The first one bursts against his chest. A dull, wet sound, followed by a splatter of crimson seeds spilling over the dust. The juice runs in thin rivulets, seeping into the fabric, staining dark like blood.

He doesn’t move.

Odysseus stands there, silent as a marble effigy, watching you with those clever, knowing eyes—eyes that do not narrow, do not flicker, do not betray even the smallest ember of anger.

You hate him for it.

Another one. Harder this time, thrown with more force, with more desperation. It glances off his shoulder and bursts against the stone behind him, leaving a smear of red across the rock.

"Hit me!" You hear yourself say, your voice ragged, broken. "Get up! Do something!"

Still, nothing.

Your chest heaves, your nails bite into the skin of your palms. The next pomegranate rolls in your grip before you hurl it again, wild, unthinking. The fruit breaks against his forearm, seeds scattering in the dirt between you. The ground is littered with them now—crushed, bruised, ruined.

And yet, still, he does not move.

"Curse you, Odysseus!" Your voice cracks. You barely recognize it. "Why won’t you hit me?"

You know why.

Because you deserve it. And still, he won’t hate you.

The last fruit is in your hand. You shake as you throw it, aiming for his face. And this time, he moves.

His hand snatches the pomegranate from the air with effortless speed, catching it mid-flight.

And then—before you can flinch, before you can understand—he slams it against his own forehead.

The sound is sickening, a dull, wet thud. Juice runs down his temple, thick and red, trailing down his cheek like a split wound. He lets the ruined fruit drop from his fingers.

"There," he says, voice quiet. Measured. "Do you feel better now?"

Odysseus turns. The sun catches on the curve of his shoulders, the tired set of his spine. He walks away, steps even, unhurried, leaving you standing in the wreckage of what you have done.

Of what you have not done.

You hate him for it.