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Chapter Text

More than anything else, war was slow. There were moments of awful, white-hot terror, of course, of gore and pain and vicious scrambling to stay alive, but most of the war was the dull exhaustion of sitting in a cramped little hut on a cramped little beach, waiting for something to happen. A war without a siege would probably be different, but for Odysseus, the war at Troy consisted of vaguely nervous boredom, punctuated by occasional violence.

Besides dull, a siege was long and complicated. Feeding the army’s myriad men for a day would strain the resources of a city—to feed them every day required a careful combination of raids on and trade with the towns near Troy. Odysseus’ latest trade mission had been a slog, to say the least. The wind had been against them on the journey there, the local basileus had hemmed and hawed over the price for days, and a storm had kept them stuck in the harbor for a week. To top it off, he’d been accompanied by Telamonian Ajax, who was a great warrior and a steady king, but not exactly a sparkling conversationalist. Odysseus had given up on coaxing anything out of him after a few days and resigned himself to playing endless games of pessoi with him in silence. All told, four tedious weeks had passed by the time Odysseus returned to the Trojan beach.

It was a relief to return, he realized, uncomfortable. At some point in the last year, this ragged, makeshift city of huts and men and ships had become his place. Not his home, to be sure, not his hall in Ithaka, but somewhere he could let his guard down, if only a little bit. Filthy, loud, overcrowded (full of the dead and dying, a parasite sucking dry its host), but somewhere he knew.

And somewhere that knew him. Agamemnon welcomed Odysseus, Ajax, and their men back with feasting and sacrifices in thanks for their safe return. It wasn’t his father presiding over an assembly of men he’d known since birth, or, even better, a quiet evening with Penelope and his kin, but it was welcome company after a month of stilted small talk in the belly of a ship over stale bread.

People can get used to just about anything, Diomedes had told him, and so he had. It wasn’t just the violence he’d gotten used to, though he certainly had. He would never be as casual in killing as the life-long soldiers, but he could bear the battles and not burn with panic and revulsion. He’d also adjusted to the simple rhythms of war, to the daily movements of the camp, the ways of soldiers, and his place as a commander of men. He’d also gotten used to Diomedes himself, his help in a fight, his well-timed suggestions to the council, and his company in their rare moments of privacy. Diomedes met his eyes as the feast wound down and smiled, tilting his head back towards the huts and raising his eyebrows questioningly.

—

“Glad you’re back,” Diomedes said, pressing Odysseus against his hut’s rough wall. “It’s been so damn boring.”

“Aw, did you miss me?” Odysseus asked, hoping the mocking tone would hide the flicker of pleasure he felt at the idea. “You know I’ve been stuck with Ajax for the last month. If anyone can complain about boredom, it’s me.”

Diomedes stepped back to sit on the bed, grinning up at him. “You had a mission, you had something to do. Nothing happened here. Not a fucking thing. I had to listen to Achilles and Patroclus tell me about the personalities and breeding and ailments of every single one of their dogs. Twice.”

“At least those dogs have personalities. Not sure I can say the same for Ajax,” he said, joining Diomedes on the bed and pushing him down.

The biting kiss Diomedes pressed to his neck wasn’t the most eloquent rebuttal, but it certainly shut Odysseus up.

—

There were many things Odysseus would never say aloud to another person, things he could hardly admit to himself. Chief among them was this—half the reason he’d kept going to bed with Diomedes, long after the novelty had worn off and past the point when it was wise to stop, was for the pleasure but the other half was for the time after the pleasure. Diomedes tolerated very little physical affection, but there was a short period after they’d finished when he’d allow it. If Odysseus played it right, he could stretch out those minutes sprawled together, breath matched in the silence. He couldn’t explain it, but that time seemed to sate him as much as what came before it.

It took longer than usual for Diomedes to start stirring from where he lay on Odysseus. “Should head back soon,” he said, his jaw cracking with a yawn.

“It’s late. Just sleep here,” Odysseus said, too tired to think better of it. At once, he could feel Diomedes’ entire body tense up. “Oh, calm down. This isn’t a scheme or a trap or whatever you’re imagining, just an offer. Sleep here, go back to your own hut, I don’t care. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

He’d expected Diomedes to leave, in all honestly, and spend the next week watching him with that unsettling blank suspicion he got sometimes. Instead, he gave a terse, “Fine,” and rolled off Odysseus. He lay stiffly on his back, arms crossed on his chest and eyes closed. If he wanted to sleep like that, it was his own business. Odysseus draped an arm over him and let his forehead rest on his shoulder. It was nice, he thought sleepily, as Diomedes relaxed inch by inch under his arm, agonizingly slow, to share a bed with someone in this way. It just was nice, even if it was with a paranoid soldier who seemed to hate it. His body had learned, eventually, to sleep without Penelope next to him, but it wasn’t very good at it. It still wanted (he still wanted) this—a warm body to hold, the silence shared without anticipation, someone who knew him. Dangerous things—impossible things—to want during a war.

