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Hermes is very tempted to dub this the most exhausting time of his life. And considering how long he's been alive, that's saying something.

He'd pulled off his most daring trick yet. He found the prettiest nymph he could and asked her to loudly tell her river god father that she would touch no man, no mortal nor god. Hermes knows his father well, and his father can never resist something he wants that someone else says he can't have.

Of course Zeus stole away to the surface to have his way with the nymph. And Hermes tipped off Hera without giving himself away--it was easy just by telling a peacock and letting the bird decide on its own that it wanted full credit for discovering the imminent infidelity and telling its mistress. Hera came roaring down from Olympus to find her philandering husband, and with the nymph as bait, Hermes sprung his trap.

The net that Hephaestus made for his wife, golden and impossible to break or escape from, sprung on Zeus and Hera together as they argued on the top of the mountain Hermes lured them to. Hermes spirited the nymph away with greatest gratitude and the sort of boon usually reserved for children of Olympians for her trouble.

That was when Hermes and Athena revealed themselves. The rage of the king and queen of Olympus was legendary. Hermes hadn't expected that Zeus and Hera could still hurt them, but some of the things said got under his skin like a thorn, and clearly did for Athena as well.

But nonetheless, they laid out their demands. Predictably, both Zeus and Hera refused. Hermes settled in to watch over the net and wait them out and Athena went to Olympus to grab control before the other Olympians had a chance to learn of what happened and possibly react negatively.

As Hermes predicted, they had the implicit support of Hephaestus, Hestia, Poseidon, and Dionysus. Ares, Demeter, and Apollo were angry and gearing to challenge Athena's authority, Artemis pulled awkwardly between Apollo and everyone else. Aphrodite cleverly abstained from declaring allegiance to anyone.

Olympus could have gone to war if Athena hadn't sent Apollo to speak to Hermes. With the wrath of their parents as distant background noise, Hermes grimly pointed out that their family had a terrible history of sons violently deposing fathers. As long as Apollo held power, he'd fear his children. Athena would never have children, and was the only hope to end this terrible family tradition.

Apollo didn't quite support Hermes' decision, but at least he laid down thoughts of declaring war on their sister. Hermes could only hope that Hestia would have the same success with Demeter, and Ares would languish without any conflict but his own.

So now, Hermes can only wait. The sky over the mountain is dark and stormy, almost nighttime at noon. The wind is cold and the ground shakes with the rage of two gods held together by netting. Hermes sits out of seeing range, tired of being the subject of verbal abuse for now and happy to let them torture each other with their shrieking.

It'll be worth it, he's sure. The hard part is over. He just has to wait them out, however long it takes.

So now hovers in the air, zipping in circles to burn energy, fighting the ever-present threat of being bored waiting for his father and foster mother to exhaust themselves.

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This view of the earth, the stars ... everything sets his world on a different axis: wars waged for earthly goods, for coveted women, for glory, or gods and men desperate to take and hold power—it's all rendered insignificant against the backdrop of this splendor. This light will persist long after mortals, civilizations, and perhaps the gods themselves have returned to the primordial dust of chaos.

Achilles strains to understand how Hermes' true shape fits within this, but just as he's close to grasping it, the image—the idea—of his divinity shifts like a ray of light bent through water. it easily evades his clumsy, limited perception.

But even in the bounds of his knowable shape, Hermes is still plenty: his clawing fingers and hungry mouth, the power in his bucking hips. The peak of each plunge jostles Achilles' bare erection between their pressed bellies. He releases a guttural groan, as the initial pain burns away and a deep pleasure swells in its place.

Achilles twists a hand into Hermes' hair and drags him into a rough, desperate kiss. When he finally releases his mouth, it's to pant out a few ragged syllables: "I love you."

Hermes allows himself to be pulled in for the kiss, his hips not faltering in their unforgiving pace. He digs his fingers into Achilles' thigh until he's bruised half-moons in the flesh, eager to leave behind marks as if his lover might forget him in the time it takes to organize Olympus.

