Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You’re out late.”

Telemachus doesn’t bother moving his head from where it’s resting on his knees, drawn in on himself on the grass. His fathers’ voice is somewhat a surprise, if only because he doesn’t hear his mothers’ footsteps accompanying them. Since he returned, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen one without the other. 

A beat of silence and when Odysseus realizes that Telemachus isn’t going to answer, sighs. It’s long and drawn out but not heavy. Just— a sigh. Like breathing easily. 

He can’t remember the last time he breathed easily. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Still, Telemachus doesn’t move. He’s quite content to stare out at the fountain in the courtyard, watch the water ripple in the same pattern over and over and over and—

“Can I sit next to you?”

“Sure. Whatever.” His voice is quiet and hoarse but it must be loud enough that his father hears it and plops down next to him. He makes a heavy thud. Since the months of his return, he’s put on some weight. Healthier. 

Telemachus hasn’t. 

They share the silence. 

The breeze is soft. There hasn’t been a storm since that one that came and went so violently. Probably a good omen but Telemachus doesn’t dare to hope. It’s a fickle thing at best and dangerous at worst— to hope. 

“I struggle sleeping too,” Odysseus says. 

Telemachus slides his eyes to look at him, his body still prone the way it is; knees drawn to his chest with his arms wrapped tight around him. He doesn’t goad his father on, but Odysseus continues anyway. He doesn’t stop him either. 

“It’s harder when it’s quiet. When the only sounds are the ones in your head, hey?”

Eye contact. Telemachus blinks a little too much and Odysseus doesn’t blink enough. Two different colours, so similar to his own. Penelope often told him so, would look into his eyes with such wonder— such love. Enough to quell whatever worries he’d had as a child. 

Now he doesn’t think anything will be able to quell it. Too loud. 

“What helps me— sometimes,” Odysseus whispers. “Is filling the void.”

Telemachus digs his nails deeper into his arms but the pain isn’t enough, nothing will ever be able to compare to his own thoughts— the memories still so real in his mind it’s as if it’s still happening. “How?”

His voice is raspy with the rawness. He wasn’t screaming, like always he was silent. It’s what happens when everything becomes too much . He doesn’t cry or shout or punch. He just— shuts down. 

It’s even more exhausting. Which is almost ironic. Who knew that doing nothing would be more taxing than doing anything at all?

Odysseus’ eyes crinkle, crows feet and shining lights, as he smiles. Softly. Always so softly now. There’s none of that rage and mercilessness that was when he returned— the first time Telemachus even met him. 

It was all so— much. 

One moment Odysseus was the Odysseus of Ithaca, King and conqueror of Troy, master of men, warrior of the mind… and the next he was… just him. A man before Telemachus. Father before a son. 

The switch up had been jarring but Telemachus had all but melted into his embrace. He’d imagined it so often, how his father would greet him. A sturdy handshake or clap on the back. Comradery and jests. The politeness of a king and prince. 

But it was so much simpler than that; a hug. 

And it was more than Telemachus had ever dreamed of having. 

Hugging. 

Hugging . 

His father not even blinking at his confessions of self worth and fears, pulling him in for an embrace that Telemachus would never forget. His father was shorter than him, that much his mother had teased him for. That he had her height but his eyes. Her smile and his knack for getting into trouble. But everything else about his father… was like nothing he expected. 

Odysseus wasn’t the legendary man that Telemachus had built up in his mind— he was a father. 

His father. 

And that hug was everything . Warm and comforting and whole and real . 

Telemachus had cried in such a way that he never had before. And it was the first time he saw another man— other than his grandfather— cry too. Happy tears, no doubt. But regretful of the years lost. 

Telemachus gets it. He cried for those years too. 

And now they can make up for those lost years by making new memories. Except Telemachus struggles to even do that sometimes, mind trapped in the past. He—

“Singing.” Odysseus’ thoughts break through his rampant thoughts. 

“Huh?” Telemachus flicks his gaze back to him, not sure when they averted back to the ground. 

“Singing,” Odysseus says again. He hasn’t scooted closer, there’s still a hefty gap between them, but he leans forward ever so slightly. Telemachus can feel the warmth radiating off of his body. “Lullabies. From my m-mother.”

Both lapse into a sullen silence at her mention. Gone too soon but never to be forgotten. 

“I think I remember them better than some of Athena’s training,” Odysseus chuckles. “They’re engraved into my mind and I don’t think even death would make me part with them. Did she ever… sing to you?”

Truth be told, Telemachus never spent much time with his late grandmother. As a boy, it was because she would always push him to do more, to be better. Penelope had her own opinions about that. And as he got older— he just didn’t want to. Nothing against her, but he wanted adventure and it was hard to do that with an elder at his side. 

He shakes his head mutely. 

Odysseus nods slowly— understanding. “Ah. She has— had the most beautiful voice, not as beautiful as Penny’s but— calming. Like a songbird.”

Telemachus can only remember it being raspy with age. Yet another thing his father missed. 

Another pause and Telemachus feels the heat of his fathers’ eyes on him, buzzing. He blinks at those eyes. They’re expectant— no, nervous. 

