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Crossing the dusty, sandswept camp passed in a blur, and for once, a bloodied face did not draw any attention. There was blood here as a matter of course, the tents manned by the physicians were busy always with those injured in skirmishes with the Egyptians, or felled by the inhospitable and alien land they found themselves in.
Achilleas strode quickly, head down, instinct and habit steering him to where he knew his friend would be. Krysto served as lieutenant to the Mikaelidas Captain, his tent not far from Achilleas’ own, and it was there the man headed. He skirted around the Colchian end of the canvas city, not wanting to deal with Damocles right then. He needed space to think, to figure out what the hell had just happened.
The intensity of his own reaction had caught him off guard, how it had gone from that embarrassed explanation to...that. And Stephanos’ words still echoed, pricking him like a blade and stopping his blood from cooling. He still felt jittery and on edge and it was so unlike him that he didn’t know what to do. Not even pulling on the raw edges of the fight with his cousin, he’d embarrassed himself rolling about in front of the dirt in front of his men, his superiors too. It settled layer upon layer, like the sand and dirt that coated him.
It was that hot shame that flowed through him, as he pushed past the canvas into Krysto’s tent, eyes searching the interior and bringing some sense of relief as they landed upon the familiar figure of his friend, and Achilleas realised in a rush that he was going to have to explain this.
For the lieutenant, it would be apparent right away that something was amiss with his friend. Aside from the bloodied lip and various other contusions that would no doubt paint a colourful picture when they bloomed fully, there was a wild, fevered look to the usually calm and collected man that Krysto knew. Even in battle, Achilleas was usually level headed, methodical in the way he fought. Not this overwrought, wound- up creature that arrived at his door.
The baron stepped fully inside the tent, not waiting for a greeting or invitation -again unusual - and then turned as if checking to ensure none had followed.
“Krysto, I..”
Achilleas stopped because he wasn’t even sure where to begin. He wanted confirmation, absolution or something from his friend, but that would mean telling him everything and he didn’t know how. This day had turned on its head and become something significant somehow. Restless, the blue gaze landed upon the lieutenant and then flitted away again, the Captain reaching up to wipe his hand across his mouth, the torn lip still bleeding freely and smearing garish streaks of crimson across his jaw.
“Fuck” he muttered, shaking his head and staring at the blood. He moved further inside, stalling for time as he tried to gather his scattered wits about him. Achilleas was breathing fast still, like he had run here instead of walked, and his head was beginning to pound with an ache. Had Steph hit him that hard? He didn’t even know.
“Can I..I need a drink..”
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Crossing the dusty, sandswept camp passed in a blur, and for once, a bloodied face did not draw any attention. There was blood here as a matter of course, the tents manned by the physicians were busy always with those injured in skirmishes with the Egyptians, or felled by the inhospitable and alien land they found themselves in.
Achilleas strode quickly, head down, instinct and habit steering him to where he knew his friend would be. Krysto served as lieutenant to the Mikaelidas Captain, his tent not far from Achilleas’ own, and it was there the man headed. He skirted around the Colchian end of the canvas city, not wanting to deal with Damocles right then. He needed space to think, to figure out what the hell had just happened.
The intensity of his own reaction had caught him off guard, how it had gone from that embarrassed explanation to...that. And Stephanos’ words still echoed, pricking him like a blade and stopping his blood from cooling. He still felt jittery and on edge and it was so unlike him that he didn’t know what to do. Not even pulling on the raw edges of the fight with his cousin, he’d embarrassed himself rolling about in front of the dirt in front of his men, his superiors too. It settled layer upon layer, like the sand and dirt that coated him.
It was that hot shame that flowed through him, as he pushed past the canvas into Krysto’s tent, eyes searching the interior and bringing some sense of relief as they landed upon the familiar figure of his friend, and Achilleas realised in a rush that he was going to have to explain this.
For the lieutenant, it would be apparent right away that something was amiss with his friend. Aside from the bloodied lip and various other contusions that would no doubt paint a colourful picture when they bloomed fully, there was a wild, fevered look to the usually calm and collected man that Krysto knew. Even in battle, Achilleas was usually level headed, methodical in the way he fought. Not this overwrought, wound- up creature that arrived at his door.
The baron stepped fully inside the tent, not waiting for a greeting or invitation -again unusual - and then turned as if checking to ensure none had followed.
“Krysto, I..”
Achilleas stopped because he wasn’t even sure where to begin. He wanted confirmation, absolution or something from his friend, but that would mean telling him everything and he didn’t know how. This day had turned on its head and become something significant somehow. Restless, the blue gaze landed upon the lieutenant and then flitted away again, the Captain reaching up to wipe his hand across his mouth, the torn lip still bleeding freely and smearing garish streaks of crimson across his jaw.
“Fuck” he muttered, shaking his head and staring at the blood. He moved further inside, stalling for time as he tried to gather his scattered wits about him. Achilleas was breathing fast still, like he had run here instead of walked, and his head was beginning to pound with an ache. Had Steph hit him that hard? He didn’t even know.
“Can I..I need a drink..”
Crossing the dusty, sandswept camp passed in a blur, and for once, a bloodied face did not draw any attention. There was blood here as a matter of course, the tents manned by the physicians were busy always with those injured in skirmishes with the Egyptians, or felled by the inhospitable and alien land they found themselves in.
Achilleas strode quickly, head down, instinct and habit steering him to where he knew his friend would be. Krysto served as lieutenant to the Mikaelidas Captain, his tent not far from Achilleas’ own, and it was there the man headed. He skirted around the Colchian end of the canvas city, not wanting to deal with Damocles right then. He needed space to think, to figure out what the hell had just happened.