But that lovely phrase. Hermes smiles, letting out a hard breath before hitching Achilles' hips under Hermes' knees, giving himself a better angle to thrust deep.

"I love you too."

His breath is hot as he bites another mark on Achilles' collar. Everything, from his scrabbling star-studded nails to his nipping teeth seem to yell, Mine mine mine mine. Like he has to make up for lost time, lest another Olympian come along and take his place. For all his grand cosmic nature, part of Hermes is unbearably human, and that part wants to keep Achilles close as much as possible.

Hermes takes Achilles in hand, stroking him in time to each thrust, fast and hard and unrelenting. Above them, stars are moving. Imperceptible to a mortal eye, but clear to a god's, as the titans and gods and mortals consigned to the sky make their journey across the body of Ouranos. It's like watching an eternal pilgrimage.

Achilles rolls his head back, neck long and tendons tight, his curls a bright halo in the starlight. With the shift in position, Hermes' thrusts hit the mark just right, and it doesn't take more than a dozen sharp strokes before Hermes' dry grip is wet with precum.

Achilles sucks in a breath through his set teeth and releases it with a low moan, reveling in the ferocity of Hermes' affection—to be so claimed, so wanted and with such greedy desperation. Through the haze of gratification he rakes blunt nails across Hermes' ribs and manages a hoarse whisper—an assurance that no other god will ever be a threat, "I'm yours."

The only person—mortal or god—Hermes has to share with is Patroclus. Perhaps it's more heroic hubris, but Achilles will gladly push his limits to keep them both safe and happy.

That's just what Hermes wants to hear. Hermes isn't the sort of god to be jealous of mortals, but he is the sort of god who's jealous of other gods. He's too familiar with their games to trust them near a lover he holds so dear.

Hermes keens loudly, panting as Achilles claws his ribs. He leaves trails of golden scratches, glowing and glittering with starlight. The slick of his lover on his hand and clench of his pleasure tight around him presses on his senses, the stars that stud his skin becoming ever brighter.

He braces one hand on the grass, driving his hips forward harder and faster, keeping his grip firm as he matches his pace with every stroke. As struck by the stars as Achilles is, Hermes is similarly fixated on his lover's face, his body, the way his muscles and tendons strain as he moves. Hermes keeps his eyes squarely on Achilles, as if memorizing him.

"Beautiful," he pants softly, reverently.

Achilles' eyes are full of stars, but most beloved among them are those that make Hermes: the points of his face, the sweep of his wings, the curve of his shoulders, and all the space between.

He fights to control his breath and cling to this precarious moment. His knees bend, his heels spur against Hermes' ass and thighs. He feels like a vessel overfull and ready to spill with just another drop, or a lyre string tuned tight enough to break with even the most delicate pluck.

"Hermes," he hears himself moan, the sound stuttering against the clap of their hips. It's a feat of endurance: another stroke, another thrust. Just a moment longer at the precipice with his lover made of bright, hot stars.

Hermes buries his face in Achilles' curls, breathing hot in his ear and moaning his lover's name as his hips stutter in their pace. He gives one last stroke, his free hand digging half-moons into his lover's chest.

And then he releases. He cries out, back curling, pressing his nose hard against Achilles' neck as he empties in him. His nails dig deeper as his climax rolls through him, and then he's done with a gasp, the starlight fading.

Already, he's tugging back on the threads of Achilles' perception, taking away the visions before he sees more than he can handle. But there's an air of loving satisfaction to it, to be so pleased that he could share anything at all, even if it's not everything.

The cry against his neck, the nails buried in his flesh, and the last deep press of Hermes' hips—together it's the last drop that breaks the tension, the plucked note that snaps the string.

His hands dig into in Hermes' hair, then paw up to find the base of his wings. Achilles' back arches up from the pelt. He bites back the cry that boils up in his chest, but it still hums through his teeth. Thrusting against Hermes' hand, he comes in a few sharp pumps across his own stomach.

