Work Text:
“Dad,” the words are barely out of Telemachus’ mouth before he’s stumbling forward. His feet get caught on the rug, on the pants that he swore to his mother he’d put away before disappearing in his room (a lie, but his family has been known for that kind of thing), and on Argos’ squeaky toy that he leaves deliberately in the way. Stumbling a little bit, but he doesn’t let that deter him.
He has one goal in mind. And that’s—
“Tel, what’s— oh!” Odysseus barely gets a word in before Telemachus is closing the distance between the two of them and colliding with his father.
Telemachus may be small for a man but so is his father. And even though years of healing from– everything has left him more rotund— a healthy weight since skin and bones were barely clinging to him as it was— Telemachus still has the element of surprise. And enough training with Athena for him to use his size against any opponent. Even if that opponent is his dad.
His father wasn’t prepared so when Telemachus slams their bodies together, and they fall backwards. Luckily the carpet is plush enough that Odysseus isn’t in danger of getting a concussion or hurting his old man back as Telemachus likes to call it. And luckily for Telemachus, his father cushions the landing.
And he still doesn’t give his father any respite, his arms going around his shoulders and legs clinging to either side of his waist. His face buries itself in the older man's shoulders, and he inhales deeply. Pine, his father’s favourite Old Spice scent. And the one that Telemachus had used ever since he convinced his mom that he was too old for childish bubble baths. When the days of his father coming home were just as likely as pigs flying. When Telemachus felt the doubt creep in and threaten to drown him.
When he needed his dad, at least for a few moments, he could pretend that he was with him.
But now he has him and he’s not—
“Tel? You ‘kay?”
“You’re here,” Telemachus finally croaks out. He presses his face harder against his dad, trying to inhale every bit of him so that he’ll never forget what his dad smells like.
Odysseus relaxes instantly, hands coming up immediately. One on Telemachus’ back and the other to gently comb through his hair. “I’m here, kiddo.”
“Don’ leave me,” he whimpers. He’s shaking, he realizes. Has been for a few hours. It’s embarrassing, it always is. When the clock strikes just a little past afternoon, he starts to get fidgety. Checking the face every five minutes to make sure that it’s still on time. But he isn’t missing any time, and that his father will come home on time.
And he does, every weekday it’s just like before. Telemachus will come home from college and immediately get started on his homework, looking back at the clock as if looking away for longer than a few minutes will lead to his father‘s disappearance.
But it doesn’t. Because that’s stupid. Every day for the past two years has been the same and every day he’s just as anxious.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. Gods, he even sounds pathetic. “M sorry, Dad.”
“Hey, hey,” Odysseus’ voice is gentle, waves lapping at a distant shore. The hand in his hair digs a little deeper, nails in his scalp, sending shivers of satisfaction down Telemachus’ spine. Coaxing his body to relax. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m right here, Tel. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You—” Telemachus hiccups. “You’re here.”
“Yes, I’m here.” Odysseus doesn’t push to move up. Lets his son cling to him and returns with his own arms. Strong and reliable, arms that Telemachus wouldn’t trade for the world. Odysseus may have been gone for a majority of his life, but he sure did know how to hug. Making up for lost time since it’s very rare that any time Odysseus is in the same room as Telemachus that they aren’t clinging to each other. And Penelope.
Pine flooding his senses as he breathes in through his mouth. His fathers’ shirt is soaked with his tears and saliva, probably snot too but if his dad is disgusted by it, he doesn’t mention it.
“Dad, dad,” Telemachus murmurs into the soaked shirt. Shaking and crying and curling his fingers in the fabric. “You can back.”
“Of course, sweet joy,” Odysseus croons. Placing kisses in Telemachus’ hair like a sacred thing. “I’ll always return to you.”
“Dad,” Telemachus chokes. “I love you.”
And there’s not a moment of hesitation, “I love you too, son.”