that the friend before him, who has worked with him and trained him, is almost a stranger. Someone much older. Impossibly old.  

“I know it is deserved,” he says. “ But can it really be too late? For them to choose a different path? Or is it already set in stone?”

He is not whispering but the suitors around them continue as if nothing has been said. Their voices are almost muffled. Telemachus feels that a veil has been drawn around the two of them, cutting them off from the world.

“Every man has the right to choose,” Mentor says. “So make your choice. But consider it carefully for if you interfere you will be tying your fate to his.”

Telemachus blinks and the strange spell breaks. The noise of the hall returns. Mentor is his familiar companion again, biting into a leg of chicken and getting it into his beard.

When Telemachus stands again, Mentor looks up at him as if surprised.

“Are you going somewhere my lord?”

“To bed,” Telemachus says. “I’ve had too much to drink I fear.”

As soon as he is out of sight of suitors and servants he breaks into a run. He does not bother with the door to the walkway, turning instead to the stairway that will lead him up towards Antinous’ chambers.

There are no attendants in the corridors that surround it, something that strikes him as odd.  He cannot take time to think about it however. The door ahead leads to Antinous’ chambers and it is open. Telemachus slows and takes the last few steps pressed close to the wall, listening.

There are no voices and for a moment he thinks he has come running for nothing. Then, muffled sounds and a grunt. Something smashes and there is a cut off gasp of pain.

There is a moment, stepping through the doorway where Telemachus thinks that perhaps rushing in, alone and without a weapon was not particularly clever. Then he sees the scene being played out before him and he is stepping forward and shouting before he can stop himself.

“Let him be!”

There are two men in the room but it would be difficult to say who they are; they are both wearing masks. They are the kind used by travelling acting troupes, one distended smile, the other a leering grimace. It lends the scene a strange unreality.

The smiling man has Antinous up against the wall with one arm pressed across his neck and the other across his mouth . The weeping man stands closer to the door, between Telemachus and his smiling companion. Antinous lets out a muffled cry and Telemachus follows his eyes to the knife held in the weeping man’s hand. It’s small but very sharp, glinting in the light that comes from the brazier.

“Who are you?” Telemachus demands, finally finding his voice. He raises it, hoping that a servant will hear. “How dare you come into my mother’s house and attack her guests?”

They say nothing, watching him silently.

Of course, Telemachus thinks. They would not wish to identify themselves with their voices.

That’s a good sign. It means they do not wish him dead.

The weeping man in front of him raises his knife.

Or not, he thinks. Perhaps they might as well remove me from the equation at the same time.

Antinous hung his weapons by the door, a voice at the back of his mind whispers.

Telemachus does not give himself away by looking, just takes a step back as if frightened.

Emboldened by the show of weakness, the weeping man makes a move toward him, pulling back his knife….

Before stopping in his tracks, startled by a sudden shout of pain that comes from the man holding Antinous to the wall.

“Get off me you filthy coward,” Antinous is snarling with blood on his teeth and it takes Telemachus a moment to realise that he has bitten the hand that was pressed across his mouth. Not only bitten it but ripped a chunk out of the meat of it.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Telemachus whirls and grabs at the shield and sword hung by the door. He turns back to his attacker just in time to block the knife  with his shield on its downswing.

He brings the shield up hard against the masked face and when he staggers back, Telemachus thinks for less than half a second before shouting Antinous’ name and tossing the shield in his direction. He does not wait to see if was caught, bringing his sword around to swing at the exposed belly of the weeping man. It is not a true hit but it catches at him, tracing a red line across the gap just below his cuirass. The weeping man lets out a cry, steps back, looks around wildly and then runs through the open door.

Meanwhile, Antinous is using the shield like a bludgeon, completely without technique, smashing it against the masked head of his assailant, who can only stagger back, unable to get his footing against such a wild and frenzied attack.

With a final roar, Antinous has him on the ground. When smiling man raises his knife in a desperate attempt to protect himself, Telemachus rushes forward. He is too far away but it is unneeded; Antinous has already brought the edge of the shield down on the man’s hand. The crack of bone is audible and the man howls like an animal.

Antinous, red with anger and with a crazed look in his eyes, raises the shield over his head.

“Wait!” Telemachus cries and Antinous looks up at him, uncomprehendingly, as if he has only just realised he is there.

The masked man uses the chance to roll out from under his opponent, stumbling to his feet. He runs past, cradling his hands in front of him, red and dripping.

Antinous sits there on the floor, chest heaving and all but snarls.

“Why would you let him go?”

“You let him go,” Telemachus says, letting the sword drop out of his hand. “I saved your life.”

Antinous bares his bloody teeth and holds his hand up towards Telemachus like a supplicant.

Thinking to help him up, Telemachus steps forward and takes it. Antinous has a grip like a drowning man and when he rises, he does not let go, pulling Telemachus to him and kissing him so savagely that Telemachus cannot be sure if the blood he tastes is his own or the attackers.

It should disgust him but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he leans in, intoxicated by the feel of Antinous’ hand as it cradles his face. Antinous takes him by the waist, yanking him closer.

It’s right on the bruise he had earned the other day and he must have made some sound because Antinous pulls away, looking down in alarm.

“Are you injured?” he asks. “Did they-“

“Sire?” a voice calls out from around the corner.

It’s lucky timing for them both; a moment earlier and Mentor would have walked in on them embracing. As it is, Telemachus has time to spring back and be at an arm length when they are discovered.

 Eumaeus is at Mentor’s heels  when he walks in he sniffs the air.

“Blood,” he says and scowls. “Are you hurt prince?”

“I am not,” Telemachus says stiffly, trying not to shuffle away from Antinous too obviously.

“I am unhurt also,” Antinous says and Eumaeus snorts and rolls his eyes.  

“Mentor, send for the guards,” he says. “Now tell us what happened. This knot needs unravelling.”

They send out every man they have with torches lit but there is no sign of the intruders. The back door they entered through lay open to the courtyard and the masks were found thrown into the goat pen.

Telemachus keeps his story short. He walked past and chanced to hear a shout. Antinous if anything keeps his shorter; he was surprised in his chambers while preparing for bed. Neither of them mention the suitors. Telemachus because he will not discuss it with anyone but his mother. Why Antinous holds his tongue he does not know.

After reciting it three or four times to the guards, Telemachus is summoned by Penelope. He is careful not to look at Antinous when he leaves.

She is sitting in her chair by the window when  he enters,  looking out at the moon. When she hears his footsteps her head snaps round. Her eyes are red rimmed and her mouth is pursed. She tells the servants to leave them.

“You’re not hurt?” she asks when they are alone.

“No,” he says and she gets up quickly, movements stiff and crosses quickly to him as if she does not believe him and must see for herself.

“You have blood on your hands,” she says, taking them in hers and holding them to see. “And your face.”

“Not my blood,” Telemachus says and then, softly. “You knew, didn’t you?”

She stops moving, still holding his hands. “What did I know?”

