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Agamemnon was beyond drunk. His footsteps were erratic, his head tilted back as if trying to make sense of the stars, his eyes tracing invisible paths in the sky. The campfire flickered in his bleary eyes, casting shadows that danced like mocking figures in the haze of his mind. His body swayed dangerously, and the weight of his armor seemed to grow heavier with each unsteady step. The steel plates on his chest and shoulders shifted uncomfortably, clinking against one another with every movement, as though even they were tired of the man's recklessness.
He stumbled forward, bumping into Odysseus with an unceremonious thud.
"Odysseus!" Agamemnon slurred, his voice loud, uncoordinated, and almost childlike. He tried to straighten himself up, but his knees buckled slightly under the weight of his own intoxication. He blinked, a thick fog clouding his mind as he struggled to focus. "Oho! Ya’re alwa’s ‘ere whe’ I need ya, huh?" he mumbled, clearly unaware that he was leaning heavily into the other king’s chest, his broad form a cumbersome weight on Odysseus.
Odysseus grunted in surprise but steadied Agamemnon with an arm around his waist. The touch felt like it might be the only thing keeping the man upright. "Looks like you’ve had one too many tonight, my lord," Odysseus said, his voice calm but laced with an edge of concern. "You’re as sturdy as a shipwreck." He gave a soft smile, trying to keep the mood light, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The sight of Agamemnon like this—drunk, stumbling, and completely out of control—was a rare and unsettling one.
Agamemnon pushed himself back, though his gaze was unfocused, his eyes blinking rapidly as if he were seeing double. He looked at Odysseus with those half-lidded, unfocused eyes, the gleam of a man who had seen too much and yet somehow still not enough to make sense of the world. "Oi, m’not drunk, I’m ju’... disorient’--.. Wha’s that word again..? Distorianted..," he mumbled indignantly, his tongue thick and clumsy as he tried to salvage some shred of dignity. He blinked again, the word slipping away from him like a fleeting thought, his mind still too clouded to follow.
He took a shaky step back, arms flailing in a feeble attempt to regain his balance, but before he could topple over, Odysseus’s firm grip steadied him once more.
"Careful there," Odysseus said, his voice still soft but with an edge of exasperation. "You need to watch your feet, stupid." Agamemnon let out a deep, slurred laugh, clearly too far gone to be offended by the jibe. His laughter echoed across the camp, a strange sound in the quiet of the night, a sharp contrast to the usually stoic and commanding figure he usually cut on the battlefield.
"Ya always know how ta’... ta’ make me laugh, snake," Agamemnon slurred again, his words trailing off as he swayed dangerously. The firelight caught in his hair, giving him an almost otherworldly glow, a kingly figure lost in the haze of drink. "I’ll... I’ll be fine, jus’... jus’ need a bit o’ time." He started to take another step backward, but his feet seemed to have other plans, and again, he lurched forward, relying on Odysseus to hold him up.
Odysseus exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Let’s get you back to your tent before you end up in a heap on the ground, my lord." His tone was gentle but firm, and for all his missteps, there was an undeniable tenderness in the way he cared for the man who had once been his equal, even his rival.
The quiet between them lingered for a moment before Agamemnon huffed, clearly embarrassed by the situation, though the flush on his cheeks betrayed the depth of his inebriation. "Tch. m’not even tha’ drunk," he mumbled, his words slurring more with each breath. "I just... m’just tire’, okay? And—and m’—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing in a futile attempt to focus, the confusion settling over him like a heavy fog. The words tumbled out anyway, betraying his thoughts. "I jus'... m'not weak." His voice cracked slightly as he tried to explain, the sound of it almost childlike in its vulnerability.
Odysseus didn’t reply right away, instead steadying Agamemnon as the man swayed again, gripping his arm more firmly to prevent him from falling. He had always admired Agamemnon’s strength, but tonight was different. The man was as far from the unyielding figure of leadership that Odysseus had once known as could be. In a strange way, it was almost humbling—seeing the great king of Mycenae reduced to this, a shadow of his usual self, leaning on Odysseus for support as though the roles had somehow reversed.