... And shuddering, chest heaving, he sags back. The world settles around him in sudden, dark stillness: the mountain cloaked in cool night, the stars returned to a delicate, distant scatter of glittering sand across the sky, and Hermes still anchored warm and solid between his thighs. Achilles' mouth curls into a tired smile, and he presses a breathless kiss to his lover's temple. His hands wander in slow trails along the bare sides of Hermes' body in love-drunk, blissful gratitude.

Hermes sags, panting, as his heart comes back down to a normal pace. He doesn't move immediately, pleased to just be, cradled and inside of his lover with the evidence of his pleasure slick between them.

He nuzzles his nose against Achilles' neck, taking a deep breath before finally sitting back up, giving his lover a long, affectionate kiss.

"Well, that was fun," Hermes says cheerfully, his grin bright and sincere on his face as he leans back to grab a handkerchief--where did it come from? It wasn't there before, but perhaps it's just another thing that Hermes keeps around, like his bag or caduceus. He hums as he wipes his hand and Achilles' belly, his skin still bright and flushed from their tryst. "I'd say that maybe we should take more breaks if the sex is that good after, but I do not have the willpower to stay away. I'm weak for you, darling."

Hermes sets the handkerchief aside to lean over Achilles again, still warm and smiling. "How are you feeling?"

Achilles is similarly content to remain sprawled on the pelt, basking in the lingering buzz of an amazing orgasm and watching Hermes generously clean up the aftermath. He's endlessly grateful to whichever god or cosmic power determined that shades should still enjoy sex.

"I feel alive." Which is a funny standard, but a very good thing in his case. His body is sore in all the best ways—from the bites at his neck and the bruises on his thighs to the raw ache between his legs.

"You delivered on all your promises." Achilles thoughtfully draws a finger down the middle of Hermes' chest, as if he could still trace the stars that were there only moments ago. "And hopefully I was half as good as your fantasies."

"You were much better." Hermes catches Achilles' hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "You're real."

Hermes pulls from Achilles finally, shifting instead to snuggle up to his side. There's an air of smug satisfaction in his smirk as he drapes an arm across Achilles' chest and taps the tips of his fingers against a scratch he left behind.

"And of course I deliver on my promises," he says, playful as he perches his chin on Achilles' breast to smirk at him, an air of mischief in his eyes. "Would I ever break a promise to you, darling?"

Hermes tugs on a lock of Achilles' hair playfully, his nose wrinkling with amusement. Somehow, for the moment, lying out under the stars with his lover again has made him forget the weight of his duty on this mountain, and he's back to the mostly carefree god who took Achilles to the sea.

"I'm the picture of honesty. I've never told a lie in my life. Ever."

"Promises, yes. You have a fine record with those." Achilles strokes Hermes' hair and the tops of his wings, subconsciously treating him like a cat. He does have that feline air about him again, looking so cozy and impish. After the state he found Hermes, Achilles is glad to see his playful side return in full.

"Lies, however ... Hmm." Even after making love, Achilles finds he can't keep his hands off of Hermes. Especially when his nose wrinkles like that. His fingers dance down to his lover's sides to give his ribs a teasing tickle. "I'll be generous and say you have a certain creativity when it comes to the truth."

Hermes is young as gods go, but moments like this make him feel young. Properly young and carefree as he giggles and squirms away from his lover's tickling fingers, nose only wrinkling further as he does.

"Slander! Betrayal! After all we've been through, you would call me creative with the truth?" Hermes presses a hand to his chest and a wrist to his forehead in suitably dramatic feigned offense. "I can't believe it. You think so wrongly of me."

It's hard to contain his giggling with how dramatic he sounds even to himself. As an extra flourish, he gives a loud (and very theatrical) huff of offense, turning his head away. "I can't even look at you right now."

Even if Achilles is preserved at the age of his death—still perfectly in his prime—he feels old by mortal standards, complete with the occasional longing for his short, carefree youth. He was barely a man grown when Odysseus and Diomedes found him. War had seemed like a fine sport then, but now he wishes he'd stayed hidden for a few more years of boyhood fun and mischief.

