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Sometimes, Apollo wants something.
To discuss the day, or to tell Hektor how tomorrow’s fighting will go. To heal his wounds or ensure he’s made the proper sacrifices.
Sometimes he doesn’t seem to want anything at all—just lingers in Hektor’s periphery like a shadow made of light, keeping him company while he prays or undresses or feigns sleep so his wife won’t worry.
Sometimes—
This time, he comes to Hektor in the bath, the only source of light in the room save for the occasional cluster of candles, the only occupant save for Hektor himself.
Hektor bows, wearily.
The water bubbles as Apollo steps into it, his pristine garments and delicate jewelry fading in a shimmer of golden light.
As bare and bloody as the day he was born, slicked with mud everywhere he hasn’t yet washed, Hektor knows better than to speak.
“Hello, lovely,” Apollo says, his voice light and Paris-like. “Messy day, was it?”
It’s his favorite mimicry, as of late, though he’s worn many in the time Hektor’s known him—Hektor’s brother, with his farmer’s accent lilting his princely voice. Hektor can’t decide if it’s the complete opposite of comforting, or just some twisted version of it.
“Raining,” Hektor answers, as though Apollo doesn’t know. As though he wasn’t there, leaning over Hektor’s shoulder, one hand on his wrist and the other at the nape of his neck, subtly correcting his aim. “A slog, all told.”
Apollo clicks his tongue, slinking deeper into the water. “Poor thing.”
(Hektor feels the heat creep toward him through the water, not quite unbearable, but certainly less than comfortable. He doesn’t shift his weight or flinch or cup his hands around his privates, no matter how much he wants to.)
Hektor has scars that glow faintly when the light is low, in every place that Apollo healed him. Some of the wounds should have been mortal—they glow more brightly than the rest.
There are other scars, too, mostly burns, that Apollo left himself. They don’t glow, hidden against Hektor’s skin. A secret, for him and the gods alone.
(It’s Paris who Aphrodite favors, but Hektor sometimes wonders if she sees him too, if she’s amused by this.
As if there’s any love or intimacy to these visits of Apollo’s—mania, maybe, but nothing else.)
There’s a lump in Hektor’s throat, suddenly. He swallows it, swallows his words, swallows his pain as Apollo moves closer still through the water. It doesn’t boil around him anymore, fortunately for Hektor, but the heat is still shocking and sharp against his awareness.
“Poor thing,” Apollo repeats, reaching out. He doesn’t touch, but wherever his hands pass, Hektor is clean. Cleansed of grime and blood and war, left shining-new.
Hektor swallows. His throat clicks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Apollo shushes him, like Hektor would shush Astyanax when he fussed. He gathers Hektor into his bright arms and rocks him, gently. “Poor thing.” His hands slide down Hektor’s sides, fit into the divots between his ribs borne of soldier-rations and an appetite lost to anxiety. Pain sears across Hektor’s skin as Apollo finds a place to slip his magic in, a glancing spear-wound that heals over gold and shining and taut as a burn. “Poor thing.”
Hektor wants to scream, to weep, to shove Apollo away, to push this god of his down into the water and choke him until the light under his skin goes out, to howl that the gods did this to them, that Apollo did this to Hektor the same way Aphrodite did this to Paris, and now they both think they can touch them, get their hands on them like they’re petting a hound or stroking their own cocks, utterly self-indulgent.
He wants to. He wants to.
Apollo knows. He must know—that’s the only thing that his knife-sharp smile could mean, as he reaches between his own legs and strokes his cock to hardness.
Hektor sinks to his knees and takes his god into his mouth.
Apollo sighs , deep and content, as Hektor works his mouth down to the root, nuzzles into Apollo’s stomach and withdraws again, tongue laving over the length of his cock.
Hektor knows what Apollo wants from him.
(He wants him dead while he’s still beautiful, he wants to come on his face, he wants Hektor to know that all he is has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Apollo.)
Hektor knows.
He sucks Apollo off with the weary expertise of familiarity, pulls back when he feels Apollo’s thighs tense and doesn’t flinch at the burning heat that splatters across his face. He bears it stoically for a moment, then ducks his face into the water and rubs his skin clean.
There will be burns, tomorrow. Shiny and red, hidden for most of the day beneath his helm. No one who sees them will ask, not even Andromache.
(Certainly not Paris. Apollo favors him, too, sometimes.)
Apollo pulls Hektor up out of the water and gathers him close, pressing Hektor’s forehead to his stomach and running his fingers through his wet hair.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Apollo says, not even trying to keep the smile out of his voice. “I’m sorry.”