It had started as a dare, a whisper in the dark from someone who knew just how to get under your skin.

Antinous was always like that—sharp-edged and silver-tongued, their elder brother, so he said, but they were twins. Antinous was the schemer, the voice in their ear when things got too quiet.

So when he came to you with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, holding a plan like a dagger behind his back, you hadn’t been surprised.

“Get close to the prince.”

He’d said, voice low and slick as oil.

“Make him fall for you. Doesn’t matter how—charm, sweetness, lies if you must. Doesn’t matter. Just make him yours. When I become king, you’ll be royalty. And with that? Whatever you want.”

He’d sounded so sure of it, like he’d already seen the future.

And you—well, you hadn’t questioned it. Maybe you should've. But you spent too long in his shadow, too many nights wondering if you’d ever be more then the quiet sibling. The deal had been too tempting. Power, freedom, validation. All it would cost was a heart.

You agreed. Of course you did.

The plan had to be slow. Strategic. The prince—Telemachus —was no fool. Soft, maybe, but not oblivious. Not naive enough to fall for someone overnight. He wasn’t his mother, sharp-tongued and suspicious, but he wasn’t blind either.

Still, it would be easy. He was untouched by the world, held in palace walls, dreams still written across his face like poetry. He was innocent.

So it began.

A courtship veiled in politeness. Gentle smiles, gifts, tokens made meaningful by lies. You were patient.

Slowly, he opened up. He met with you more, lingered longer in talk, began to speak of you in private with a dreamy softness. He even told his dog about you—said you appeared in all his dreams.

But the longer it went on, the more things began to shift. It started small—how you smiled for real when he laughed, how you found yourself listening even when you didn’t have to. How his innocence wasn’t something to be exploited, but something soft.

And then came the day that changed everything.

The sun hung high.

It was warm and quiet.

Telemachus was seated on his bed, legs pulled up beneath him, still damp with sweat from training. His hair was messy, and he hadn’t bothered to change. He was radiant in that unguarded way, the light turning his skin to marble, his voice soft as he spoke.

He was rambling—about myths, his mother. How he wanted to protect his people, even if they never believed he could.

You sat beside him, curled up, shoulder brushing his. Too close for mere friendship. Maybe it had been part of the plan. Maybe not. You didn’t know anymore.

They had stopped listening a few minutes ago—not from boredom, but because they were captivated.

The curve of his mouth as he spoke, the brightness in his eyes, the way he gestured with his hands when he got excited—it was all too much. The prince wasn’t just sweet. He wasn’t just naive. He was real.

He was a boy. A boy with dreams.

And you saw him.

Saw him, and forgot the plan. Forgot Antinous. The prince who was once weak, easy to break—was strong. Worth far beyond manipulation.

And you wanted him, for him.

Telemachus’s words cut short, and he turned to look at you, brows drawing together in quiet concern. Your eyes were distant, locked on him with a softness that made something flutter wildly in his chest. The way they looked at him—it made him forget what he’d been saying.

Were they…?

Suddenly he was spiraling, second-guessing every word he’d just said. Had he bored them? Was he being childish?

He swallowed hard, nerves coiling. But he trusted you. He must. They’d been there.

“Hey?”

He asked, voice quieter now, almost shy.

“Is everything okay? I didn’t bore you, did I? I mean—if you want to talk about something else, we totally can.”

His words came out in a rush, anxious and soft. He didn't know why.

Because, gods help him, he had started to fall.

And maybe—just maybe—you had too.