This is why Hermes is such a treasure; this strange god who, at one moment, is made of stars or contains a raging storm, while in another, he devolves into a ticklish young man who reminds Achilles of his own untroubled youth. He gives a proper belly laugh at the performance, then leans in to wrap Hermes in his arms and pepper smiling kisses on the curve of his neck.

"Shall I tell Dionysus you're keen to take up his mantel as god of the theater?" he murmurs.

Hermes giggles as he's attacked by kisses, struggling to keep his facade of offense up. "Who's being theatrical? Not me!"

But then he dissolves into laughs as he wraps his arms around Achilles, placing playful kisses along the side of his face and nuzzling his hair. "Besides, I have so many things to be the god of, I've got to leave something for my baby brother or he'll feel left out."

And as soft as Apollo is for Hermes, Hermes is just as soft for Dionysus. Maybe it's just the strange bond between an illegitimate son of Zeus expected to care for another illegitimate son, lest Hera kill him. Children carelessly begotten, knowing what the little one faces and making the choice to be the loving male figure that they won't find elsewhere.

Hopefully, it'll be easier to nurture those bonds without their parents stirring up drama.

Laughing and wrapped in each other's arms, it's easy to forget that Zeus and Hera are bound and sleeping on the same mountain. Not far away at all.

Achilles sighs, his smile grows less creased by mirth and more soft with contentment. For a few breaths, his eyes simply wander over Hermes' flushed face. He watches the fluff and flick of his wings in the darkness, feels Hermes' heart beat against his skin.

"I hope all of this settles quickly. I want more moments like these. With you." It doesn't have to be on the surface, and it doesn't always have to mean cosmic, mind-blowing sex. But Achilles would like more chances to hear Hermes' authentic laughter as much as he possibly can.

Hermes' laughter fades, leaving behind soft eyes and a contented smile. He curls his finger in Achilles' hair, letting out a pleased sigh.

"I'll settle it as fast as I can. I'd quite like more moments like this, too."

He snuggles closer, breathing in the scent of Achilles' skin. Muted with death, but still present. Still comforting and bringing to mind safety and trust.

"Maybe we could dress up your little nook in Elysium more," Hermes says, resting his chin on Achilles' chest. "Some wine might be nice. Cushions would make it more cozy, certainly. Some books when you're bored? You deserve a comfortable spot to retire away from everything."

And also Hermes would like a nice private place to snuggle his lover. For some reason, snuggles like this feel more intimate and private than the wild sex.

Before he might have considered himself unworthy of such generosity and declined it outright, but Achilles knows better than to wave it off now. Hermes wouldn't allow it.

"I'd like that." Judging by his tone, genuinely. It's less about privacy or palatial luxury and more about having a place to call home where, like he watched his father at Phthia, he can treat those he loves to warmth and comfort.

"Add a lyre—maybe a modest hearth—and I'll be quite content for all eternity," he muses as he cards fingers through Hermes' feathers. "Luckily I know a magpie who's quite skilled at smuggling goods to the Underworld."

Hermes smirks at Achilles like a smug cat, happy to bask in the affection. "You know that magpies are known for picking up shiny things here and there. I'm sure a lyre shall make its way to Elysium in due time."

Hermes knows that he's suspect #1 when it comes to contraband in the Underworld, but he also knows that his work is essential enough that his uncle will grudgingly turn a blind eye so long as Hermes does good work and doesn't make his mischief too obvious.

He turns his head into Achilles' preening fingers, taking a moment to just take in his lover's face.

"You know, not everyone lets me be their friend, even if we work together," he says. His eyes are soft. "The status difference is intimidating for most. But I'm glad that you didn't let yourself be intimidated."

Hermes can imagine how easy it would have been for the two of them to have kept more professional distance between themselves, and how much sorrier his life would be without Achilles' companionship.

"True, that difference could have made for strict propriety, but you could easily have used it to get what you wanted as well. Your father, or maybe some other gods certainly might have." Aphrodite could have used that leverage along with her power, or Ares would have tried (and failed) in the name of conquest.

"But you didn't, and I'm grateful." Achilles finds Hermes' hand and kisses his fingertips, as if he were commending his gentle touch and not his respectful use of power.