Agamemnon blinked, a dazed expression passing across his face, before his hands gripped Odysseus’ tunic in a moment of clarity, his eyes suddenly sharper, though still tinged with drunkenness. "I’m jus'—" He swallowed thickly, the words not coming out right. He seemed to struggle against the vulnerability creeping up on him, and yet, there was something in his tone that softened, the rough edges of his usual arrogance dulled by the alcohol. "It ain't weakness," he muttered, more to himself than to Odysseus. "I jus'—" He seemed to lose track of his own thoughts again, unable to put the pieces together.
Odysseus studied him for a moment, his hand still steadying the man. There was a flash of something softer in his eyes, something rare—a fleeting empathy for Agamemnon that didn’t feel like pity, but understanding. "I know, my lord," Odysseus said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You’re not weak. But right now, you’ve had too much to drink, and you’re not thinking clearly. Let’s just get you to your tent."
Agamemnon opened his mouth to protest, but the words slipped away before they could form, and instead, he gave a resigned, almost defeated sigh. His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, the great king was silent, his gaze distant as though he were lost in thought.
"I never—" Agamemnon started, then paused again, his brow furrowing in an effort to make sense of his own emotions. "Never thought I’d... end up like this. Jus’... one thing after another, y’know?" He glanced over at Odysseus, his voice low, almost vulnerable in a way that was unfamiliar. "I fought... I fought so damn hard. And for what? For this?" He let out a bitter laugh, but it was hollow, echoing in the empty spaces between them.
Odysseus didn’t immediately answer. There were things he could say, things that might’ve comforted the man beside him. But tonight, there were no words that could fix what Agamemnon had built or broken. So, instead, he offered only a steady hand, a quiet presence. His own thoughts flickered back to the battles they’d fought together, the years of camaraderie and rivalry, the moments that had been shared on the edge of victory and defeat.
"Yeah," Odysseus finally said, his voice soft but tinged with a trace of the old wit that never truly left him. "One thing after another. But you’re still standing, even if you’re leaning on me to keep you there." He gave Agamemnon a wry smile, his words laced with humor, but there was a sincerity behind it. "Let’s get you out of this mess. You can argue with me later."
Agamemnon, with some effort, gave him a crooked grin in return. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was there—fragile and fleeting, like the last breath of a dying flame. "Aye, alright, Odysseus. But don’t think this means I owe ya one." His tone was still laced with his old bravado, though it had less bite than usual.
Odysseus chuckled under his breath, adjusting his grip on Agamemnon as they started walking. "I think I’ve already earned a thousand from you by now." He kept his tone light, even as the weight of the man’s burden seemed to press heavier on his own shoulders. But there was something strangely comforting about this—about being the one to steady Agamemnon, to carry him in his weakest moment. They had fought side by side for so long, and tonight, Odysseus would be the one to carry the weight.
"I love Menelau’, alright?!" Agamemnon declared suddenly, his voice a little too loud, slicing through the quiet of the night like a sword. "He's m’little brother, y'know? Always has been." He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as though trying to articulate something deeper, something more personal than the slurred words could convey. "I... I take care o’him. I do! Even when he's acting all... all perfect and goo’ and..." His hands waved in the air like he was trying to shoo away an invisible annoyance, but the frustration in his voice was clear. "I’m the big brother, okay? I’ve got... responsibiliti’s. He... he... He doesn’t need to be so... so goo’, but he is. And it’s annoyin’!" He threw his hands up in exasperation, a wild gesture that almost sent him off balance again. The last thing he wanted was for Odysseus to see him like this—unsteady, vulnerable, but it felt like the floodgates were open and nothing could stop the words now.
"It’s so annoyin’. I have to always look out for em!" Agamemnon's voice wavered with an edge of frustration, the kind that came from years of feeling the weight of expectations on his shoulders. He shifted his weight again, nearly losing his footing as the alcohol took its toll, but he didn’t seem to care. "But he's... he’s better than me sometimes." The words came out in a rush, and there was something raw about it—a crack in the wall he usually kept so carefully constructed around himself. His gaze, unfocused and distant, seemed to linger on nothing in particular, as though he was grappling with thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself to voice before.
