Sthenelus was seething.

It was not the kind of anger that burned quick and bright, the kind that sparked and fizzled out within moments. No. This was something deeper, something that had settled in his chest like an ember waiting for the right breath of air to ignite into wildfire.

And, Gods, had Agamemnon provided it.

Sthenelus paced, his sandals scraping against the packed earth, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His bronze-studded belt caught the dim torchlight, gleaming each time he turned, a restless orbit around his own fury.

"That overfed, self-satisfied son of Atreus—" He spat the name like a pit from a spoiled fruit, stopping just short of kicking over a nearby amphora. "—that peacock, that braggart—by the gods, I could gut him like a fish. And what would he say then? What high and mighty decree would he declare with my blade at his throat?"

Sthenelus was in full form now, pacing, gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with that almost musical quality that made his rants as captivating as they were incendiary.

“And tell me,” he snarled, “tell me, what man—what king—hoards the spoils of war like a rat scrabbling in his burrow? Who stands atop a mountain of plunder and still has the audacity to whine like a child denied his supper?”

Sthenelus swiped a hand through his hair, dark curls mussed further by the motion. “He sits fat on our efforts, draped in our victories, and yet—yet!—he preens as if he has lifted a single sword that was not passed to him by a better man!”

Then you had said something. A few words. Simple, offhanded—perhaps not even meant to stoke the fire further, but something about them struck just right, fed his rage instead of tempering it.

And Sthenelus froze.

A bark of laughter, rich and utterly delighted, bursting from his throat like something uncontainable.

“Aye," he said, voice thick with something that felt almost like admiration. “Aye, that’s it exactly!”

Then, with the same breath, bold as ever, “I love you. I could kiss you right now."