“That they would try to kill him. Did you send the servants away too?”

She squeezes his hands tightly and then looks up at him. There are tears in her eyes but no regret.

“I knew there was a chance they want him dead. Why risk the lives of the servants? I should have kept you away too-“

“And why didn’t you?” he asks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She lets his hands fall and looks away. “I would have kept it from you if I could. I see now this was a mistake.”

“You kept this from me because I would have said it was wrong. I would rather we shut our doors to them and opposed them openly-“

“And what do you think would have happened?” she asks, inhaling sharply. “You think this is underhanded of me. What do you think it means, to survive on your wits? I will play every trick I have to play if I need to.”

“You finished the shroud didn’t you?” he says, feeling all at once, very tired. “Or allowed it to be finished. He knew it would be him even before it was announced. Did you arrange it with him? I wondered why you would pick him of all of them…”

“I chose him because he was the obvious choice,” she says.

“And vain and pompous enough to have made enemies,” Telemachus says.

She raises her eyebrows just a fraction and he knows he has guessed correctly.

“He found out about my unravelling at night,” she says. “Through Melantho. He told me if I chose him then he would not reveal it to the others.”

“So, you let him win?”

“Win?” she says, looking up sharply, eyes flashing with a sudden rage. “No. I simply let him fall into the trap he had created for himself. I would let him see what exactly his victory would cost.”

The pure hatred in her face was almost frightening. He felt a strange envy. It would be so simple if he could feel like that.

 “I suppose you asked the serving girls to tell the suitors that he was unguarded,” he says.

Her face is unflinching.  “I did.”

“What were you hoping for? That each new groom is picked off by the others before the wedding day? Or perhaps you think a slaughtered man will make the next suitor more reluctant?”

“Do you think it unjust?” she asks, her voice cold. “Or is it too bloodthirsty perhaps? We both know that when if your father returns he will kill them all anyway. You don’t think I’m capable of it myself? Do they not deserve it? Have you not yourself tried to raise arms against them every night before I stopped you?”

He said nothing. The worst part was that she was right, of course. It was not the honourable fight he had dreamed of. It was smarter than that. He had grown up hearing stories of his father’s cleverness but he had not reckoned with what true cunning meant.

“Why would you not tell me?” he asks at last. This is the true core of the hurt. “Perhaps I would not have blundered in as I did.”

“Oh Telemachus,” she says and then, to his surprise, she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “You were acting with honour. And bravery. I told you nothing because I want you to be a ruler who does not have to resort to such things, to such trickery. Your father-“

“He valued honour,” Telemachus says, not sure what he is arguing against.

“He did. He does. But he valued our safety more. He would not have gone to Troy unless they had threatened to take you. Sometimes in this life, in order to survive…in order to protect what is dear to you,  you must be prepared to sacrifice everything. Even your honour. Or the person who you thought you were.”

He turns away from her and goes to the window. After a while he speaks. “So what now? We hope they try again? And if they do not?”

“No man who hopes to win me will live until his wedding day,” she says. It sounds like an incantation.

“How are you so sure?” he asks, looking back at her over his shoulder.

“I have been told this,” she says. “By a most reliable source.”

Telemachus swallows around the lump in his throat. A prophecy then. There was no arguing against prophecy.

“I dreamt Athena came to me,” he admits. “And told me our waiting was nearly over.”

“I pray that’s true,” she says. “But the gods help those who help themselves.”

By the time he leaves her chamber is it very late and he is near dropping with sleep. He stops by his room briefly to give instructions to his servant and then keeps walking, through the empty corridors until he reaches the door to the walkway.

Antinous is lying on the bed when he arrives and looks up, startled at the door to balcony where Telemachus stands.

“I did not think you would come,” he says. “Won’t they be looking for you?”

“My servant knows to tell them I am in my rooms and not be to be disturbed.”

Telemachus feels himself swaying slightly where he stands. The light in the room is very low. A heavy chest has been drawn across the door he sees and the sword is by Antinous’ bedside.

“I’ve made you into a liar,” Antinous says, looking almost pleased with himself.

“My father is a famous liar. My mother lies just as skilfully,” Telemachus says, taking one step closer, then another. “I think perhaps it’s time I tried lying too.”

“Would you start by lying down with me?” Antinous asks and draws the cover back. Beneath them he is half naked, skin golden in lamplight.

It’s a terrible line but even as Telemachus makes a face , he  finds himself coming closer, stripping off his breastplate. Antinous watches him, body tensed as if he can’t quite believe it, as if he is waiting for more assassins to burst in at any moment.

As Telemachus crawls into bed he says, “You know, this morning I told myself this would never happen again.”

“Strange. I said the same,” Antinous says and though the words are spoken lightly, his face betrays something almost like bitterness.

“I suppose neither of us are men of our word,” Telemachus says softly, lying next to him on the soft furs.

Antinous draws him closer, hot and soft in all the places where their bare skin touches.

“I’m sick of words anyway,” he says. “Aren’t you?”

When Antinous kisses him, Telemachus can’t help but agree.

Dawn is what wakes him the next morning, the pink glow of it through the window.

Telemachus wonders why his rooms look so strange and then he remembers. He does not know how it happened that he slept here but it was a deeper, more dreamless sleep than he’s had in a long time. He feels almost refreshed.

Refreshed,  but  too hot and uncomfortably sticky. Antinous is wrapped around him and drooling onto his shoulder.

He looks much younger in his sleep with the harsh lines of his face softened. Telemachus has rarely had the chance to look at him like this; not when Antinous is always watching him back.

He allows himself a few moments before he shoves Antinous off. He’s not particularly gentle.

He wakes up startled, bleary eyed and blinking. “What’s happening?”

“I need to get back,” Telemachus says, sitting up and reaching for his clothes where they are strewn on the ground. An arm wraps itself around his waist and he swats it away. “Do you want the servants to find me here?”

“Door’s sealed,” Antinous says, making an aggrieved noise. He withdraws the arm but keeps his hand on the curve of Telemachus’ hip, rubbing his thumb back and forth. “It’s still early.”

“I’ve stayed too long already,” Telemachus says, sniffing his shirt and pulling a face. “I did not mean to stay the night.”

“I wore you out,” Antinous says smugly. “I’ve never seen anyone look like that when pleasured. You couldn’t even speak by the end- your eyes rolled back and you went limp. I had to check to see if you were still breathing.”

Telemachus looks back over his shoulder to give him an incredulous look. “Yes, I’m sure it was your skill as a lover and not just the days of not sleeping.”

Antinous hand stills on Telemachus’ hip at the word lover and then resumes again, as if he did not want him to notice.

Telemachus looks away, down at the tunic in his hands. There’s a spot of wine on the white linen. Wine or blood.  

“Besides,” he says. “From what I recall it was hardly more than fumbling.”
“Fumbling?” Antinous snaps, sitting up in bed and looking awake for the first time. “You were mewling like a kitten when I had my mouth on you-“

“Don’t take it badly,” Telemachus says, standing to pull his tunic down over his head. He suddenly feels arms grabbing him from behind, pulling him down sharply.