The intensity of his own reaction had caught him off guard, how it had gone from that embarrassed explanation to...that. And Stephanos’ words still echoed, pricking him like a blade and stopping his blood from cooling. He still felt jittery and on edge and it was so unlike him that he didn’t know what to do. Not even pulling on the raw edges of the fight with his cousin, he’d embarrassed himself rolling about in front of the dirt in front of his men, his superiors too. It settled layer upon layer, like the sand and dirt that coated him.
It was that hot shame that flowed through him, as he pushed past the canvas into Krysto’s tent, eyes searching the interior and bringing some sense of relief as they landed upon the familiar figure of his friend, and Achilleas realised in a rush that he was going to have to explain this.
For the lieutenant, it would be apparent right away that something was amiss with his friend. Aside from the bloodied lip and various other contusions that would no doubt paint a colourful picture when they bloomed fully, there was a wild, fevered look to the usually calm and collected man that Krysto knew. Even in battle, Achilleas was usually level headed, methodical in the way he fought. Not this overwrought, wound- up creature that arrived at his door.
The baron stepped fully inside the tent, not waiting for a greeting or invitation -again unusual - and then turned as if checking to ensure none had followed.
“Krysto, I..”
Achilleas stopped because he wasn’t even sure where to begin. He wanted confirmation, absolution or something from his friend, but that would mean telling him everything and he didn’t know how. This day had turned on its head and become something significant somehow. Restless, the blue gaze landed upon the lieutenant and then flitted away again, the Captain reaching up to wipe his hand across his mouth, the torn lip still bleeding freely and smearing garish streaks of crimson across his jaw.
“Fuck” he muttered, shaking his head and staring at the blood. He moved further inside, stalling for time as he tried to gather his scattered wits about him. Achilleas was breathing fast still, like he had run here instead of walked, and his head was beginning to pound with an ache. Had Steph hit him that hard? He didn’t even know.
“Can I..I need a drink..”
These were one of the few moments of a day that he felt like he could get at least a bit of sleep. The constant rush of adrenaline that roared through Krysto's veins at almost every instance of a day while fighting this war made it difficult. But his heart had calmed down. His mind had quieted, and like many of the other men who suffered from the same issues, he had opted for a small nap.
Not that he'd even been able to get anywhere near sleep. As soon as he had closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift just the slightest bit, he was awake an alert in an instant. Someone had entered his tent without announcing themselves and the young man was immediately reaching under his rather flat pillow to grab for the knife that he had stowed underneath. Long before Achilleas announced himself, Krysto has sunk into some of the darker shadows, his heart racing out of his chest as he moved to head off whoever had come into his space without saying a word.
Brushing past one of the other folds of the tent right as Achilleas spoke, Krysto stood before him, holding his knife so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His dark curls were wild, his blue eyes almost shellshocked with the surprise of his best friend standing there. He didn't hide the fact that he had been debating attacking his intruder, not loosening his hold on his blade even an ounce.
Then he paused, slowly letting his hand drop to his side as his gaze lifted to Achilleas' forehead. "What the fuck happened to you?" were the first irritable words out of his mouth, his tone tired and his mind unsure if he was ready to deal with whatever this was. The young lieutenant reached to the side and dropped his blade on one fo the very small side tables that he had to use as some sort of storage. There was very little in the tent, and the addition of Achilleas almost made it feel crowded, though it could honestly fit at least three more Achilleas' inside before it really became a problem.
Achilleas stating that he needed a drink had Krysto's shoulders slumping slowly and he turned away to get both of them water to drink. Honestly, the man had found that wine just made him feel sick to his stomach in a battle while standing on these hot Egyptian sands. Bringing two goblets full of water back, he handed one to Achilleas and then downed his own in a few large gulps. "Why are you bleeding, Achilleas?" Krysto's tone was suspicious and he seemed unsure of what had brought his friend to his tent.
Thankfully, now he was fully awake and all thoughts of sleep had flown right out the top of his tent. While Achilleas drank his water, Krysto moved off to grab his pack with some of his own healing supplies inside. "Sit down," he then motioned to one of the small stools.
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These were one of the few moments of a day that he felt like he could get at least a bit of sleep. The constant rush of adrenaline that roared through Krysto's veins at almost every instance of a day while fighting this war made it difficult. But his heart had calmed down. His mind had quieted, and like many of the other men who suffered from the same issues, he had opted for a small nap.
Not that he'd even been able to get anywhere near sleep. As soon as he had closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift just the slightest bit, he was awake an alert in an instant. Someone had entered his tent without announcing themselves and the young man was immediately reaching under his rather flat pillow to grab for the knife that he had stowed underneath. Long before Achilleas announced himself, Krysto has sunk into some of the darker shadows, his heart racing out of his chest as he moved to head off whoever had come into his space without saying a word.
Brushing past one of the other folds of the tent right as Achilleas spoke, Krysto stood before him, holding his knife so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His dark curls were wild, his blue eyes almost shellshocked with the surprise of his best friend standing there. He didn't hide the fact that he had been debating attacking his intruder, not loosening his hold on his blade even an ounce.
Then he paused, slowly letting his hand drop to his side as his gaze lifted to Achilleas' forehead. "What the fuck happened to you?" were the first irritable words out of his mouth, his tone tired and his mind unsure if he was ready to deal with whatever this was. The young lieutenant reached to the side and dropped his blade on one fo the very small side tables that he had to use as some sort of storage. There was very little in the tent, and the addition of Achilleas almost made it feel crowded, though it could honestly fit at least three more Achilleas' inside before it really became a problem.
