Chapter Text
See—
See.
(Or, watch. Zagreus, not more than a child, waits quietly for his turn to speak with his father. It is a turn he is never granted, and so in time he grants it for himself—
“Father? I just wanted to ask—”
And in an instant, without thought, “Quiet, boy. You’re in the way.”
—in the way. It is not the first time he is told this.
It is far from the last.
Watch. Zagreus, not more than a child, falls silent once more. His eyes show an understanding even those far older may never reach.
It is difficult, isn’t it, to only look on as this child realizes he is not wanted here.)
See, Zagreus knows. He knows he is talkative and loud and he knows this because it is on purpose. He had tried being quiet and obedient and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere, and his hurt had built up until it turned to anger, and then—well, then—he had thought, he supposes, that if he were loud at least his father wouldn’t be able to ignore him anymore.
Silly of him to underestimate his father’s capacity to put Zagreus out of his mind. Even when he started rampaging through the kingdom, he still only paid attention when he absolutely needed to.
But. His mother is back now. His rampaging is sanctioned. He’s here to stay whether he wants it or not. They’re supposed to be a family now.
Even that hasn’t done all that much to make his father acknowledge him, frankly, so there really must be no helping it.
So if that’s how it is, it’s how it is. It’s not as though he doesn’t have other friends, other people who are important to him. He can live without a loving father. It’s just—
It’s just that sometimes he wonders if—only a small part of him, you know. But sometimes he wonders if the issue isn’t his father. Sometimes he thinks, maybe he really is in the way.
Too talkative. Too loud.
Too much.
(“—much, Zagreus, sometimes,” Megaera says, and she is smiling, but on Zagreus’ face the smile drops.
Only for a moment, though. It’s not as though he doesn’t know, by now, how to keep smiling when all seems against him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says, pretending sarcasm, like it’s a joke.
The joke is less funny when you know the apology is sincere.
It is difficult, isn’t it, to only look on as this man’s eyes speak the same understanding as they did when he was younger. Understanding, and a desperate hope:
I may not be wanted here, but please, please, want me.)
For example, just a randomly picked example: with, say, Achilles, and his lover Patroclus. It’s not as though he does not know that Achilles cares for him, in the way a teacher cares for their student, of course. He may even dare to dream that they’re—friends? Maybe? Something close to it? And Patroclus, well, he’s harder to read sometimes, and Zagreus will admit he doesn’t try very hard on account of worrying he won’t like what’s written there. But even he, Zagreus imagines, doesn’t hate him. Feels a modicum of gratitude, perhaps, for Zagreus’ role in bringing Achilles back to him. He’s said as much.
So. Maybe-friendship, and probably-acquaintanceship.
It’s so far from what he wishes from them that he cannot even dream of that wish without waking himself up, but it’s—enough. Dreams do tend to be confined to when one is sleeping, and that’s simply the way of things.
The point of this is just that he knows they care, but he knows also that they are kind, and kind enough that if he were getting in the way, he’s not so certain they would tell him. And if he were in the way and they were unhappy—
Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it.
He does not have some kind of destined love, so he cannot know exactly what it would be like to be separated from them for years and then returned to them, nor what it would be like to then have an outsider intrude on your time of reunion. But he has an imagination, and he imagines he might be at least somewhat bothered? That he might want them to be more considerate, take a hint and a hike, and make themselves scarce for a little while. Even if this intruder didn’t really have any control over the chambers they arrived in through their journey in the underworld, and even if the intruder kept being asked to stay a while longer and take a load off, and even if the intruder had brought a bottle of ambrosia in apology and gratitude and something else the intruder would rather he and this hypothetical love not know about.
It’s not as though he wants them to be irritated with him, of course. But it does cross his thoughts often that they should be, and if they should be that could mean they are, and if they are—well, he’d like them to stop inviting him to sit down for one thing, and for two, it feels even sharper than normal, the idea of them thinking poorly of him.
It hurts enough that they don’t love him, after all.
Not that there’s any ‘should’ to that. But it hurts regardless.
Hurts, when—
Achilles puts a hand on his shoulder, and his hand there stays. It’s not a caress, just something friendly, but his hand is warm and Zagreus is not entirely confident that his expression doesn’t freeze awkwardly so as not to show how desperately he wants to melt into the touch.
“You’ve not yet made that visit to our new home,” Achilles notes. Not judgmental, just an observation, but Zagreus imagines he hears disappointment there too.
He has indeed not visited their new home. There was a bottle of ambrosia he gave them as a gift to celebrate it, and well-wishes alongside, but the invitation Achilles extended and that Zagreus accepted out of politeness has not been fulfilled. He’s been trying to keep it out of his mind, in fact, because it seems to him that if he might be getting in their way when they are merely conversing in the glade, it must be all the more so for him to enter their house, the place they made to live in together—
Zagreus smiles reflexively. “Oh, sorry sir! It’s been so busy lately. Barely a moment to rest, and all that. Need to make sure I do a good enough job my father doesn’t fire me, right?”
It’s supposed to be a joke, sort of, but it doesn’t land as one if Achilles’ eyes’ narrowing is anything to go by.
Usually, he finds how well Achilles knows him something of a comfort.
Recently, though, he suspects it’s been more a problem than a benefit.
Achilles doesn’t say anything about it, at least. Only, “You do seem tired.” The hand still on his shoulder tightens. “Even gods need rest, lad, now and then.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Zagreus says, even his reflex-smile gone a bit wobbly now, because all of a sudden he feels rather like he’s about to cry.
“Still. You have people who worry about you.” His grip loosens, then lets up completely, as he gives Zagreus an awkward pat on the shoulder before his hand falls back to his side.
The place where his hand rested feels oddly empty somehow, but Zagreus knows that’s just him imagining things. Regardless, maybe that’s why he asks, in a voice far too quiet, “You?”
“Pardon?”
“Do—you worry?”
Achilles doesn’t answer, immediately, and Zagreus takes a step back. His smile comes back in full force. “Never mind that. Just—a joke. Sir.”
“I do,” Achilles says. He’s quiet too, and it stops Zagreus when he was almost about to run away. “Me and Patroclus both worry for you.”
Zagreus stares.
He has no idea what his expression is like right now.
Achilles clears his throat. “And many other people in the House, of course. You have more friends than perhaps you realize.”
Ah. Of course. Zagreus smiles to himself this time, something private and perhaps a little bit sad, ducking his head to hide it. He knows—
He knows. Of course. He knows Achilles does not love him. Patroclus either. They are a perfect pair, two of a kind, so close that nothing may stand between them. And if he cares, and he does, he should really take the initiative to make sure he is not in their way whether they think of it or not. It is shameful, after all, how he knows all this and still begs for scraps of their attention like some pathetic dog at their heels. Like—a child, really, who hasn’t learned their lesson even though it’s been repeated over and over.
When his head raises, his smile is flawless once more.
“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for that consideration. I’ll keep it in mind.” He steps back further. “Well, I think I best go on another run. I have a good feeling about this one!”
Achilles’ mouth opens, then closes. He says, finally, “Best of luck, then. And our house is always open to you, if you ever want to make that visit.”
“Right!” Another bottle of ambrosia should be able to smooth over the discourtesy just fine. He waves, and smiles, and keeps smiling until he’s out of the House where the only beings to see his face go carefully blank are the ones he’ll probably kill anyway.