He lands on his back with a huff. The fabric is still over his head, trapping his arms above him and when he tries to struggle he realises Antinous is holding it in place from behind. Blind and half naked, he twists, snapping, “Let me up!”

“I suppose you’ve had better, “ Antinous says, voice honey smooth. In this position Telemachus can’t quite work out where he is and he turns his head, looking for the sound. A moment later he feels Antinous mouth on his stomach, the flat of his tongue licking a wet stripe. “How many people have done that for you, hmm?”

There is a wet kiss on his hipbone and a rasp of teeth that makes Telemachus jump.

“Look at you,” Antinous says and his voice sounds a little further away, as if he has leaned back on his haunches to get a better view. “I could do whatever I want to you right now.”

Telemachus thinks suddenly of the sword that still sits by the bed and then he thrashes in earnest, feeling the panic settling in his chest. The cloth over his mouth is hot and close and too tight and his breathing comes faster and faster.

Then all at once, it is being lifted away, not quite off but up, so that his nose and mouth are free.

Antinous allows him a deep breath before kissing him.

“How many,” he asks when he pulls back. “Tell me.”

“Dozens,” Telemachus lies. “I’ve lost count.”

Antinous laughs into his mouth. “I would call you a slut if I believed you. Tell me the truth. I think maybe once or twice. Star struck serving girls I assume. I’m sure you wrung your hands over it and felt very shameful indeed.”

Telemachus stays quiet. He wants to keep up the pretence and agree but it makes his stomach roil. He does not like the way men treat the female servants in his palace. He grew up with them. They were more like sisters to him than anything. They had played with him on the courtyard and fussed over him like a baby brother.

“No?” Antinous says, irritatingly perceptive. “Maybe you needed something else then. Was there a man? That large favourite of yours perhaps, that filthy beggar you brought in…”

“Mentor?” Telemachus says, shocked. “No.”

“I’m sure he would be more than willing if you asked him.“ There’s a nasty edge to Antinous’ tone now.

“Stop it,” Telemachus says. “You know there’s been no one.”

Antinous goes quiet and then the tunic goes slack across Telemachus’ face. He pulls it down, off his face and struggles into it, glaring, face hot. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Are you telling me the truth?” Antinous asks. The look on his face is almost horrified.

“Are you pretending you didn’t know?” Telemachus asks, annoyed by his own embarrassment.  “Does it matter?”

“I’m not sure,” Antinous says softly. “Say it again and we’ll see.”

“Say what?”

Antinous leans forward and the blanket around his waist falls away enough for Telemachus to see that he is hard beneath it.

“Say that I’m the first person to touch you,” Antinous says. The amusement is gone from his voice now. He sounds deadly serious. “Say that I’m the only person who’s ever seen you like this.”

“I won’t give you any more reason to humiliate me,” Telemachus says but when he feels Antinous slide a hand up beneath his tunic, his hips twitch up, unbidden. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Say it,” Antinous says and his hand is on Telemachus’ ass, long fingers stroking, exploring,  reaching. “What if I asked nicely?”

“I won’t,” Telemachus says and then let out a ragged breath. “That’s good, that’s good. Oh, what are you-“

“You want me to stop?” Antinous asks, fingers stilling. Telemachus can hardly breathe. He thinks suddenly of a ribald song he had overheard once  about a pretty male prostitute and a garrison of soldiers.

“No,” he says and then, because if Antinous keeps touching him there then he will start begging for something he will regret. “Put your mouth on me again and maybe  I’ll consider it.”

Antinous swallows and nods, eyes very dark. He pulls Telemachus’ thighs apart almost roughly, fingers digging in so hard that Telemachus wonders if there will be marks. It’s so good, so wet and warm and tight that Telemachus has to hold a pillow over his face to muffle his cries at the end.

He is still trying to catch his breath when Antinous pulls it away and starts kissing him, smothering and sloppy and urgent, almost whining as he rubs himself against Telemachus’ wet thigh.

“Say it,” he’s says between kisses, sounding desperate. “Say it, tell me, you promised me, tell me it’s just me, tell me, tell me-“

Telemachus reaches down and takes him in hand and Antinous lets out a groan of near pain. This is the first time Telemachus has touched him like this. It feels like his own, perhaps a little longer and slimmer. Hard and silky to the touch and wet at the tip.

“It’s only been you,” he says into Antinous’ ear. “You’re the only one.”

Antinous lets out a sob and with two more thrusts he spends into Telemachus’ hand.

Telemachus lets him pant for a moment before he becomes too heavy. Then he rolls Antinous off him and, wiping his hand off on the pillow, he starts getting dressed.  This time, Antinous lets him go, moving only once, to roll onto his back. He looks like he could be sleeping, but Telemachus suspects this is an act.

He makes it back to his room in time to clean up before Mentor arrives to take him to training. If Mentor notices the fresh bruises on his thighs, he says nothing.

He looks for a man with mangled hands at  the feast that night and sees no one, as he suspected.  The numbers have noticeably thinned however. Some of them are clearly too bitter to stick around to see Penelope wed to another man. The men that are left are hard faced. They talk in whispers of what happened the night before, eating little and drinking less.

Telemachus orders guards to stand by the corridor that leads to Antinous’ room. Mentor’s silence is almost deafening. Telemachus does not offer explanations; he is a prince of Ithaca.

His mother must know but she does not send for him.

No man who hopes to win me will live until his wedding day.

Perhaps she had enough  faith in those words to believe that Telemachus’ interventions would make no difference.

It occurs to Telemachus as he  unlocks the door to the western wall that night, that he could always send away the guards tomorrow.

The thought is an evil one. He would be prolonging the life of a condemned man for his own pleasure.

But doesn’t he deserve it? , a voice in his head asks. It sounds almost like Mentor. After all, he is not a good man.

It’s true and Telemachus cannot deny it. He wonders if he would feel this way about a good man. If a good man would do the things Antinous has done to him at night.

He wonders if Antinous was ever good. No baby in their mothers arms is evil. When had that change come upon him?

“Why did you come as a suitor to my mother?” he asks later, when they are on the balcony.

Antinous had clearly been waiting for him and pretending otherwise; when Telemachus had arrived, a supper had been laid out on the table outside and Antinous had lit the lamps. He was dressed in finery again, looking more himself than he had in days, with his silver claps securing his cloak at the shoulder and his hair carefully arranged.

“You want to discuss your mother tonight?” Antinous asks, raising an eyebrow. He is sitting on a chair  that he must have dragged out from within. There is an empty one set up by it and Telemachus sits and, as nonchalantly as possible, reaches out to pluck a grape from the tray.

“You’ve never told me.”

Antinous shrugs, looking almost uncertain under the bravado. “She is beautiful, wealthy and a queen. There needs be nothing more than that.”

