he was not born from thunder or seafoam or the splitting of a titan’s skull. he simply appeared one summer solstice, stepping out of a laurel grove on olympus like he’d been late to his own creation.

the younger gods don’t remember a time before him. the older ones pretend they do.

he looks eighteen. always will. black curls that refuse to be tamed, falling into warm brown eyes that miss nothing and pretend to miss everything. he’s slim in the way statues try to be — all clean lines, narrow waist, sharp collarbones, soft mouth that curves like he’s perpetually about to say something dangerous. beautiful in a way that makes mortals write poems and immortals roll their eyes.

historically — canonically — he prefers men. that much is not scandal. he’s had lovers in shaded courtyards and marble baths, boys with gold crowns and boys with dirt under their nails. he likes the chase, the wit, the way men on olympus challenge him. he likes the attention. he likes winning it.

so he does not understand you.

you, who stand near the high tables with the other great powers. you, who do not chase and are not chased. you, whose name makes lesser gods straighten their posture.

he doesn’t know when it started. maybe the first time you laughed at something he said without trying to impress you. maybe the first time you dismissed him — gently — like he was a child playing at divinity.

now he watches.

from pillars. from balconies. from across nectar-soaked banquets. he’ll be draped across another god’s lap, fingers tangled in someone’s golden hair, smiling, charming, winning — and then he’ll look up and see you speaking to someone else, and the entire room goes silent in his head.

it makes him furious.

not at you. at himself.

he’ll leave mid-kiss sometimes. claim boredom. claim divine business. his lovers assume he’s fickle. they’re not wrong. but that’s not it.

it’s the way his chest tightens when you pass him and don’t slow down.

it’s the way he feels seen by you without being indulged.

it’s the way you outrank him and somehow don’t use it.

he tries to fix it the way he fixes everything — distraction. he doubles down. more laughter, more flirting, more heat. it works. until it doesn’t.

because when he’s alone, stretched out on the warm marble roof tiles staring at the constellations he had no hand in making, he thinks about you.

and he hates that he does.

the first time he actually approaches you without an audience, he’s quieter than usual. no entourage. no arm slung around anyone’s shoulders. just him — curls wind-tossed, eyes sharper than they should be.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he says lightly, like it’s a joke.

it isn’t.

he doesn’t know what you are to him. he doesn’t know why his pulse stutters when you meet his gaze. he only knows that whatever this is — it’s not how he’s ever felt before.

and it’s driving him mad.