“Do you think… Do you think it would help?”

It takes a few seconds for Telemachus’ mind to catch up. Slow with the fatigue of his misery. “Singing?”

Odysseus nods. Slow, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. Telemachus supposes that he’s acting like one. 

A dry chuckle but he isn’t finding anything humourous about— anything. “I’m not much of a singer.” Which is true. It’s not just him trying to downplay his skills, he knows what he has and what he hasn’t. His skill is with his hands— not his voice. Wielding a spear or weaving, but not singing. 

His father moves his head but it’s not exactly a nod. More like a nervous jerk. He watches the way his fathers’ Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. “Would you… could I—uh…” A sigh. Strained. “Could I… sing to you instead then?”

Telemachus actually sits up at this, brow furrowed and heart doing something he doesn’t understand. It’s not unpleasant but it is unfamiliar. “What?”

The nervousness rises tenfold and Odysseus makes jerky hand motions. “Not like— if you don’t want to… I just thought— I wanted— you see…”

Is Odysseus of Ithaca stumbling over his words? Is his silver tongue finally failing him? Wonders must never cease and pigs can sprout wings for Odysseus at a loss for words is something that Telemachus almost refuses to believe. But it’s happening right in front of him and there’s no denying that. 

He’s sitting up properly now, staring at his father. Odysseus is still mumbling but Telemachus is stuck on the question, his heart doing that thing . 

“Yes.”

External sound stops and the ones in his head roar with the absence. Telemachus winces, indiscernibly but his father takes note of it. 

“Really?” Perhaps hope isn’t so dangerous if it sounds so sweet on his fathers’ tongue with that shine if his eyes. 

This time it’s Telemachus who nods. Slowly at first but gains confidence. “Aye. I’d… I’d like that. Please.” Averts his eyes. “It’s too loud.” His voice cracks. “It’s always too loud.” 

Pinpricks in the corners of his eyes but he doesn’t think he even has the energy to cry. 

Odysseus shifts, then pauses, takes a shaky breath. “Can I… can I hold you? If not, that’s alri—”

Telemachus falls sideways into his fathers’ chest. Odysseus lets out an oof but quickly wraps his arms around Telemachus. It’s awkward, the angle with them sitting side by side like they are makes it almost uncomfortable but neither make a move to change positions. It feels too raw— to move would be like spooking a hummingbird. 

He buries his face in his fathers’ chest, inhaling his scent, something he’s still yet to grow accustomed to. He wants to— gods does he long for the day that looking at Odysseus he doesn’t blink with shock or straighten his spine. He yearns when he can smile at his father without that nervousness that always bubbles in the pit of his stomach when he’s with someone he doesn’t know. 

He wants to know his father. 

Odysseus moves an arm and Telemachus is almost worried he’s pushing him away but then there’s a hand in his hair. Tentative at first but gaining confidence quickly. Threading his curls, finding knots and gently untangling them. 

Soft touches that Telemachus melts into. 

A throat clears and a breath is sucked in. A pregnant pause, heavy and terrifying but exciting— oh so excited for this new development. This chance to be closer. To be a family. 

He feels his fathers’ chest rumble with the words before he hears them. They’re soft, deep and gruff but so gentle. Like waves kissing the shore. A wind caressing his cheek. Fire giving warmth. 

“As the deer panteth for the water— so my soul longs after you…”

It carries on. A lullaby that Telemachus has never heard. But he feels it within his very bones. It’s soft, like the running water of a lazy stream. 

His fathers’ voice is a melody of peace, drowning out the noises in his mind and filling his head with just the one. Softness— utter softness that Telemachus latches onto. Salted water falls from his eyes but he isn’t crying, not really. 

The tears simply just— are . 

He’s not sad. But he is. He’s happy but he isn’t. It’s hard to explain. He’s still heavy, limbs weighing him down, and his head is too light, dizzy. 

But his chest isn’t breaking into a million pieces. His heart isn’t moments away from shattering between his fingers. It’s better. Not whole, but better . 

He lets his father sing to him, repeating the same song over and over again. It doesn’t get old. Even when Telemachus thinks he could probably join in. He doesn’t, his throat too raw to even speak more than those few words, but he sings them with his father in his mind. 

Maybe one day he will join him. 

There’s a lull now, his father and him just sitting together. Odysseus is still carding his fingers in his hair and Telemachus’ face is still buried in his fathers’ tunic. It’s wet with his tears but his father doesn’t seem to mind. 

A wave of emotion washes over him. Gentle but much . Not too much either but—

Telemachus raises his head, meeting his fathers’ kind eyes. So similar. So honest. So— loving. Unconditional. 

“I love you, Dad.” The word is foreign on his tongue, unused to anything that isn’t a formality with his father— his dad . 

Nothing will ever be able to squash the way his heart soars. 

Odysseus returns his smiles, awestruck. By him— Telemachus. “I love you too, kiddo.”

The voices will probably return again, they always find a way of forcing themselves on him. But right now, at this moment in time, the only voice that Telemachus can hear is his dad’s as he starts to sing again. 

“I love you more than any other…”