“Your family is wealthy too. You’ve been here ten years waiting. Did you never want to do anything else with your life?”

Antinous scowls. “I see we’ve fallen back into old territory.”

“This is not old,” Telemachus says. “This is uncharted. We’ve never spoken of it.”

“My father-“ Antinous starts and then seems to change his mind on how to answer. “Well, I would have gone to Troy if my lot had been different.”

There is something practiced about this line. Telemachus has heard it a thousand times. He realises now that Antinous won’t quite meet his eyes as he says it.

“There are more than two lots to choose from in this world,” he says. “You were just a child at the time of the draft. Far younger than I am now.”

Antinous looks at him for a moment and then busies himself with cutting cheese.

“Sometimes we make our choices early,” he says shortly. “And we must live with them. You have to set your course and stick to it. I thought you fancied yourself a sailor. You should know this.”

“If she were confirmed a widow it would be different,” Telemachus presses on. “Or if she had a daughter. If I were not born a son-“

“I would not have waited for so long,” Antinous says softly. “I would not have tolerated the others sniffing around you all these years.”

“You would have driven them off? ” Telemachus asks, raising an eyebrow. He isn’t quite sure if this is a joke or an insincere form of flattery. Antinous face betrays nothing.

He decides not to be distracted by this line of thought.

“But still,” he says. “My point remains. Only the gods know our fate. There’s still time to change yours.”

“Ah,” Antinous says, sitting back in his seat and smiling with white sharp teeth. “ I see it now. You’re trying to talk me out of the throne. Well you’ll have to try a little harder than that sweetheart.”

It’s said with condescension not affection but the pet name affects Telemachus anyway and something low in his belly tightens with sudden want. He covers his reaction by taking a long drink from his cup.

“How did you imagine this would go?” Antinous continues. “Did you think I would give up now after all these years just because you asked me to? And then what? I leave and someone else takes my place. How do you plan to see him off?  Perhaps you will seduce him as well.”

Telemachus smiles at him over the rim of his cup. “So you think I came to your bed as part of some plot?”

Antinous looks at him, face shuttered. “Didn’t you?”

“I make a pretty poor seductor. It seems to me you’ve done more for me than I have for you. Surely if I was coming here for that then I would have been the one on my knees.”

Antinous draws in a sharp breath and his hand tightens into a fist where it lays on his leg.

Leaning back in his chair, Telemachus rests his cup carefully on one thigh, parting his knees just slightly. Antinous’ eyes flick to his legs, bare under the tunic.

“You were the one waiting under my window,” he says. “As soon as I wasn’t there to keep you entertained in your hall-“

“Entertained?” Telemachus scoffs.

“You come following like a puppy. Begging for my attention.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I do. I think you’ve been waiting for the chance to get me alone. All those years I saw you watching me-“

“You watched me.”

“Watching me and hoping that one day I would give you what you wanted and put you on your back. You play at being the dutiful son, the honourable little prince of Ithaca. How long have you been thinking of this?”

“Never,” Telemachus says hotly and then, reluctantly. “Until two days ago.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe what you want,” Telemachus says, shrugging, and then he narrows his eyes as a thought occurs to him. “And what about you? Had this ever occurred to you?”

Antinous looks caught off guard for a moment and then he seems to regain himself, smiling. “Once or twice perhaps. If only because the thought of having Odysseus’ wife and his son was so-“

“Stop it,” Telemachus snaps, angry now. “Why do you do this? Are you incapable of speaking the truth?”

“What do you want to hear?” Antinous counters, his voice suddenly vicious. “That I was pining for you all this time in secret? Are you that naïve? Do you think this think this thing we have been doing is love?”

Telemachus shakes his head stiffly but says nothing.

Antinous laughs and there is no humour in it. It sounds ripped out of him. “You think a couple of clumsy tumbles with a virgin and I’ll be so smitten I’ll give up the throne of Ithaca? Are you really that foolish?”

Telemachus is frozen in place. His face feels like a mask of itself. He looks at the cup in his hands, drains it and then places it down. He stands up.

Antinous laughs bitterly. “Is this the part where you run off?”

Telemachus goes to where he is sitting and looks down at him. Antinous looks up at him defiantly. He looks as if he is bracing himself to be struck.

It’s what he deserves. Instead, Telemachus just turns and goes towards the door that leads to the chamber. Standing in the doorway, he looks back over his shoulder.

“Well?” he says. “Are you coming or aren’t you?”

Antinous blinks, wide eyed and then he scrambles up to his feet so fast, the wine in his hand spills.

It’s easier like this, Telemachus thinks. Less complicated when it is clear that there is nothing between them but hate. His head feels clearer than it has in days. For whatever reason his body he needs this but there didn’t need to be any pretence in it. He almost wants to thank Antinous for reminding him of that.

He strips off quickly, lying back on the bed and when props himself up on his elbows and looks up, Antinous has hardly moved, just standing there and watching him.

“Telemachus…” Antinous starts to say and then Telemachus cuts him off.

“I went by the kitchens earlier,” he says. “I think it should be enough.”

He holds up the small clay bottle he had brought with him, tucked away in his clothes.  

Antinous’ eyes fix on it. He doesn’t look as if he is breathing.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Telemachus asks. “Or should I go and find someone else?”

This last seems to break whatever paralysis Antinous was under and he crosses the room in three quick steps, shrugging off his cloak as he moves. The expensive pin clatters when he drops it on the floor. His breastplate and shirt are next, both left lying carelessly where they are dropped.

He all but crawls onto the bed, over the length of Telemachus, bracketing him in place with his hands on either side of Telemachus’ head. When Antinous lowers his head to kiss him, Telemachus turns his face to the side.

“Just get on with it,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”

“As you wish,” Antinous says. His tone is clipped, careful but his expression is darker than Telemachus has ever seen. Sinking back on his haunches, he hooks his hands under Telemachus’ knees and pulls them up so sharply that Telemachus lets out a surprised huff of air. Antinous takes the bottle and uncorks it.

The sound alone is enough to set Telemachus on edge. The fear of what is to come is pressing at the edges of his mind and he swallows, looking up at the ceiling. It would not make sense for this to kill any arousal but strangely it seems to be having the opposite effect on his body and he is already hardening.

Antinous spills some oil into his palm and watching him rub it between his fingers, Telemachus twitches below him, feeling his face growing hot. His heart is beating so fast in his chest he is surprised the sound of it doesn’t fill the room.

“Breathe,” Antinous says, breaking his uncharacteristic silence suddenly and soothing a hand down the inside of Telemachus’ thigh. It’s dispassionate, like soothing a horse, but Telemachus can’t help but let out a moan.

Antinous’ mouth twitches, as if he is holding back words and then, he takes Telemachus by the thigh, lifting it to rest on his shoulder. With the other hand he reaches down to take his cock in hand. Telemachus bucks up into it, letting his head fall back.

