Chapter Text
Nearly a month has passed since Odysseus came home. Once he slaughtered the suitors, once they hung the maids, once Telemachus met his father.
Control isn’t a thing you let go of easily once you get it. With a hundred and eight problems in the place you grew up in, control isn’t a thing you gain easily.
But Telemachus has his own life. He wants to control it. He has to control it. It feels weird, trying to control something that comes up to you, to bother you. So when Telemachus ‘controls’ his interactions with the suitors, it doesn’t feel right.
He reacts to something he did not want.
He wants to react to something he created.
He wants to create something he wanted.
“Having control over things you wanted isn’t easy, Telemachus.” Penelope told him.
“Maybe you can control pretty much anything you want, if you really wish to. But don’t forget yourself ; dont forget who you are.” Peisistratus told him.
Nearly a month into this.
Fortunately, probably for Telemachus’ sanity, Peisistratus is sailing to Ithaca, for ‘as long as he wishes’. Telemachus has to be ready, to look good, welcoming ; as welcoming as Nestor and his children were when he got to Pylos back then. His… friend arrives this very day.
How can you be welcoming when you spend days in your bed, or tiring yourself out in the training grounds? If someone went to ask him why he feels that way, he wouldn’t even be able to say why. The void in his heart feels mysterious. His illness feels unserious.
“Warriors are marked from the war forever. They’re traumatized. Me?”
Maybe it is common thing for Telemachus to minimalise how bad his situation is.
After all, trauma only applies to those who went through horrors. War, starvation, abuse, whatever comes to Telemachus’ mind. There’s no trauma about such men. Words, disrespect or actions, perhaps — but the prince isn’t traumatized, they haven’t marked him ; he’ll get over it eventually.
With Peisistratus sailing over, maybe he will be able to breathe. To control.
—
Laughters fill Telemachus’ dreams, make him wake up in the middle of the night, once, twice, until he isn’t able to dream again. Probably the gods’ wrath, but Telemachus doesn’t know if he even has done anything. Whatever’s in his dreams ; his nightmares got him waking up at the perfect hour, he needs to welcome his guest. The one person bringing him happiness, without a doubt. Without energy — almost lazily, the young prince gets up from his bed. He sighs, pulling off his sweat-drenched chiton. Lets it fall on the floor in a soft, light noise, which just works to tire him even more.
Telemachus lifts his arm up, suddenly, as if someone just… grabbed him ; his sudden gesture would only mean for him to jerk free of the grip. Rough, mindless of his own wellbeing. He frowns, a wave of rage and frustration taking over him, an uncomfortable warmth waving in his body.
In a sudden move, once again, the prince’s hand seizes his lifted arm ; right where he felt the touch - the hands. The pressure around his biceps is firm, rough, selfish. His nails bite into his skin, enough to sting at first, then deeper. Blood — only tiny drops — color the tip of Telemachus’ nails. He feels the weird wetness on the tip of his fingers and immediately removes his hand - his claws.
He needs to control something.
He needs to be conscious of the control and the power he has on something ; something that would break only if he decides so.
His very self seems to be the best option this far.
Telemachus can’t control the nightmares. He can’t control the touches, the thrills, the silhouettes, the whispers echoing in the palace’s hallways, their voices and the constant jeering in the great hall as if they were all still here despite being dead and-
Breathe in, breathe out.
The young prince stops moving, his arms going limp. He sighs, until no air’s left in his lungs. He forces a smile on his face - looking in the void of his not so empty room. Slowly, he leans down, grabbing his chiton from the floor.
Telemachus can’t think again.
His hand roams softly, carefully on his leg, his thigh, featherlight, like a caress ; a move he learned from his dearest mother. No pain - it feels unreal. He chuckles bitterly, as if he was making fun of that “prince of Ithaca”. With a soft head shake, he clears his throat and keeps his chiton in hand, moving to his wooden closet to get a clean one.
Once again, the used, sweat-scented chiton ends up on the floor, like a mere cloth. The young man pulls his clean chiton on, brushing against the wounds on his biceps. The sting, the warmth around it ; it feels… under control.
And it was everything he desired.
He creates something he wants.
He reacts to something he created.
But control empowers you : it controls you. You will give your hand, get it covered with gold. Then, you will want your arm to be covered in gold as well. Then, your entire body.
Telemachus smiles to himself.
It feels right. This time, a relaxed, slight but genuine smile spreads on his face. He feels right. But realization hits him, not so long after his smile spreads entirely. It’s wrong, of course, it’s wrong. Telemachus isn’t- insane. He doesn’t know what makes him sane or not.
It’s not fair.
He doesn’t remember asking for all of this.
—
The fresh breeze of the sea messes with the young prince’s hair. It turns disheveled, despite after being combed carefully by Eurycleia, the royal family’s old servant. Telemachus keeps roaming his hand in his hair, in a desperate attempt to control the mess created by the winds. The ship, coming from Pylos, not too big, but not too small, finally reaches the shores ; it was about time.
Telemachus knows he can finally breathe, he can finally live.
“Telemachus.”
A gentle, yet mature voice takes the ithacan prince out of his thoughts. He lifts his head up and smiles slightly, automatically politely. It’s him. Peisistratus is here. Telemachus’ smile widens ; it’s not just from politeness - his chest feels light.
“Peisistratus.”
He simply answers, feeling breathless, as they walk closer to each other. They might not get to the palace immediately. Telemachus doesn’t want to go back - not for now.
They pull each other in a gentle hug - the one you share when you reunite.
Telemachus closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around Peisistratus’ torso over his red-brownish cloak. He inhales his scent, careless about being discreet or not : he knows Peisistratus does the same.
The two young princes pull apart, almost reluctantly. Peisistratus’ smile is as bright as ever. Soft, calm… reassuring.
Despite his smile, his presence, Telemachus knows he won’t be enough.
Not the pylian’s fault, only Telemachus’ turmoil since nearly a month. Or maybe even before ?
“I’m glad to see you again. How are you doing?”
Peisistratus asks, and then, the amphora cracks open. Telemachus flinches slightly, quick enough to try to make it unseen. If he lets the amphora break open, it won’t do, for the both of them.
What can he say ?
Peisistratus is the only one he holds dear in his heart, the only one he loves outside of his family.
Telemachus’ mind works, works and works again. Find an answer, quick. Say anything for him not to worry. Anything, anything. Quick - but the path through Telemachus’ thoughts seems everlasting.
“My father came home but, you already know it.”
“Everything’s weird, unsure or… unreal.”
“I’m good, I’m just having constant nightmares since a month.”
“I’m doing perfectly fine, I’m happy to have my family reunited.”
“My old dog died, but, my father’s home.”
“The suitors are dead. The palace doesn’t seem emptier though.”
Too many answers.
None of them fits.
Quick, find something, or else he’s gonna ask again-
“I’m fine, I- my father’s dog died, and I have nightmares.”
Gods, Telemachus.
“Oh, um… I’m really sorry to hear about it, Tele.”
Oh…?
Oh.
Telemachus almost forgot their shared nicknames. Another thing the haunting memories and presence of the suitors took from him, he supposes.
“It’s me. I- I mean, I didn’t really-“ Telemachus starts, trying to find his words in the mess his thoughts are.
Peisistratus calms them. Immediately, with his hand reaching Telemachus’. He can finally relax a little, and finally, he finds his words.
“I’m fine, Peisis. Do you maybe want to… go for a walk, before seeing my parents?”
Please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes idontwannagobackrightnow
“Only if it means I can keep holding your hand.”
Relief.
Telemachus smiles softly, allowing himself to breathe again.
His arm stings again - it itches.
He ignores it, and they start walking.