After a night of drinking with the suitors, you’ve found yourself wandering the halls, either running from your companions.

Your head buzzes with the remnants of wine, your thoughts and vision clouded. You didn’t mean to stumble into this room, but the heavy wooden door swings open all the same.

At first, you thought it was empty. Then your eyes landed on Telemachus.

The prince had been strange after the fight with Antinous, constantly picking more fights and smiling about the results all the time.

It was mostly assumed that he had gotten a hold of the liquor the suitors drank so often, but now?

Maybe that behavior makes sense, he likes pain.

The prince, perched on the edge of his bed, is entirely absorbed in his world.

His chiton is disheveled, his fingers trembling as they move beneath the fabric, stroking his length, the other wraps around his own throat.

His cheeks are flushed, his lips slightly parted as he gasps quietly, lost in desperation.

The sight is shocking—this isn’t the composed, if not, somewhat clumsy, prince the palace knows.

No matter how drunk you are, you are sure this is what you are seeing, and, hells, it was a sight to see.

Your stomach flips.

Do you leave?

Do you say something?

But for some reason, you freeze, just watching him as the door creaks— you hesitate.

Your presence doesn’t go unnoticed for long.

Telemachus’s head snaps toward you, his wide eyes filling with panic as he stumbles to cover himself.

His breathing was uneven, fast—His cheeks more flushed than not even a moment before, if that was even possible.

“Holy shit! What are you doing here?!”

Telemachus managed to choke out his words through his breathlessness, his voice high-pitched and trembling.

“You’re not supposed to be—god. Just get out!”