It’s too rough, too fast and almost mechanical but within moments he is in real danger of finishing embarrassingly quickly. He lets out oaths that are probably blasphemous and twists in place but Antinous has him held tight.

“Wait,” Telemachus gasps. “Wait. If you keep going-“

“What’s that?” Antinous says and still his hand. “You want me to stop?”

“Damn you,” Telemachus says, chest heaving. His cock twitches in Antinous hand and he thinks his head might be about to catch fire from how hot his face feels. “Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“Ask nicely,” Antinous says but there are points of red high on his cheekbones and his hair is falling into his eyes. He is still dressed below the waist and when he reaches down a hand to adjust himself, Telemachus wonders if the constriction is getting painful.

“If you don’t want to..” Telemachus says and then gasps when Antinous moves his hand.

“You think you have me on a leash,” Antinous says. “On your back begging for my cock and you think you can order me about like one of your servants…”

Even as he says this he is fumbling with his one free hand at his clothes. He can’t quite manage and finally he curses and lets go of Telemachus’ thigh. Telemachus keeps his leg where it is over his shoulder and twists up to catch at Antinous’ neck with his hands. He wants to kiss him but catches himself at the last moment and bites his shoulder instead. The position is an uncomfortable stretch but it’s worth it for the way Antinous shudders.

“Be patient,” he says and pushes Telemachus back down on the bed. “If you want this so badly then stay still.”

He seems to mean it in earnest and when Antinous finally frees himself of his breeches and kicks them away, Telemachus sees why; his cock looks almost painfully hard.

“I’ve not even touched you,” Telemachus says, without meaning to.  

It’s not meant as mockery but Antinous scowls. “Be quiet and spread your legs.”

For all that his words are harsh, he takes a moment to pour more oil on his fingers, letting it drip down between Telemachus’ legs. When he pushes the first finger inside, Telemachus closes his eyes and breaths out hard through his nose, determined not to call out.

“Good?” Antinous asks, voice hushed, not moving.

“Keep going,” Telemachus grits out. It isn’t good, it’s strange and intrusive and just on the edge of painful when Antinous adds a second finger. He thinks perhaps he has made a mistake and he is preparing himself to endure it when suddenly Antinous’ fingers brush against something inside that sends a flood of pleasure up his spine.

“Oh,” he says, eyes snapping open in shock. “That feels-“

“Good, ” Antinous says and this time it is not a question. He looks smug and triumphant and Telemachus can only nod and try to breathe as Antinous continues.  

“There you go,” Antinous says, driving faster and deeper. “That’s it. Can you take another?”

Telemachus groans, feeling his knee nearly slip on Antinous’ sweat slick shoulder. Antinous grips it tighter with his free hand, tugging his legs somehow more open and, perhaps unthinkingly, presses a kiss to the inside of Telemachus’ knee.

“Now,” Telemachus says. “I’m ready.”

He’s not sure if this is true but the momentary show of care is somehow more painful. He needs this to happen now or it won’t hurt. If it doesn’t hurt then he can’t justify it to himself.

Antinous nods, too far gone to speak and reaches for the bottle again.

“No,” Telemachus says and rolls over. “Just do it.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Antinous says and Telemachus hears the sound of the cork being loosed. Telemachus breathes into the fabric of the bed and waits. Antinous is pressed behind him, warm and heavy and as solid as the bed below him. At the touch of a hand on the small of his back he almost flinches.

The first slow slide is awful, not so much for the pain but for the way Antinous keeps petting his waist. Each inch feels like it takes a lifetime and he has to work to control his breathing.

“Telemachus- ” Antinous starts. His voice is horribly close to sounding tender.

Terrified suddenly by the thought of what he might say, Telemachus moans and pushes back.

“Please,” he says. “Please, I’m begging you Antinous.”

It’s a dirty trick but it works. No longer holding back, Antinous presses forward all at once, groaning Telemachus;’ name.

Biting the fold of blanket beneath him, Telemachus muffles his shout and pushes back, feeling a kind of joy in the pain. He doesn’t let Antinous adjust or pause, pushing back until Antinous finally establishes responds and starts fucking him in earnest.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Antinous is gasping. “Gods, if I ever thought it would be like this-“

“Harder,” Telemachus says and Antinous says nothing after that, just obeys, picking up the pace with his hands gripping Telemachus’ hips.

It takes a little while for Telemachus to enjoy it, a little longer still for him to get hard again and when he does it is more from the noises Antinous is making behind him than anything else, short little cut off groans. The pleasure builds slowly but it does not stop growing and it’s not long before he is panting, fingers curled in the sheets and taking everything Antinous has to give.

 It’s a relentless pace but so good that Telemachus thinks wildly that perhaps it would not be so bad if the wedding occurred, just so long as Antinous kept fucking him like this every night.

If it was me you were marrying I would keep you in my bed all day, Telemachus thinks. I would have you do this to me whenever I ordered it.

It’s not until Antinous groans and somehow picks up the pace that Telemachus realises he has spoken these words aloud. It’s hard to keep track of the things coming out of his mouth now; blasphemies and babbled words and noises he had never made before.

“Turn over,” Antinous says, not stopping but slowing, his thrust becoming shallow. “Turn over, let me see you.”

This is dangerous but Telemachus is too drunk on pleasure to say no. He makes a sound of discontent when Antinous pulls out and when he flops over onto his back, Antinous is kissing his cheek, shushing him and saying, “I know, I know, just a moment, be patient.”

Face to face, Telemachus can see that Antinous looks somehow even more ruined than Telemachus feels. His hair has fallen all across his face and he is wild eyed and glistening with sweat. When he lines himself up again, Telemachus sees that his hands are shaking. Under the skin of his back where Telemachus grips him, his muscles quiver and twitch.

It’s slower this way but deeper and Antinous won’t stop staring at him, even though Telemachus turns his head.

He tries to reach down and touch himself but Antinous is there first, wrapping a large hand around him and stroking him in time with his thrusts. It’s almost too much together and Telemachus squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed.

“Look at me,” Antinous says in a broken voice. “Look at me.”

Telemachus opens his eyes.

“There you go,” Antinous says. “There you go sweetheart.”

That’s enough to push Telemachus over the edge, the pleasure rolling up like a wave and closing over him. When he comes back to himself, Antinous is fucking him through it, messy and out of rhythm. He’s gasping something out but he sounds almost drunk. Telemachus makes out his name and there is no mistaking the tenderness of it. It’s perhaps the most honest that Antinous has ever sounded.

To shut him up, Telemachus puts both hands on Antinous’ face and kisses him. Antinous drives in one last time and stays there, buried deep as he comes and making desperate sounds into Telemachus’ mouth.

He doesn’t let go afterwards, just pulls out and slumps down, still gripping at Telemachus’ hips as if he’s scared he’ll slip out of his fingers.