Achilleas stating that he needed a drink had Krysto's shoulders slumping slowly and he turned away to get both of them water to drink. Honestly, the man had found that wine just made him feel sick to his stomach in a battle while standing on these hot Egyptian sands. Bringing two goblets full of water back, he handed one to Achilleas and then downed his own in a few large gulps. "Why are you bleeding, Achilleas?" Krysto's tone was suspicious and he seemed unsure of what had brought his friend to his tent.
Thankfully, now he was fully awake and all thoughts of sleep had flown right out the top of his tent. While Achilleas drank his water, Krysto moved off to grab his pack with some of his own healing supplies inside. "Sit down," he then motioned to one of the small stools.
These were one of the few moments of a day that he felt like he could get at least a bit of sleep. The constant rush of adrenaline that roared through Krysto's veins at almost every instance of a day while fighting this war made it difficult. But his heart had calmed down. His mind had quieted, and like many of the other men who suffered from the same issues, he had opted for a small nap.
Not that he'd even been able to get anywhere near sleep. As soon as he had closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift just the slightest bit, he was awake an alert in an instant. Someone had entered his tent without announcing themselves and the young man was immediately reaching under his rather flat pillow to grab for the knife that he had stowed underneath. Long before Achilleas announced himself, Krysto has sunk into some of the darker shadows, his heart racing out of his chest as he moved to head off whoever had come into his space without saying a word.
Brushing past one of the other folds of the tent right as Achilleas spoke, Krysto stood before him, holding his knife so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His dark curls were wild, his blue eyes almost shellshocked with the surprise of his best friend standing there. He didn't hide the fact that he had been debating attacking his intruder, not loosening his hold on his blade even an ounce.
Then he paused, slowly letting his hand drop to his side as his gaze lifted to Achilleas' forehead. "What the fuck happened to you?" were the first irritable words out of his mouth, his tone tired and his mind unsure if he was ready to deal with whatever this was. The young lieutenant reached to the side and dropped his blade on one fo the very small side tables that he had to use as some sort of storage. There was very little in the tent, and the addition of Achilleas almost made it feel crowded, though it could honestly fit at least three more Achilleas' inside before it really became a problem.
Achilleas stating that he needed a drink had Krysto's shoulders slumping slowly and he turned away to get both of them water to drink. Honestly, the man had found that wine just made him feel sick to his stomach in a battle while standing on these hot Egyptian sands. Bringing two goblets full of water back, he handed one to Achilleas and then downed his own in a few large gulps. "Why are you bleeding, Achilleas?" Krysto's tone was suspicious and he seemed unsure of what had brought his friend to his tent.
Thankfully, now he was fully awake and all thoughts of sleep had flown right out the top of his tent. While Achilleas drank his water, Krysto moved off to grab his pack with some of his own healing supplies inside. "Sit down," he then motioned to one of the small stools.
If he had been more in his right mind, Achilleas would have known the foolishness in risking catching a soldier unawares. He would have made sure to announce his presence rather than bursting into the tent in a way that meant he could be seen as a threat. But he was hardly thinking rationally, and so when Krysto melted out of the shadows, blade brandished between them, the Mikaelidas man did little but stared at it blankly, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what it was doing there.
His gaze shifted from it up to the face of his friend, not really taking in how disheveled the other man looked and he didn’t know how to even begin to answer. So he didn’t, just threw out the request for a drink to buy himself some time and gods because he wanted one. The water that his friend returned with was not exactly what he had meant, and he blinked at it a moment before drinking it anyway. It helped a little, he didn’t realise how dry and parched his throat had become, though the split lip stung at the pull. Seeing him prodding at it, Krysto asked another question, and Achilleas knew he couldn’t stall anymore.
“I got into a fight with Steph” he said, eyes averted and roaming around the tent as if he might find anything else to focus on. He knew the why? would come, and dreaded it but needed it at the same time. His mind was reeling from everything, and as the adrenaline slowly began to wane, he was feeling bruised in more ways than one. Stephanos’ words had landed as hard as his fists, and such harsh judgment from one of his closest friends was hard to stomach, leaving slow churning nausea behind.
He wordlessly followed Krysto’s instruction to sit, leant forwards and put his head in his hands, fingers clenching in the dark curls that were in need of a cut once again. He knew that he needed to tell his friend what had happened, but found himself afraid now, afraid that he would see that same look upon Krysto’s face as he had upon his cousin’s.
The idea of weathering that same scorn and disapproval from the man across from him seemed unbearable and Achilleas shut his eyes for a moment, tried to slow his breathing which was still too fast, and attempted to ground himself. He could trust Krysto, couldn’t he?
The fact of the matter was though, that Achilleas had not trusted anyone. Not with knowledge of his relationship with Damocles. Coming to his best friend about it now, after being found out by someone else, well it felt almost like an insult in itself. Like a betrayal, only now he was asking his friend to tell him he hadn’t been as much of a fool as Stephanos had suggested, that he hadn’t risked so much.