Odysseus stood there, still for a moment, speechless. The drunken tirade was unexpected, and the tenderness in Agamemnon's voice caught him off guard. He’d never heard the great king of Mycenae speak like this—so open, so vulnerable. Agamemnon had always been the one who took charge, who carried the weight of responsibility, who set the tone for the others. But this… this was something else.
“You’re really going off about Menelaus now, huh?” Odysseus teased lightly, though his voice was filled with genuine curiosity, his eyes softening just a fraction. He tilted his head, leaning in slightly as if trying to gauge the truth behind the words. "What’s brought this on?"
Agamemnon’s drunken scowl deepened, and his eyes narrowed at Odysseus, as though he had just realized what he’d let slip. "I—Shuddup!" he snapped, though there was no real venom in his words, no malice to back them up. The bark was there, but the bite was missing. "I don’t—I don’t need your pity, okay?" His voice wavered for a second, and he paused as though he had to collect himself before continuing. "He’s my little brother. And he’s... he’s got a good head on his shoulders, even if I have to drag him out of trouble all the damn time."
The words spilled out in a rush, as if once Agamemnon started, there was no stopping the torrent of feelings that had been buried for so long. He paused, blinking hard as if trying to clear the fog from his mind, but the alcohol only made the task harder. "I’m the older one, so I have to—ugh—keep him safe and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid." His words trailed off into a mutter, his frustration at the whole situation still bubbling just beneath the surface. But there was something more in his voice now—a kind of tenderness that he didn’t want to admit. "But he doesn’t need me to hold his hand. He never did. He just... he always does the right thing. Better than me. I’m supposed to be the one everyone looks to, the one who has all the answers... but sometimes, it feels like he’s the one with it all figured out. I’m the one who’s just... faking it, y’know?"
The words felt heavier than the weight of his armor, each syllable sinking deeper into the night air. Agamemnon’s hands, still gesturing wildly as if he could physically push the thoughts out of his head, were shaking now. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, and the frustration that had begun as simple irritation was now something deeper—a longing, perhaps, or even a kind of guilt. It was clear he cared for Menelaus, more than he had ever let on, but his own insecurities had been locked away for so long that they were only now beginning to surface, unbidden.
Odysseus, for his part, stood quietly, watching Agamemnon. The image of the great king—proud, bold, and often imperious—was crumbling in front of him. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or something else that had driven Agamemnon to speak so candidly, but whatever the cause, Odysseus could sense the weight of the older king’s words. The vulnerability in Agamemnon’s voice wasn’t something the man showed often, if ever, and it seemed to strike something deep in Odysseus’ chest.
"Look," Agamemnon muttered, finally breaking the silence as he glanced away, a mix of shame and frustration flickering in his expression. "I just... I dunno. I’m not—" He cut himself off with a grunt, his gaze returning to Odysseus, as though he was trying to search for understanding, but his words failed him once again. "I just... I’m supposed to be better, right?" He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in the night air. "The king. The older brother. I’m supposed to have all the answers. But I don't. Not really."
Odysseus took a step closer, his voice calm but steady. "My Lord," he said, his words firm with the weight of experience. "You don’t have to have all the answers. No one does. But that doesn’t make you any less of a man or a king."
Agamemnon let out a bitter laugh at that, though it was more self-deprecating than mocking. "Yeah, well, it sure feels like it sometimes." His shoulders sagged, as if the weight of his own expectations had finally worn him down. "He’s always the one everyone looks up to. Menelaus... He’s got it all together. He’s... he’s the one who makes it look easy. And here I am, just trying to hold everything together, and I can’t even do that."
Odysseus paused, considering the man beside him for a long moment. He’d known Agamemnon for years, fought alongside him, and seen him lead armies with ruthless efficiency, but this? This was something else. It was something raw, something real. And for all the frustration in Agamemnon’s voice, there was also a deep well of care—a love for Menelaus that went beyond what most would ever see.