Telemachus cannot say for certain how long they lie there, only that he cannot seem to bring himself to leave. He’s aching and sore but with the pain is a kind of all body pleasure, a warmth he can feel almost in his bones. The closest he has ever felt to this was lying on the ground after being knocked down in practice, with his muscles singing with pain and his mind wiped free of thought. Antinous is heavy on him and the sweat and warmth should be unbearable but it isn’t. Every so often a thin shiver of pleasure darts up his spine, like the tremors that follow after the earthquake has passed.

“You know,” Antinous says at last. “Your mother said something when I asked for her hand.”

“Is this really what you wish to speak of?” Telemachus asks, opening his eyes. The pleasant glow recedes a little. “Now?”

“She asked me,” Antinous says, as if there had been no interruption. “Why I would want to marry someone who was in love with another. I thought it was a stupid question. Why should it matter who you are in love with?”

Telemachus stills his hand where it lies, tangled in Antinous’ hair. He had not even realised he had been stroking it.

Don’t, he thinks. Don’t say it.

“I have been wondering something,” Antinous says and Telemachus braces himself. He speaks the words into Telemachus collarbone without looking up. His voice sounds raw and raspy.

“What is it?” Telemachus says. The words sound like a plea and he winces at himself.  

“I have been wondering why you kept me from killing that man.”

“The one who attacked you?” Telemachus frowns. This isn’t what he expected.

“I told myself at first it was because you were soft,” Antinous continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “But you aren’t.”

“They were suitors,” Telemachus says, awkwardly. “I would not break-“

“The law of Zeus? You wouldn’t have been the killer. You wouldn’t have broken it by letting them kill me either. I don’t think it’s that you are not capable of killing. The answer came to me this evening, just before you arrived.”

“What answer is that?” Telemachus asks, carefully.

Antinous looks up at last and his eyes are unreadable. “We’re not yours to kill, are we? You’re waiting for him to do it.”

Telemachus cannot answer for a long moment. “Is that what you believe?”

“It’s what he told us. Leodes. Remember the night he stood up on the table? He said we should all drink and eat our fill while we could. There is no feasting in Tartarus and when Odysseus came home he would kill us all. Do you remember that?”

“He was drunk,” Telemachus says. He’s thought about that night often over the years. Leodes, swaying where he stood, eyes fixed on a faraway point. The suitors, looking up at him in eerie silence.

“Do you think it’s unfair? Do you think we don’t deserve it?” Antinous asks. He does not sound as if he is asking about the others.

“No,” Telemachus says, honestly.

“When he comes back, we’re dead men,” Antinous pushes himself up on his elbows  and smiles down at Telemachus. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So why not make the most of it while I can?”

When, Telemachus thinks. He said when he comes back, not if.

“If you know this, then why stay?” Telemachus asks. “ Why not run?”

“If there’s no feasting in Tartarus then I don’t imagine there’s any of this either,” Antinous says, taking Telemachus’ chin in his hand. His thumb brushes over Telemachus’ mouth and lingers on his lower lip. “After all, I don’t think we’ll run into each other there, ”

 With this, Antinous leans down to kiss him, long and almost sweetly.

“It’s cowardice,” Telemachus says when Antinous pulls back, suddenly angry. “You’ll really go meekly to this fate and not even try to change-“

“Don’t get me wrong prince,” Antinous says, face twisting. “If he is alive, if he does come back then I will kill him if I can.”

Telemachus sees, as if it’s a vision the way this could go. He would rise to the bait and get angry and then they would fight or maybe fuck or maybe both. Perhaps Antinous too found it easiest when they both kept to the roles they had been given. It was safest this way, for both of them.

But something stops him. Something Eumaeus said.

You can’t hope to win with a good defence.  

Sometimes you had to leave yourself open to attack.

Keeping his voice calm, as if he were discussing the weather he says, “You know, you said I fancied myself a sailor earlier. It’s true. I had a plan to sail away from here not long ago.”

Antinous’ eyes narrow and he draws back slightly. “You’re lying. You’re telling me you would have left Penelope unguarded? ”

“No,” Telemachus says quickly, although he can’t deny that there is a twisted form of truth there. “I planned to sail in search of news of my father. When I heard Menelaus had arrived home from Troy I was going to go to his court.”

“She would never have allowed it.”

“No,” Telemachus says. “It would have meant going against her wishes.”

Antinous’ expression darkens. “I would have sent men after you.”

“To bring me back?” Telemachus asks. “Or to kill me? ”

Antinous snaps his mouth shut and then shrugs. “I would have been upset. It’s hard to say.”

Refusing to let himself be distracted, Telemachus continues carefully. “I had a ship prepared and ready. Filled with enough supplies for the journey.”

“With a crew of your most trusted guards I imagine,” Antinous sneers. “I imagine you would take Mentor with you?”

“I thought about it,” Telemachus says. “But it would have attracted too much attention. So instead I arranged for a smaller craft. Big enough for one man to sail, alone. Not much more than a fishing boat. I had it hidden-“

“Why are you telling me this?” Antinous asks, suddenly very still.

“I had it hidden,” Telemachus continues. “In a small cove, just around the curve of the cliff. No one goes there because you can’t see it from the clifftop and there’s no way down. The only way to reach it by foot is at low tide, when you can make your way across the rocks.”

Antinous is silent, eyes narrowed.

“You can almost see it from your balcony,” Telemachus finishes softly. “Just around the bend.”

Antinous sits up at last and then moves  off him completely, settling on the other end of the bed. In the sudden absence of his body, the sweat on Telemachus’ skin feels cold. He is suddenly conscious of how low the fire in the brazier has become; the room is full of shadows. He pulls the blanket across his lap and pushes himself up against the headboard, feeling his nakedness more keenly now.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” Antinous says softly.

“Yes I do,” Telemachus says. “I’m asking you to live. Are you that stupid?”

“No,” Antinous says. “It’s an easy trick to see through. I’ll get there and find an armed guard waiting for me. Or if the ship is there I’ll be out at open sea before I find the hole in it. How would I even get there, past all the men in that hall who want me dead and alone? Perhaps that’s it. You want to lure me out-“

“Listen to yourself. No wonder you’re so miserable if this is how your mind works. Just because you can’t think of anything but scheming -“

“I don’t deserve it,” Antinous says and then blinks, as if he is surprised to hear himself say the words.

“No,” Telemachus concedes. “I never said you did. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done. This isn’t that.”

“You don’t even know all of it,” Antinous says. He looks down at his hands and his face is half in shadow. “I’m worse than you imagine.”

“I doubt that is-“ Telemachus starts, smiling but he is cut off.

“I changed my lot,” Antinous says. His voice sounds far away. “I swapped it with the shepherd boy. We told him…I told him his family would be paid well for it.”

“And were they?” Telemachus asks.

Antinous does not answer.

“There is still time to make it right,” Telemachus says but Antinous just shakes his head.

“Long dead,” he says. “And the shepherds boy too I imagine. Or perhaps he will come back with your father. Take what he is owed in blood instead.”

There is a long and heavy silence between, broken only by the faint crack of burning wood in the brazier.