“Krysto, I need to tell you something” The words were a little rushed, spoken towards the rush matting on the floor of the tent because Achilleas was yet to lift his head. And when he did, his expression was drawn tight with tension. “I don’t….I haven’t been...open about something with you and now..” The Mikaelidas lord swallowed and looked away “..now Stephanos knows and I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix it. Or if I even want to. The things he said to me.. I…”The words trailed off as Achilleas realised he was getting ahead of himself, as if he could just skip over the bit of the story that was the thing he’d kept from his friend. His best friend. But given that secret was the very reason for his quarrel with his cousin, the reason he could taste blood and feel it thudding out his pulse behind his eyes. He'd have to tell Krysto, and risk receiving the same reaction.
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If he had been more in his right mind, Achilleas would have known the foolishness in risking catching a soldier unawares. He would have made sure to announce his presence rather than bursting into the tent in a way that meant he could be seen as a threat. But he was hardly thinking rationally, and so when Krysto melted out of the shadows, blade brandished between them, the Mikaelidas man did little but stared at it blankly, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what it was doing there.
His gaze shifted from it up to the face of his friend, not really taking in how disheveled the other man looked and he didn’t know how to even begin to answer. So he didn’t, just threw out the request for a drink to buy himself some time and gods because he wanted one. The water that his friend returned with was not exactly what he had meant, and he blinked at it a moment before drinking it anyway. It helped a little, he didn’t realise how dry and parched his throat had become, though the split lip stung at the pull. Seeing him prodding at it, Krysto asked another question, and Achilleas knew he couldn’t stall anymore.
“I got into a fight with Steph” he said, eyes averted and roaming around the tent as if he might find anything else to focus on. He knew the why? would come, and dreaded it but needed it at the same time. His mind was reeling from everything, and as the adrenaline slowly began to wane, he was feeling bruised in more ways than one. Stephanos’ words had landed as hard as his fists, and such harsh judgment from one of his closest friends was hard to stomach, leaving slow churning nausea behind.
He wordlessly followed Krysto’s instruction to sit, leant forwards and put his head in his hands, fingers clenching in the dark curls that were in need of a cut once again. He knew that he needed to tell his friend what had happened, but found himself afraid now, afraid that he would see that same look upon Krysto’s face as he had upon his cousin’s.
The idea of weathering that same scorn and disapproval from the man across from him seemed unbearable and Achilleas shut his eyes for a moment, tried to slow his breathing which was still too fast, and attempted to ground himself. He could trust Krysto, couldn’t he?
The fact of the matter was though, that Achilleas had not trusted anyone. Not with knowledge of his relationship with Damocles. Coming to his best friend about it now, after being found out by someone else, well it felt almost like an insult in itself. Like a betrayal, only now he was asking his friend to tell him he hadn’t been as much of a fool as Stephanos had suggested, that he hadn’t risked so much.
“Krysto, I need to tell you something” The words were a little rushed, spoken towards the rush matting on the floor of the tent because Achilleas was yet to lift his head. And when he did, his expression was drawn tight with tension. “I don’t….I haven’t been...open about something with you and now..” The Mikaelidas lord swallowed and looked away “..now Stephanos knows and I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix it. Or if I even want to. The things he said to me.. I…”The words trailed off as Achilleas realised he was getting ahead of himself, as if he could just skip over the bit of the story that was the thing he’d kept from his friend. His best friend. But given that secret was the very reason for his quarrel with his cousin, the reason he could taste blood and feel it thudding out his pulse behind his eyes. He'd have to tell Krysto, and risk receiving the same reaction.
If he had been more in his right mind, Achilleas would have known the foolishness in risking catching a soldier unawares. He would have made sure to announce his presence rather than bursting into the tent in a way that meant he could be seen as a threat. But he was hardly thinking rationally, and so when Krysto melted out of the shadows, blade brandished between them, the Mikaelidas man did little but stared at it blankly, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what it was doing there.
His gaze shifted from it up to the face of his friend, not really taking in how disheveled the other man looked and he didn’t know how to even begin to answer. So he didn’t, just threw out the request for a drink to buy himself some time and gods because he wanted one. The water that his friend returned with was not exactly what he had meant, and he blinked at it a moment before drinking it anyway. It helped a little, he didn’t realise how dry and parched his throat had become, though the split lip stung at the pull. Seeing him prodding at it, Krysto asked another question, and Achilleas knew he couldn’t stall anymore.
“I got into a fight with Steph” he said, eyes averted and roaming around the tent as if he might find anything else to focus on. He knew the why? would come, and dreaded it but needed it at the same time. His mind was reeling from everything, and as the adrenaline slowly began to wane, he was feeling bruised in more ways than one. Stephanos’ words had landed as hard as his fists, and such harsh judgment from one of his closest friends was hard to stomach, leaving slow churning nausea behind.
He wordlessly followed Krysto’s instruction to sit, leant forwards and put his head in his hands, fingers clenching in the dark curls that were in need of a cut once again. He knew that he needed to tell his friend what had happened, but found himself afraid now, afraid that he would see that same look upon Krysto’s face as he had upon his cousin’s.
The idea of weathering that same scorn and disapproval from the man across from him seemed unbearable and Achilleas shut his eyes for a moment, tried to slow his breathing which was still too fast, and attempted to ground himself. He could trust Krysto, couldn’t he?
The fact of the matter was though, that Achilleas had not trusted anyone. Not with knowledge of his relationship with Damocles. Coming to his best friend about it now, after being found out by someone else, well it felt almost like an insult in itself. Like a betrayal, only now he was asking his friend to tell him he hadn’t been as much of a fool as Stephanos had suggested, that he hadn’t risked so much.