—

Odysseus is entirely unsurprised to wake up alone. It’ll be a week of cool distance from Diomedes, he bets, before he stops expecting to somehow wake up with Odysseus’ knife in his back. He can’t find it in himself to regret it. He hasn’t slept so well since he’d left Ithaka.

Chapter Text

Diomedes hadn’t exactly had the sort of youth that involved getting caught and scolded by his nurse while sneaking back in from somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. It, he imagines, would feel something like this.

“You’re sleeping with him, then,” Sthenelus says, leaning against Diomedes’ hut in the grey light before dawn. He looks profoundly unimpressed.

In retrospect, he’s surprised he’s managed to avoid this conversation for as long as he has. He’d be happy to put it off indefinitely, but so it goes.

“Yes,” he sighs, heading inside.

Sthenelus follows close behind. “How long has this been going on for?”

“Since we came to Troy.”

“And when are you going to put an end to it?”

“Oh, I’d guess it’ll peter out soon enough,” he says. It’s not an answer and what’s more, it’s not something he actually believes. From the look Sthenelus sends him, he’s aware of that. Diomedes has never been very good at lying to him.

Sthenelus shakes his head. “I don’t like it. I don’t trust him—too clever by half.”

“Good! I sure as hell don’t trust him.”

Some of the worry etched on Sthenelus’ face retreats at that. “Well, that’s something. I’d be worried Cyprian Aphrodite had bespelled you if you did. If you don’t trust him, why let him in your bed?” he asks.

Diomedes shrugs. “It’s fun, I suppose. It’s not nearly as serious as you’re making it out to be,” he says.

He hasn’t told Sthenelus about what happened with Palamedes—about any of what’s happened with Odysseus. He’s borne enough burdens for Diomedes so far. He won’t give him another secret to carry, even if it leaves him with few good excuses for what he’s been doing. Besides, he’s not sure if all of that would even be an explanation.

“Really? It’s fun? That’s what you’re going with? From a different man your age, sure, but not you. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you do something rash just for the fun of it. You’re not indulgent and you’re not impulsive. Whatever’s going on, you’re not taking it lightly. You don’t take anything lightly,” he says, watching Diomedes steadily.

Sthenelus has known Diomedes since he was born, trained with him since he could walk, fought by his side since they’d led an army against Thebes, Diomedes still a boy and Sthenelus barely old enough to be considered a man. Most days, Diomedes is honored and grateful to have his loyalty, trust, and love. But sometimes, he really does hate to have a companion who’s known him through every moment of youthful vulnerability and awkwardness and stupidity. Who knows him.

He shrugs again. Trying to change the subject, he asks, “Anyways, what are you so worried about? I don’t trust him, but he’s still an ally.”

“Could be manipulating you.”

“To what end?”

“He’s got Agamemnon’s ear, sure, but that won’t always be enough to get away with his clever little plans. You’ve got more men, more political sway, a more powerful lineage to leverage. If you put your support behind him, there’s not much Odysseus couldn’t do.”

“If he is trying to seduce me into supporting his troop movements, or whatever you’re imaging, then so what? I’ve got my flaws, but lust has never been one of them. I’m not some maiden in love with a coldhearted hero. I don’t really give a shit about any of this. I’m certainly not thinking about it while making decisions in council meetings. If he throws me over disagreeing with him, fine. I’d have to care for the manipulation to work,” he says.

It’s almost true, he thinks. And even if it isn’t exactly true, even if he’s got an unpleasant suspicion about what he’d do if Odysseus asked (even if he’s already got an ally’s blood on his hands for him), it will be true. Saying it out loud, this whole conversation—even Odysseus falling asleep next to him like he’s someone who can be trusted—it’s a good reminder. He doesn’t trust Odysseus and he can’t forget why. Odysseus is a very good liar and a brilliant speaker. He’s not so arrogant as to imagine that he alone can’t be taken in by him. Whatever game he’s playing at (and it must be a game), Diomedes can enjoy it, but he can never buy into it.

Sthenelus smiles ruefully and claps him on the shoulder. “Fine, fine, I’ll let it lie. I know you can take care of yourself; I just worry. You know how I get. But be careful with him, yeah?” he asks.

“I always am.”

“I know you are,” he says, ruffling Diomedes’ hair like he’s still six years old, resolutely insisting that he can keep up with the older boys, and heads out.

—

Diomedes lies on his bed. It’ll be dawn soon enough, but he can get a few moments of rest in now. He’d slept terribly—he’d been able to doze off for a few minutes at a time before his body would wake him up, panicked and prepared to fight off the unfamiliar body curled around him. Odysseus had seemed to stay asleep throughout all that, which Diomedes counts as a minor miracle. His wife hasn’t been as lucky during the brief periods he’s been in Argos to share her bed. Most nights, he’ll take a oxskin and a rug on the floor to save them both the trouble. There’s one good thing about his interrupted sleep, he supposes. At least he never fell asleep deeply enough to dream—he’s been informed by Aegialia and those he’s shared tents with while traveling that he can be frightening to be around while he dreams. Besides, Odysseus already knows far too much about him, know far too many secrets and points of weakness. He’d rather not let him into his dreams as well.