“I knew you changed the lots,” Telemachus says, at last. Antinous looks up sharply and the firelight catches on his face again.

“How?”

Telemachus doesn’t say that Eumaeus told him. Instead he just shrugs “For someone who lies all the time, you’re not very good at it.”

Antinous narrows his eyes but then he just smiles, teeth white and sharp in the dark. “And for someone so honourable you’re surprisingly good at lying. Sailing off to Menelaus hmm? I wouldn’t have thought you capable of plotting.”

“As the last few days have proved I’m capable of doing a lot of things you might not have thought possible, “ Telemachus says and gestures at his bare chest and the blanket just barely over his lap.

Antinous laughs openly then and some of the shadows seem to leave his face. “Well it’s dawn yet. Who knows what else we might discover about you before morning.”

He reaches for the blanket and pulls it aside.

The second time is different. The pain is almost gone but Telemachus feels it more keenly now, the slow slide of Antinous as he moves inside him. This time, at Telemachus’ urging, he makes Antinous lie back so that he can sit in his lap.

He feels much larger this way and it takes Telemachus everything he has not to cry out, panting hard. Each time he lets out a moan or a whimper, Antinous bucks under him, fingers gripping at Telemachus’ hips. He looks good like this, on his back. There’s something almost helpless about him, in the way he lies there, letting Telemachus rides out his pleasure on top of him. He comes close several times but each time he does, Telemachus stops and waits until he collects himself.

At a certain point he lets Antinous touch him and comes grinding down into Antinous lap, almost shaking with the effort of staying upright.

Even after that he doesn’t let up, keeps moving, even as his legs ache and the feeling of Antinous inside him is almost too much to bear.

He feels almost sadistic but it feels right, and as he brings Antinous to the edge again and again, he thinks of all the times he was humiliated, jeered at, spoken down to. If Antinous wants punishment so badly then it’s only right that Telemachus be the one to give it to him.

By the time Telemachus lets him finish, Antinous has been reduced to begging.

They don’t speak any more that night; of lots or ships or even of the wedding which is now the only the day after tomorrow.   

The next morning Eumaeus is not there when Telemachus goes to practice. He searches for him at his shepherds hut and in the kitchens and just when he is beginning to worry he finds him sitting by Argos on the steps that lead up to the palace. The sun is shining brightly that day and Telemachus is sweating under his leathers when he sinks down beside him.

“Where were you? “ he asks. “I’ve got Mentor searching the pig pens.”  

Eumaeus hardly seems to register his presence at first. His blind eyes are looking upwards to the skies and he seems lost in thought.

“Eumaeus?” Telemachus asks, concerned.

“I’ve been trying to remember…” Eumaeus says, without turning to him. “Trying to place a voice. “

“Whose voice?”

“A stranger came by my hut this morning. A strange man. He was hungry. I gave him what I had.”

“Who was he?”

“A veteran of Troy he said. Still trying to get home.”

“Perhaps he has news,” Telemachus says, frowning. “Will he come to speak with my mother?”

“Not tonight. He said he has things he must do first.”

“Tomorrow then,” Telemachus says and then lists into silence, thinking.

Beside them Argos lifts his head and sniffs the air. He whimpers and then lets his head fall again, eyes closing.

Above them, the clouds are moving. The wind is picking up.

“Maybe a storm to come,” Eumaeus says.

The thought of the stranger comes to him at odd times throughout the day. He feels restless, as if he can’t sit still and at one point his walking takes him to the harbour. As he is walking back past the rows of nets he thinks he sees a cloaked figure watching him through the crowd of haggling merchants and fisherwoman. The man is lost to the press of people on a second glance and Telemachus returns to the palace lost in his own thoughts.

The day passes too quickly. The servants are starting their preparations and dried flowers and flags are being hung in the great hall. He visits his mother and finds her sitting by the window. He didn’t know what he had expected with the wedding so soon and Antinous still somehow living but she seems somehow calm.

It worries him more than her tears would.

They talk a little but after a while her serenity makes him too anxious and he makes an excuse to leave. When he stands she reaches out and takes his hand.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “Have faith.”

He nods tightly and says nothing.

The palace corridors once seemed like a vast labyrinth to him as a child but now they feel small and dark and airless. It’s not yet dark, he needs to be dressed for the feast but instead his feet take him to the western walkway. It’s only when he is stood outside in the evening breeze with the door locked behind that he feels he can breathe.

He steps forward to lean against the low wall and buries his face in his hands. Through his fingers he can see the sea below, deep and dark. As the waves break against the rocks, the surf is pinkish is the light of the setting sun.

“You’re early today,” Antinous says. “Have you come to help me toast my last night as a free man?”

Lifting his head and looking in the direction of his voice, Telemachus sees him, leaning against the wall by the door.

“I lock it behind me.” Telemachus says. “If you were thinking of getting out that way.”

“I wasn’t,” Antinous says. “I was waiting for you.”

“I would not have been here for hours. Do you wait here for me every day?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Antinous says and turns away in the direction of his rooms. “Well come on. Let’s get drunk.”

Telemachus waits only a moment before following.

They pass a jug of wine back and forth between them sitting on the wall that juts out over the sea. No chairs have been set out this time and Telemachus wonders if this is intentional, if Antinous had wanted to remind him of the place where this had first began.

Neither of them say much until the jug is half empty. Then, Antinous leans over the edge and looks down.

“It’s not that far really, is it?” he says. “I suppose you have to get a running start.”

His position looks precarious and Telemachus has to stop himself from reaching over and dragging him back.

“What will you do,” Telemachus asks, partly to distract the other voice in his head that whispers, push him. “If you become king?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Antinous says and finally, straighten up, away from the edge. “Eat. Drink. Fuck. All the usual things kings do.”

“Why change the habit of a lifetime.”

“Indeed. Why do you ask? What will you do?”

His wording strikes Telemachus as odd. “I thought I might try ruling. You forgot that part.”

“Oh, yes, how forgetful of me,” Antinous says. “And what does that involve again?”

His eyes are bright even though his words are already a little slurred. Telemachus wonders if he had been drinking alone before this.

“You’ve been watching my mother do it for years,” Telemachus says. “You know just as well as me.”

“I’m talking about you, not your mother,” Antinous says and then, smile not reaching his eyes, he says. “I suppose you’ll be very wise and very fair and marry someone very virtuous. A princess perhaps, so you can make a matched set.”

“Antinous…” Telemachus says, unable to look directly at him and reaching for the jug.  “You know that after you wed tomorrow this can never happen again.”

Antinous doesn’t let go of the jug; instead he wraps his other hand around Telemachus’ where it rests on the handle. “You’ve broken your word before. What if-“

“Not this time,” Telemachus says simply, looking up at him. “I can’t. You know that. I would rather leave this place forever.”

“So,” Antinous says and, letting Telemachus’ hand drop, he lifts the jug to his lips and takes a long draught. “If this is the last time… shall we make the most of it?”