Menelaus, having watched the entire exchange from the sidelines, couldn’t help but snicker at the scene unfolding before him. He had seen his older brother in all sorts of states, but this was something else. "Brother, dearest, you’ve had enough," he said, stepping forward with an easy grin, the kind of grin that only the younger sibling could get away with when their older sibling was in such a state. He gave Odysseus a rueful look, then reached out to steady his brother, who was still swaying drunkenly, as though the earth itself might rise up to meet him at any moment. “Let’s get you to bed before you start rambling,” Menelaus said, his voice dripping with amusement.
"I— I don’t love you," Agamemnon mumbled in a thick slur, his words more of a reflex than a true protest. “I mean, I do love you... as my little brother... but not like... that...” His face flushed a deeper shade of red, the color creeping up to his ears as he hastily tried to defend himself. His attempt at dignity was as feeble as his drunken stance, and he quickly averted his gaze, looking anywhere but at Menelaus. "Tch. I’m just saying, okay? I look out for you. You’re my responsibility, littl’ lamb. Don’t get any weird ideas."
Menelaus smiled in amusement, clearly enjoying this rare moment of vulnerability from his usually confident older brother. He ignored the poorly veiled embarrassment in Agamemnon’s voice, knowing well enough that Agamemnon was always quick to cover his feelings with bravado. “Sure, sure, brother. You’ve got it all figured out,” he teased, his hands gripping his brother’s arms to help him stand upright, though he made sure to support his weight gently. "Come on, let’s get you lying down before you start lecturing me about leadership or gods know what else.”
“You think you’re so funny,” Agamemnon muttered under his breath, his voice rough and gravelly from too much wine and too many words. But there was no real heat in his words; they came out soft, tired, more like the rumblings of a man who was too worn out to keep up the usual sharpness. He let his head fall to the side, his forehead resting against Menelaus’ shoulder as they began to move toward the tent. The steps were slower now, each one a bit heavier than the last, as though the weight of the evening’s events were catching up with him all at once. “You’re lucky you’re my little lamb,” Agamemnon grumbled, his voice thick with something between irritation and affection. He wanted to sound put out, but there was a strange fondness buried beneath the words, as if this was one of those rare moments when his walls had cracked just enough to show the softer side he often kept hidden.
Menelaus’ smile softened at that, though his face remained lighthearted. He knew Agamemnon well enough to read the affection underneath the grumbling. "Uh-huh," Menelaus replied, his tone teasing but affectionate, a little smirk still tugging at his lips. "Sure, Agamemnon. I’ll take it as a compliment."
Agamemnon gave a low grunt, clearly too tired to argue any further. As they neared the tent, he let Menelaus guide him, his movements sluggish and clumsy, like a giant that had grown too heavy for its own legs. There was no fight left in him—no retorts, no sharp comebacks. He was too worn out, too far gone in his drunken state to keep up the act. And somewhere, deep down, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to anymore.
Menelaus carefully helped him sit down, settling him onto the edge of the cot with a gentle hand on his back. "You’re a real piece of work, Big brother," he muttered with a wry smile as he moved to untie his brother’s armor, his hands deftly unbuckling the straps. Agamemnon made a faint noise of protest but didn’t put up much of a fight, his eyes fluttering closed as the exhaustion from the alcohol finally overtook him.
"I know, I know," Agamemnon replied hoarsely, his voice almost a whisper as he sank back into the cot. "I’m a damn wreck, but you don’t... y’know... you don’t have to remind me." He tried to straighten up, though his body felt like lead, and all he could manage was a half-hearted attempt at sitting upright before he slumped back down with a grunt.
Menelaus shook his head, his smile softening further. "Don’t worry about it," he said gently, finishing the task of removing Agamemnon’s armor. “You’ve earned the rest.” He stood back for a moment, surveying his older brother with an expression that was a mix of fondness and a quiet kind of understanding.
