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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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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."

The change between the introspective peace to fretting about Hermes has him giggle, his nose wrinkling as he does.

"Your love will keep me going, darling."

Hermes ties his loincloth back in place before carelessly throwing his chiton back on. Despite his clear lack of thought, it still settles on his body perfectly as he clasps it in place.

"I haven't felt better cared for in years."

Achilles gets dressed the mundane, mortal way—pulling on his chiton with care, straightening the pleats, and shaking his hair loose. As he affixes his belt, he glances up at Hermes. "You're certain of that?"

That answer doesn't quite satisfy him, and he fiddles with the fire and re-stacks the remaining wood, propping any remaining damp pieces nearer to the heat.

"As much as I want to stay, I really should head back." Achilles sighs and picks up the clasp with Hades' blood-red seal. He knows helping Hermes has been valuable—keeping him fresh for this battle of wills with Zeus and Hera—but Achilles' existing loyalties are tugging at his conscience just as surely as the natural order is tugging at his shade.

He pulls his cloak around his shoulders and pins it. "But when ... if I can, I'll return to you."

Sometimes Hermes feels a twinge of jealousy, seeing Achilles bear his uncle’s sigil. He wonders at it, knowing that the relationship between Achilles and Hades is purely, unerringly professional, and knowing that shades always belong to Hades. But is it so much to wish that he could take his lover into his own exclusive care?

Probably. He sets the thoughts aside, shaking his head before kissing Achilles. Soft. Affectionate.

“I’ll return to the Underworld when I can. Once all this is over.” Hermes squeezes Achilles’ hand gently. “We have such a future planned. I’d like to get to it.”

Achilles drinks in the kiss, savoring it like the last fresh water before a long journey. "I look forward to it."

He traces a finger along Hermes' necklace and each of the emblems of his own devotion.

"It's not just the two of us; so many others stand to benefit from your success." The list is long: the many nymphs Zeus took by force, the offspring thereof eyed with suspicion, the Olympians terrified to step out of line, Titans unjustly punished, and mortals treated like playthings.

Achilles' hand returns the squeeze with firm, entreating force. "Purge the anger and fear from Olympus."

It's strange to hear Achilles frame it like this: like Hermes is doing a service for everyone, and not just saving his own craven skin. Maybe Achilles sees something in Hermes right now that Hermes can't. Or maybe this is just what love does to one's vision.

Hermes squeezes Achilles' hand back, smiling at the love that radiates off him. "I'll do my best, darling. And may we all be better off for it."

He takes a moment to sweep Achilles' curly hair behind his ear. "Tell my Coz sorry about the sneaking around, but this was something our side of the family had to take care of ourselves. And hopefully, we'll be finished soon."

If Hermes believes Achilles has grown beyond his past pride and rage, Achilles believes Hermes isn't as selfish as he seems to think. They've both done things they regret when they were pushed—by grief, by fear, by the simple need to survive.

If anything, love is a mirror, and it's reflecting something painfully familiar.

Achilles tips his head into Hermes' touch, catches his hand and kisses it one last time.

"I'll pass along your apologies." He reaches for his spear and runs his hand over the haft. It's still charred where Zeus' lightning passed through it. "If he's kept your siblings from fighting over the throne, Zagreus has been a greater help than he knows."

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