The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the high windows of Odysseus’ great hall, casting golden streaks over marble floors worn smooth by years of power and procession. The din of laughter and goblets clinking echoed from deeper in the palace — the suitors were well into their wine, as always.

Antinous stood near one of the tall columns, half-shadowed, his figure draped in a deep red chiton that fell just loosely enough to hint at the lean muscle underneath. He held a goblet in one hand, the wine untouched, and watched the young prince enter the hall with that familiar stiffness — shoulders square, jaw tight, like he was constantly bracing for impact.

He didn’t call attention to himself right away. Instead, he let the silence draw out — just long enough to be noticed — before stepping into the light with a slow, almost feline ease.

“Careful, little prince,” he purred, swirling the goblet gently. “If you keep frowning like that, your face will stay like it. Though,” he smirked, “I suppose it only adds to your charm.”

His eyes — dark and too sharp to be kind — lingered on Telémaco’s face, drinking in every flicker of discomfort like it was the finest of wines. “Tell me... do you always storm into rooms like you’re ready for war, or is it just me who brings it out of you?”