“Krysto, I need to tell you something” The words were a little rushed, spoken towards the rush matting on the floor of the tent because Achilleas was yet to lift his head. And when he did, his expression was drawn tight with tension. “I don’t….I haven’t been...open about something with you and now..” The Mikaelidas lord swallowed and looked away “..now Stephanos knows and I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix it. Or if I even want to. The things he said to me.. I…”The words trailed off as Achilleas realised he was getting ahead of himself, as if he could just skip over the bit of the story that was the thing he’d kept from his friend. His best friend. But given that secret was the very reason for his quarrel with his cousin, the reason he could taste blood and feel it thudding out his pulse behind his eyes. He'd have to tell Krysto, and risk receiving the same reaction.
Krysto wanted to make some snide comment about the face that Achilleas made over being given water rather than wine, but he decidedly didn't. Even Krysto recognized that he was simply tired and biting his friend's head off when he clearly needed help was not going to do either one of them any good at all. Blinking tiredly, Krysto immediately moved to pull another stool into the vicinity of his friend, sinking down onto it and reaching out so that he could force Achilleas to look at him once the man tried to hide his face.
Achilleas was not a weird man, but he was acting weird now. Usually, he could be overwhelmed by his emotions, and that was not a bad thing in the slightest, though it often ensured that Krysto was there to give some sort of verbal affirmations to the young man when he needed them. They were still young, still kids, really. Barely into their twenties and with the future of their Kingdom hanging heavily on their shoulders.
"Why does that not surprise me?" Krysto yawned a bit, dropping his knife into the sand now and watching Achilleas closely. "What happened for you to get into a fight with Stephanos this time?" he asked at first but found his initial question completely overtaken by Achilleas' next comment about needing to tell him something. What was so big that Achilleas had never told Krysto in the first place? Weren't they close enough to tell one another everything? At least, that was Krysto's train of thought.
Not wanting to seem guarded and spook Achilleas, inevitably sending him barrelling out of Krysto's tent, the young man kept his expression open and contemplative. He should have expected that Stephanos would be told before him, anyway. They were cousins and that was probably how the natural order of things should have gone. But the mere idea that Achilleas was hiding something from Krysto was what stung. Clearing his throat, Krysto lifted both of his hands and motioned to Achilleas before him. "What is so bad that Stephanos flew off the handle, Achilleas?" he finally asked, not wanting the man to keep digging his metaphorical grave.
"What did he say to you?" and he wanted to ask if he should teach Stephanos a lesson, but it was hard to ask that when the man in question was a prince and you were not. "Just come out and say it, please. I'm too tired to decipher code or puzzles."
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Krysto wanted to make some snide comment about the face that Achilleas made over being given water rather than wine, but he decidedly didn't. Even Krysto recognized that he was simply tired and biting his friend's head off when he clearly needed help was not going to do either one of them any good at all. Blinking tiredly, Krysto immediately moved to pull another stool into the vicinity of his friend, sinking down onto it and reaching out so that he could force Achilleas to look at him once the man tried to hide his face.
Achilleas was not a weird man, but he was acting weird now. Usually, he could be overwhelmed by his emotions, and that was not a bad thing in the slightest, though it often ensured that Krysto was there to give some sort of verbal affirmations to the young man when he needed them. They were still young, still kids, really. Barely into their twenties and with the future of their Kingdom hanging heavily on their shoulders.
"Why does that not surprise me?" Krysto yawned a bit, dropping his knife into the sand now and watching Achilleas closely. "What happened for you to get into a fight with Stephanos this time?" he asked at first but found his initial question completely overtaken by Achilleas' next comment about needing to tell him something. What was so big that Achilleas had never told Krysto in the first place? Weren't they close enough to tell one another everything? At least, that was Krysto's train of thought.
Not wanting to seem guarded and spook Achilleas, inevitably sending him barrelling out of Krysto's tent, the young man kept his expression open and contemplative. He should have expected that Stephanos would be told before him, anyway. They were cousins and that was probably how the natural order of things should have gone. But the mere idea that Achilleas was hiding something from Krysto was what stung. Clearing his throat, Krysto lifted both of his hands and motioned to Achilleas before him. "What is so bad that Stephanos flew off the handle, Achilleas?" he finally asked, not wanting the man to keep digging his metaphorical grave.
"What did he say to you?" and he wanted to ask if he should teach Stephanos a lesson, but it was hard to ask that when the man in question was a prince and you were not. "Just come out and say it, please. I'm too tired to decipher code or puzzles."
Krysto wanted to make some snide comment about the face that Achilleas made over being given water rather than wine, but he decidedly didn't. Even Krysto recognized that he was simply tired and biting his friend's head off when he clearly needed help was not going to do either one of them any good at all. Blinking tiredly, Krysto immediately moved to pull another stool into the vicinity of his friend, sinking down onto it and reaching out so that he could force Achilleas to look at him once the man tried to hide his face.
Achilleas was not a weird man, but he was acting weird now. Usually, he could be overwhelmed by his emotions, and that was not a bad thing in the slightest, though it often ensured that Krysto was there to give some sort of verbal affirmations to the young man when he needed them. They were still young, still kids, really. Barely into their twenties and with the future of their Kingdom hanging heavily on their shoulders.
"Why does that not surprise me?" Krysto yawned a bit, dropping his knife into the sand now and watching Achilleas closely. "What happened for you to get into a fight with Stephanos this time?" he asked at first but found his initial question completely overtaken by Achilleas' next comment about needing to tell him something. What was so big that Achilleas had never told Krysto in the first place? Weren't they close enough to tell one another everything? At least, that was Krysto's train of thought.