"Rest, huh?" Agamemnon’s eyes flickered open, his words barely audible as he let out a small sigh. “You’re the one who always says I’m the one who’s supposed to be perfect. You’ve got it easy, Menelaus. Everyone thinks you’ve got it all figured out.” His voice was quiet, almost distant, as though the weight of those words had finally found its way out of him. “But... y’know, I’m not so sure anymore. I don’t always know what I’m doing... I’m not so perfect.”
Menelaus paused at the edge of the cot, looking down at Agamemnon with a quiet, contemplative expression. The older brother’s words were far softer than anything Menelaus had ever heard him say, and the humility in them almost caught him off guard. Menelaus shook his head gently, crouching down beside him. “No one’s perfect, Aggie,” he said, his voice warm and reassuring. “Not even you.” He placed a hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “But I’ve got your back, just like you’ve got mine. Always.”
Agamemnon’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as though struggling to find the right words. But instead of speaking, he simply gave a small, tired nod, his expression softening. "Yeah, alright Menny" he mumbled, his voice almost drowned in exhaustion. "I guess that’s... good enough." He let his eyes close, sinking deeper into the cot as the exhaustion finally took over, the weight of the evening slipping away in the comfort of his brother’s presence.
Odysseus watched them go, a smile tugging at his lips, though it was mixed with something deeper—something more thoughtful. “He’s a mess,” he said with a shake of his head, the words rolling off his tongue with a sense of bemusement. He’d known Agamemnon for years, had seen him at his best and at his worst, but this was different. This wasn’t the proud, commanding king who could silence a room with a single glance or lead his men through the worst of storms. No, this was Agamemnon stripped of all his bravado, all his layers of steel, and it was raw.
But there was no denying the bond between the brothers—fragile, unspoken, but strong. It was easy for anyone to see the differences between them: Agamemnon with his heavy-handed leadership, his overbearing need to protect and control, and Menelaus with his calm, steady nature, always willing to step back and follow when needed. On the surface, they could hardly seem like two peas in a pod. And yet, as Odysseus watched them—Agamemnon stumbling, with Menelaus' gentle but firm hands guiding him along—he couldn’t help but see how seamlessly they fit together, how their different pieces somehow formed a whole.
As Agamemnon stumbled along with Menelaus’ help, Odysseus realized something he hadn’t fully allowed himself to grasp before. Even in his drunken state, Agamemnon’s feelings for his brother weren’t some grand proclamation of love, some overwhelming show of emotion like you’d find in a myth or a legend. No, they were something quieter, deeper, and far more unbreakable. It was a bond built on years of shared experience, of standing together and falling apart together, of knowing each other in a way that nobody else ever could.
Agamemnon might be a mess right now—drunk and confused and far from the image of a great king—but even in this state, the way he leaned into Menelaus’ steadying presence, the way he muttered those soft words about responsibility and duty, spoke volumes. It was more than just a drunk man rambling; it was a confession wrapped in frustration, a brother struggling to express something that had been buried beneath layers of pride and duty for years.
Despite the tsundere exterior, despite the sharpness and the gruffness Agamemnon showed the world, there was something else beneath it all—a softness, a tenderness that few ever saw. It wasn’t always obvious, and it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d catch on a first glance. But it was there, clear enough for anyone who cared to look.
Odysseus found himself feeling oddly moved by the scene, not just because it was rare to see Agamemnon like this, but because it was a reminder that even the hardest of men could be undone by love for those they held dear.
With a sigh, Odysseus turned and headed in the opposite direction, his thoughts lingering on the brothers for a moment longer. He wondered what it would be like, to have that kind of bond, that kind of unconditional loyalty. He didn’t have it—not the same way they did, at least. Sure, there was a brotherhood among the men of the army, a shared understanding, but it wasn’t quite the same. With his mind still caught on the unexpected softness of the moment, Odysseus shook his head again, as if trying to clear the thought away.
“Idiot,” he muttered to himself with a wry smile, though the word was more affectionate than anything else. He knew that, in the end, Agamemnon would wake up to a world of responsibilities and leadership, the weight of his crown heavy on his brow once more. But for tonight, he was just a man. A brother. And that was enough.