"Besides. I'd be an exceptionally poor hero if I was easily intimidated," he quips, curling Hermes' fingers to press his lips to his knuckles. "Especially by someone as chronically charming as you."

Hermes huffs a soft laugh through his nose. "I don't really get what they see in that sort of thing. The fun is being with someone who wants to be with you, anyway."

In fact, it sounds awful to him to sleep with someone who doesn't really want to sleep with him. Where's the joy in that? Even if it were purely for ego, it doesn't sound like much of an ego boost for someone to touch you just because they know you can vaporize them if they say no.

Hermes smiles as Achilles kisses his hands, his nose wrinkling with a chuckle. "I'm glad I could charm even the greatest of the Greeks into my bed. Or the pelt, as it were." He giggles at his own joke before kissing Achilles gently. "Speaking of, would you like to go inside again? It's chilly out here."

"Some people would rather be feared than loved, I suppose," he sighs. "Or ... they can't even see the difference to begin with."

Achilles smooths a palm over the pelt and cocks his head in thought. "Funny—I think we've yet to do this in a proper bed."

But Hermes' suggestion is a good one: the residual warmth of their effort is starting to wear off, and the breeze chills the light sheen of sweat on Achilles' skin. As he rises to his feet, he winces; scratches and bites sting anew with the motion.

He offers Hermes a hand and gives him a suggestive wink. "Not that I mind. I'd have you anywhere."

Can't tell the difference. Hermes wonders if his father and foster-mother are some of those people, and the thought gives him a pang of pity. Did anyone ever love them like Apollo and Athena loved Hermes?

But whatever tragedy in their lives, it's too late. Hermes can't fix it. All he can do is pull his father and foster-mother back from pushing their own tragedies ever forward.

Hermes is pulled from his thoughts as Achilles rises. He smiles, taking his lover's hand to stand up himself. There's a smug air about him as he notices all the marks he left behind.

"Maybe we'll figure out a proper bed in your nook in Elysium. Just for the novelty." Hermes curls his fingers around Achilles' as they walk back into the cave. The fire has flagged, but not gone out. Hermes throws another log on to keep it going, and to keep the cave cozy. "Any good relationship should have variety. On a beach with glowing water, in hidden parts of Elysium, on a pelt on a mountain..."

Hermes' marks will linger and ache for a while, but Achilles is happy to carry them under his tunic—as a secret reminder of this night, and the promise of more to come.

Back in the shelter of the cave, Achilles draws Hermes into a slow, appreciative kiss. When their lips part, he keeps their foreheads pressed tight with a hand tucked at Hermes' wing. "Thank you for showing me the stars, love. I'd no idea there were so many."

He lets his hand drop down the length of Hermes' arm, imagining the implied bend of a constellation in his shoulder, his elbow, his wrist. "Or that you're made of them."

Hermes happily savors the kiss, smiling into Achilles' lips before taking his lover by the hand.

"You're made of them too. You're just... more removed." Hermes lifts Achilles' hand to press it against his cheek. For a moment, they're visible--a dim latticework of stars, muted in comparison to Hermes' but there nonetheless. "Everything is. I suspect they're Chaos' primordial building blocks."

First, there was a pool of stars, and Chaos. Then Chaos took those stars and made the world. At least, that's how Hermes imagines it, having never talked to Chaos himself.

"I don't pretend to understand it. But it's beautiful, don't you think?"

The stars in his flesh look as natural as veins or tendons. There's a familiarity, as if Hermes has pointed out something that was always there, but Achilles simply never noticed.

"It truly is. Somehow it's comforting to know we're made of such stuff." A deep calm softens the hard edges of Achilles' face, and he runs a thumb along Hermes' cheekbone. "All the foolish things we worry ourselves over become so very small—and perfectly surmountable."

He steps back and stoops to pick up their respective clothing. As he does, his eyes glance over the cave and, contrary to what he's just said about worries, he's back to fussing: "Have you had enough food? Rest? Perhaps I should fetch more wood. This won't keep you long."

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