Not wanting to seem guarded and spook Achilleas, inevitably sending him barrelling out of Krysto's tent, the young man kept his expression open and contemplative. He should have expected that Stephanos would be told before him, anyway. They were cousins and that was probably how the natural order of things should have gone. But the mere idea that Achilleas was hiding something from Krysto was what stung. Clearing his throat, Krysto lifted both of his hands and motioned to Achilleas before him. "What is so bad that Stephanos flew off the handle, Achilleas?" he finally asked, not wanting the man to keep digging his metaphorical grave.
"What did he say to you?" and he wanted to ask if he should teach Stephanos a lesson, but it was hard to ask that when the man in question was a prince and you were not. "Just come out and say it, please. I'm too tired to decipher code or puzzles."
Krysto’s hand nudging his chin up wasn’t welcome: it wouldn’t be any easier to have this conversation whilst looking at him. And when his gaze did settle on his friend, it slid away again quickly. He didn’t understand. This wasn’t some silly squabble like the ones that usually fell between Achilleas and his cousin. It wouldn’t be forgotten by tomorrow, they wouldn’t laugh and poke fun at each other’s bruises. It was different. Steph’s words had hit Achilleas in a way he had never expected to be hit, and so he had lashed out. He hadn’t been in control then, he barely felt he was now. It wasn’t like any old fight.
But Krysto, having grown up with their mostly good-natured quarrelling, wasn’t following, that much was clear and Achilleas looked at him again helplessly. So many questions. He was trying to explain but the words stuck in his throat and he didn’t know how to start, where to begin. With a frustrated sigh, he tried to figure out how to frame it so it would make some sense, so Krysto wouldn’t think him the fool that Stephanos did and, rising abruptly, he was pacing off his agitation again, frenetic energy too large for the small space they were in.
It was his friend’s pragmatic request that finally cut through some on the panic and the man ceased his pacing, nodded. He could do this. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Pausing as his steps brought him up close to the canvas wall again, Achilleas let his head drop, rasped a long breath that saw his shoulders drop with it. There was no getting around this next part.
“There is...the Colchian Captain, Damocles?” Saying his name made Achilleas’ stomach twist with apprehension at what was to follow. “He has come to be more than a friend to me, Krysto.” He phrased it the only way he knew how, his expression saying more as he chanced a look over at his friend:: brows drawn low, a furrow between them. “ I didn’t intend for it to happen. You know me, I haven’t ever…”
The words trailed off as Achilleas turned properly to face his friend, searching his face and almost afraid of what he might see there. As much as Stephanos’ reaction had taken him aback, he knew he risked just as much now and it wasn’t a pleasant understanding. “Steph he.. Walked in on something and then when I went after him he…”
Breaking off, Achilleas realised he didn’t want to relay the things Stephanos had said to him and he lapsed into silence once more, waiting for some reaction that would let him know if Krysto was going to make him feel better or a hell of a lot worse about what had happened.
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Krysto’s hand nudging his chin up wasn’t welcome: it wouldn’t be any easier to have this conversation whilst looking at him. And when his gaze did settle on his friend, it slid away again quickly. He didn’t understand. This wasn’t some silly squabble like the ones that usually fell between Achilleas and his cousin. It wouldn’t be forgotten by tomorrow, they wouldn’t laugh and poke fun at each other’s bruises. It was different. Steph’s words had hit Achilleas in a way he had never expected to be hit, and so he had lashed out. He hadn’t been in control then, he barely felt he was now. It wasn’t like any old fight.
But Krysto, having grown up with their mostly good-natured quarrelling, wasn’t following, that much was clear and Achilleas looked at him again helplessly. So many questions. He was trying to explain but the words stuck in his throat and he didn’t know how to start, where to begin. With a frustrated sigh, he tried to figure out how to frame it so it would make some sense, so Krysto wouldn’t think him the fool that Stephanos did and, rising abruptly, he was pacing off his agitation again, frenetic energy too large for the small space they were in.
It was his friend’s pragmatic request that finally cut through some on the panic and the man ceased his pacing, nodded. He could do this. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Pausing as his steps brought him up close to the canvas wall again, Achilleas let his head drop, rasped a long breath that saw his shoulders drop with it. There was no getting around this next part.
“There is...the Colchian Captain, Damocles?” Saying his name made Achilleas’ stomach twist with apprehension at what was to follow. “He has come to be more than a friend to me, Krysto.” He phrased it the only way he knew how, his expression saying more as he chanced a look over at his friend:: brows drawn low, a furrow between them. “ I didn’t intend for it to happen. You know me, I haven’t ever…”
The words trailed off as Achilleas turned properly to face his friend, searching his face and almost afraid of what he might see there. As much as Stephanos’ reaction had taken him aback, he knew he risked just as much now and it wasn’t a pleasant understanding. “Steph he.. Walked in on something and then when I went after him he…”
Breaking off, Achilleas realised he didn’t want to relay the things Stephanos had said to him and he lapsed into silence once more, waiting for some reaction that would let him know if Krysto was going to make him feel better or a hell of a lot worse about what had happened.
Krysto’s hand nudging his chin up wasn’t welcome: it wouldn’t be any easier to have this conversation whilst looking at him. And when his gaze did settle on his friend, it slid away again quickly. He didn’t understand. This wasn’t some silly squabble like the ones that usually fell between Achilleas and his cousin. It wouldn’t be forgotten by tomorrow, they wouldn’t laugh and poke fun at each other’s bruises. It was different. Steph’s words had hit Achilleas in a way he had never expected to be hit, and so he had lashed out. He hadn’t been in control then, he barely felt he was now. It wasn’t like any old fight.