They don’t have long; Telemachus will be missed at the feast. For the way Antinous touches him they might have had all the time in the world.

He is painfully slow divesting Telemachus of his clothing so carefully that Telemachus almost thinks he is finding some kind of mockery in it. When Telemachus is finally naked, Antinous kneels before him on the floor by the bed and places his hands on Telemachus’ knees.

“Consider it a parting gift,” he says and if Telemachus did not know him so well he wouldn’t have known the cockiness in his voice was forced.  

“No,” Telemachus says. “Stand up. Take your clothes off.”

“As you command,” Antinous says, rising but he can’t quite hide the unsteadiness in his hands or the clumsy eagerness in the way he strips off.

“Come here,” Telemachus says when Antinous is naked before him. “Kiss me.”

Antinous does, one knee on the bed and his other foot on the floor, leaning down. Telemachus puts his arms around him and pulls him down close and when they kiss, Telemachus leans up into it, trying to say what he can’t with his words.

“One more time,” Antinous says, pulling back at last and breathing hard. “Let me fuck you. Once more and I’ll-“

“Yes, alright, just don’t beg, ” Telemachus says but he can’t quite keep up the act with his cock hardening immediately at the words. “Just go slowly.”

“Still sore?” Antinous asks with mock concern. “Poor thing.”

He only gets more smug with each finger he slides inside, murmuring encouragements and praise until Telemachus is about ready to strangle him. He tries to tell Antinous to keep his mouth shut but he can’t quite manage it. By the third finger he has to keep his hand pressed over his mouth.

“Stop that,” Antinous says irritably when he sees it. “Let me hear you.”

“The servants…”

“They can fuck off,” Antinous says. “I want to remember the sounds you’re making. That’s it, just like that. Do you like it? Tell me.”

“Yes,” Telemachus says and then groans. “Oh gods…”

“Don’t talk to them,” Antinous says and reaches for what’s left of the bottle still on the table by the bed. “Talk to me.”

Antinous has him lean back over the piled up pillows and half kneels in between Telemachus’ legs, lining himself up. It’s a more intimate way of doing this than they have ever done before and Telemachus’ breath hitches at the first feel of Antinous’ cock against him.

“It’s alright. It’s alright just, ” Antinous says raggedly and then, as if he can’t help himself, his hips twitch forward. “Fuck, sorry.”

Telemachus had let out an embarrassing yelp at the first feel of Antinous inside him, somehow larger and harder than he had remembered. “Just…keep going, don’t stop.”

“You feel so good,” Antinous says, almost apologetically and then as he pushes forward in shallow inching thrusts, words start to rush out of him in a low, gasping stream. “That’s it, that’s it, I know it must hurt, you took it so well last night, I’ll make it good for you, I’ll make it worth it, I promise.”

Telemachus is struggling to breathe. It’s all too much; he feels as though he’s being split apart but at the same time, he needs more of it, needs it deeper and faster. He wraps his legs around Antinous back, locks his ankles and pulls.

Antinous swears and almost loses his balance, falling forward as he buries himself to the hilt in Telemachus’ body.

“Telemachus,” is all he can say. “Oh gods-“

“Move,” Telemachus says, head thrown back. “Make me remember it.”

Antinous kisses him instead. Halfway through the kiss, without pulling away he starts to fuck Telemachus in earnest, deep steady thrusts hard enough to shake the bed. Telemachus takes it all, mind going blank, only able to scrabble for purchase on the slick skin of Antinous’ back.

He thinks he says Antinous name and then he cannot speak at all, can only feel it, the pleasure rising up in him from deep below. There is a moment, right before it closes over him when he thinks he might be crying.  Antinous slips a hand between them and, before he can do much more than just wrap it around Telemachus’ cock, it’s over. If Telemachus had the facility to think he might be embarrassed by how easy it was.

As it is, all he can do is press his wet face against Antinous neck and try to remember how to breathe. When he comes back to himself a little he realises that Antinous has changed pace, moving slow and almost careful.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Telemachus manages to say. “Keep going.”

 Antinous doesn’t answer but the noise he makes is enough for Telemachus to realise that he isn’t holding back but holding on. Trying to make it last.

“Antinous,” Telemachus says into his ear and then, because he can’t think of anything else, he says it again.

It’s enough and after two more shallow thrusts, Antinous buries himself deep and comes with a shudder, face pressed to Telemachus’ shoulder.

The position is almost immediately uncomfortable but for a long time they stay where they are.

“I have to go,” Telemachus says at last but still, he doesn’t move.

“I know,” Antinous says and slowly, carefully, he sits up. Pulling on a robe that’s strewn on the end of the bed, he stands and goes outside.

Telemachus watches him go and then dresses slowly, alone. The setting sun has turned the room as red as blood.

When he goes outside, Antinous is sitting in his usual place on the wall, finishing off the last of the wine. Telemachus waits, unsure of what to say or do. He is very late now but still, he can’t bring himself to walk away.

“When you’re king, “ Antinous says, looking out at the sea. “Will you still welcome beggars to your hall?”

“Of course,” Telemachus says.

“Even if you know for a fact they aren’t gods?” Antinous asks.

“Antinous…”

“Maybe one day a beggar might turn up at your door. Not for a long time. Long enough that people might not remember him if they knew him once before. Would you welcome him in as well? ”

“I would,” Telemachus says softly. “But I think I would remember him too.”

“Would you wait for him?” Antinous says, turning at last to look at him. It’s hard to tell if he is joking.  

Telemachus lets himself smile, just a little. “Don’t push your luck. I’m not my mother. I can’t weave.”

“Twenty years is excessive,” Antinous concedes and then he smiles. “I don’t think I could wait that long.”

Telemachus shakes his head but does not trust himself to speak.

“You should go,” Antinous says. “ Tell them to enjoy themselves while they can.”

“What are you going to do?” Telemachus says, before he can stop himself. “What plot is it this time?”

Antinous stands up and the movement is so unexpected that for a moment Telemachus thinks he is about to throw himself over the side. Instead, he just smiles and crooks a finger. “Come and kiss me and I’ll tell you.”

Telemachus crosses the balcony and Antinous puts a hand on his cheek and leans in close.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ve changed my lot in life once before. This time at least, I have a better reason for it.”

The feast is drawing to an end that night and the plates are piled high with bones when the servant comes running in, crying out. The call goes out quickly; the bridegroom is gone. Servants report sign of a struggle on the balcony. A table overturned and a jug smashed on the stones. The guards posted at the corridor to his room say no one could have slipped past.

Perhaps, Telemachus thinks, he slipped down the stairs, past the flowers that line the western walkway.

Or perhaps he took a leap of faith.

As the suitors raise their voices and start to point fingers at each other, Telemachus gets up slowly and walks toward the door to the hall, feeling his mother’s eyes on his back.

Outside, the night is beautiful and full of stars. As he steps outside, he hears the whine of a dog  and the sound of a tail thumping against the ground.