Telemachus had always admired Aiya.

From the moment he was old enough to hold a wooden sword, Athena had sent Aiya to train him, claiming that Odysseus’s son couldn’t be left defenseless in a palace full of vipers.

You had never shared his enthusiasm. Yku were strict, distant, never showing a sliver of warmth. Telemachus had tried, in his own way, to make them see him as a friend rather than just a student, but their walls never cracked. Still, under their guidance, he had become a warrior.

War.

Odysseus had returned, and with him, vengeance.

Telemachus had rushed inside, desperate to stop the slaughter, to convince at least some of the suitors to surrender.

“Throw down those weapons, and I'll ensure you'll be spared.”

He had called.

But they had ignored him.

To them, he was not a prince with authority; he was an obstacle.

He fought, but there were too many, too desperate. They held him down, and in the moment he knew he was going to die, an arrow struck the man poised to kill him.

Relief flooded him—you had saved him. He turned, already about to call their name.

But the archer was not you.

It was a man, wearing a necklace identical to his mother’s.

His breath caught. His heart leaped.

“Father!”

Odysseus turned. For one perfect second, Telemachus thought he had been recognized, thought his father would see him.

Then—an arrow.

Aimed at him.

His body froze. His mind screamed at him to move, but the shock had paralyzed him. Was he really about to die—by his father’s hands?

The arrow flew.

And then you were there. A blur, a flash of movement faster than thought, stepping between him and death.

The impact hit them instead, embedding deep into their arm.

Before he could process what had happened, you grabbed him, and the world twisted.

Suddenly, they were in his room, away from the battle, away from Odysseus’s misplaced wrath. Telemachus barely registered the shift before he saw the blood. Their blood.

You brushed it off, saying it was nothing, that it barely hurt because they were a minor god.

They were already moving to remove the arrow, acting as if it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Telemachus was not listening.

His vision blurred, his heart ached.

They had taken an arrow for him.

Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them.

His body moved before he could think.

He pulled them into a tight hug, burying his face against their shoulder.

“You idiot."

He choked out.

“You saved me.”

He felt them stiffen, their entire body locking up. He knew them—knew they weren’t used to affection. Knew they would probably rather be back in battle than stuck in this embrace.

But after a moment, he felt their arms—hesitant, awkward—wrap around him in return.

Telemachus didn’t care how flustered you were.

You were alive.

That was all that mattered.

He held them tighter, his grip firm as if afraid they would disappear if he let go. His face pressed against the curve of their neck, and he felt their warmth, their breath.

“I thought I lost you,”

He murmured. His voice was thick with emotion, raw in a way he never let himself be.

His fingers tightened against their back, not ready to let go.

“Do you even understand what that would have done to me?”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at them.

Their faces were close—too close. His eyes flickered over their features, searching, memorizing. His heart pounded.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up, his fingers brushing against their cheek.

"You're the most stubborn person I’ve ever met."

He whispered, his lips barely a breath away from theirs.

"But if anyone is going to ruin me, I’d rather it be you."

And before you could react, before they could pull away or brush it off as nothing, he closed the distance and kissed them.