But Krysto, having grown up with their mostly good-natured quarrelling, wasn’t following, that much was clear and Achilleas looked at him again helplessly. So many questions. He was trying to explain but the words stuck in his throat and he didn’t know how to start, where to begin. With a frustrated sigh, he tried to figure out how to frame it so it would make some sense, so Krysto wouldn’t think him the fool that Stephanos did and, rising abruptly, he was pacing off his agitation again, frenetic energy too large for the small space they were in.
It was his friend’s pragmatic request that finally cut through some on the panic and the man ceased his pacing, nodded. He could do this. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Pausing as his steps brought him up close to the canvas wall again, Achilleas let his head drop, rasped a long breath that saw his shoulders drop with it. There was no getting around this next part.
“There is...the Colchian Captain, Damocles?” Saying his name made Achilleas’ stomach twist with apprehension at what was to follow. “He has come to be more than a friend to me, Krysto.” He phrased it the only way he knew how, his expression saying more as he chanced a look over at his friend:: brows drawn low, a furrow between them. “ I didn’t intend for it to happen. You know me, I haven’t ever…”
The words trailed off as Achilleas turned properly to face his friend, searching his face and almost afraid of what he might see there. As much as Stephanos’ reaction had taken him aback, he knew he risked just as much now and it wasn’t a pleasant understanding. “Steph he.. Walked in on something and then when I went after him he…”
Breaking off, Achilleas realised he didn’t want to relay the things Stephanos had said to him and he lapsed into silence once more, waiting for some reaction that would let him know if Krysto was going to make him feel better or a hell of a lot worse about what had happened.
Gods above, he was exhausted. But he wasn't the type to just shove off his best friend's concerns. Especially when it seemed like Achilleas might implode if he said nothing at all. Rubbing his hands along the top of his head in an effort to bring himself more into the waking realm, he thought about the knife that he had nearly stabbed Achilleas with. This place was a place that instilled terrible paranoia in him and that was unsettling on its own. But Achilleas' cryptic tendencies did not help either, and Krysto found himself squinting tiredly into the dim light of the tent when Achilleas bolted upright and started to pace.
The child in him wanted to huff and sigh his irritation, but that was not who he was or ever appeared to be. Calm, contemplative, tactful, Krysto remained quiet and still, only his gaze following his friend as he paced about the too-small tent, looking a little too large for such a small space. The young Captain wasn't sure what he was supposed to be listening to, or what he supposed he was going to hear as an admission from Achilleas' mouth.
But he certainly hadn't expected Achilleas to admit that he'd been sleeping with Captain Damocles. For a moment, Krysto just stared at his friend, letting the words sink in. Was it strange? Not entirely. Greeks weren't known for being entirely prudish or homophobic. It certainly wasn't widely spoken about, but it also wasn't taboo to sleep with a man if that was what you ached for. Attraction was such an odd thing, and when you were around only men for months at a time, sometimes needs had to be sated.
Knowing the culture upon with the Greeks had been formed, Krysto could both see why Stephanos had flown off the handle, though he didn't understand it entirely. Was it because it was thought to be beneath Achilleas? Or just because it had never been expected of him to drift in the direction of a man's arms? Either way, Krysto really had no opinion, and he didn't grow angry or irritated at the admission of guilt over something that really shouldn't have made Achilleas guilty at all.
"I do know you," Krysto said lightly, "And you follow your heart in most things. What you did isn't wrong and Stephanos still needs a lesson in keeping his nose out of everyone else's business," the captain rubbed at his forehead and shrugged his shoulders at Achilleas. "If you're afraid that I'm going to fly off the handle at you, I can tell you right now I don't care if you slept with the King of Colchis or a random Captain in his army. It never really has been my business who you sleep with and I can see why there is an allure to have good human contact when we spend our days warring against men we don't know upon sands that are not our own," Krysto hummed.
"So can you sit down so I can look at your face?" he finally did huff about it, "It looks awful and I'm wondering if I have to set your nose or not."
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Gods above, he was exhausted. But he wasn't the type to just shove off his best friend's concerns. Especially when it seemed like Achilleas might implode if he said nothing at all. Rubbing his hands along the top of his head in an effort to bring himself more into the waking realm, he thought about the knife that he had nearly stabbed Achilleas with. This place was a place that instilled terrible paranoia in him and that was unsettling on its own. But Achilleas' cryptic tendencies did not help either, and Krysto found himself squinting tiredly into the dim light of the tent when Achilleas bolted upright and started to pace.
The child in him wanted to huff and sigh his irritation, but that was not who he was or ever appeared to be. Calm, contemplative, tactful, Krysto remained quiet and still, only his gaze following his friend as he paced about the too-small tent, looking a little too large for such a small space. The young Captain wasn't sure what he was supposed to be listening to, or what he supposed he was going to hear as an admission from Achilleas' mouth.
But he certainly hadn't expected Achilleas to admit that he'd been sleeping with Captain Damocles. For a moment, Krysto just stared at his friend, letting the words sink in. Was it strange? Not entirely. Greeks weren't known for being entirely prudish or homophobic. It certainly wasn't widely spoken about, but it also wasn't taboo to sleep with a man if that was what you ached for. Attraction was such an odd thing, and when you were around only men for months at a time, sometimes needs had to be sated.
Knowing the culture upon with the Greeks had been formed, Krysto could both see why Stephanos had flown off the handle, though he didn't understand it entirely. Was it because it was thought to be beneath Achilleas? Or just because it had never been expected of him to drift in the direction of a man's arms? Either way, Krysto really had no opinion, and he didn't grow angry or irritated at the admission of guilt over something that really shouldn't have made Achilleas guilty at all.
"I do know you," Krysto said lightly, "And you follow your heart in most things. What you did isn't wrong and Stephanos still needs a lesson in keeping his nose out of everyone else's business," the captain rubbed at his forehead and shrugged his shoulders at Achilleas. "If you're afraid that I'm going to fly off the handle at you, I can tell you right now I don't care if you slept with the King of Colchis or a random Captain in his army. It never really has been my business who you sleep with and I can see why there is an allure to have good human contact when we spend our days warring against men we don't know upon sands that are not our own," Krysto hummed.
"So can you sit down so I can look at your face?" he finally did huff about it, "It looks awful and I'm wondering if I have to set your nose or not."
Gods above, he was exhausted. But he wasn't the type to just shove off his best friend's concerns. Especially when it seemed like Achilleas might implode if he said nothing at all. Rubbing his hands along the top of his head in an effort to bring himself more into the waking realm, he thought about the knife that he had nearly stabbed Achilleas with. This place was a place that instilled terrible paranoia in him and that was unsettling on its own. But Achilleas' cryptic tendencies did not help either, and Krysto found himself squinting tiredly into the dim light of the tent when Achilleas bolted upright and started to pace.
The child in him wanted to huff and sigh his irritation, but that was not who he was or ever appeared to be. Calm, contemplative, tactful, Krysto remained quiet and still, only his gaze following his friend as he paced about the too-small tent, looking a little too large for such a small space. The young Captain wasn't sure what he was supposed to be listening to, or what he supposed he was going to hear as an admission from Achilleas' mouth.
But he certainly hadn't expected Achilleas to admit that he'd been sleeping with Captain Damocles. For a moment, Krysto just stared at his friend, letting the words sink in. Was it strange? Not entirely. Greeks weren't known for being entirely prudish or homophobic. It certainly wasn't widely spoken about, but it also wasn't taboo to sleep with a man if that was what you ached for. Attraction was such an odd thing, and when you were around only men for months at a time, sometimes needs had to be sated.
Knowing the culture upon with the Greeks had been formed, Krysto could both see why Stephanos had flown off the handle, though he didn't understand it entirely. Was it because it was thought to be beneath Achilleas? Or just because it had never been expected of him to drift in the direction of a man's arms? Either way, Krysto really had no opinion, and he didn't grow angry or irritated at the admission of guilt over something that really shouldn't have made Achilleas guilty at all.
"I do know you," Krysto said lightly, "And you follow your heart in most things. What you did isn't wrong and Stephanos still needs a lesson in keeping his nose out of everyone else's business," the captain rubbed at his forehead and shrugged his shoulders at Achilleas. "If you're afraid that I'm going to fly off the handle at you, I can tell you right now I don't care if you slept with the King of Colchis or a random Captain in his army. It never really has been my business who you sleep with and I can see why there is an allure to have good human contact when we spend our days warring against men we don't know upon sands that are not our own," Krysto hummed.
"So can you sit down so I can look at your face?" he finally did huff about it, "It looks awful and I'm wondering if I have to set your nose or not."
Krysto had been his friend for over a decade now since they were both scrape-kneed boys picking up a practice sword and learning to swing it properly. Achilleas hadn’t really understood the things that divided them then, the royal blood that set his path apart. But even as they had grown, spindly-legged children into strapping young men, their differences had not been enough to shake the friendship that had formed.
Krysto, more easy-going than the Captain he served, knew Achilleas well enough to push him when it was needed, but also to let him be when the lord’s natural introversion required it. He was level-headed and thoughtful in a way that the Mikealidas heir could appreciate, and whilst Krysto was more than happy to kick back and raise hell when the situation allowed, he had diligence and discipline that made it easy for Achilleas to trust him. The years had seen them through enough scrapes with one another that there were few secrets between them, and though they could claim no blood ties, there was no doubt, in Achilleas’ mind at least, that they were brothers.
Which was why, Achilleas realised as he scrutinised his friend’s face for even the barest hint of what he was thinking, Krysto’s opinion mattered to him so much. He and Stephanos were his closest friends, and having been left with no doubt as to his cousin’s opinion, an awful lot was riding on whatever the Euttican soldier would say next. If he were to show the same scorn that the prince had then Achilleas didn’t know what he would do. He caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth as he awaited a reaction, biting just hard enough to keep his nerves from carrying him off. And then Krysto was talking and the Mikaelidas lord felt some of the tension flood out of him like the release of a breath.
Okay, this was okay. He hadn’t fucked everything up so terribly
For a moment, Achilleas stared across at his friend, so calm and matter of fact and he wanted to hug him, to pull him in and anchor himself to that steadiness that was Krysto, to express the overwhelming rush of affection he felt toward the other at that moment. But he had never been that demonstrative and he thought he’d done enough to prove himself a madman in the past minutes, and so instead Achilleas gave a shaky exhale and did as he was told, moving back towards the small stool and letting himself flop onto it like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He let Krysto poke and prod at his face as he wanted to, only jerking back a little when he pressed on a tender spot and waited until his friend had turned away to gather lint and clean water to speak.
“Stephanos thinks I am an embarrassment to Taengea,” he said, the words etched clearly with the hurt that accompanied them. “That because of who my father is I shouldn’t ..ow, fuck Krysto!” He stopped long enough to shoot an outraged look at the lieutenant, wondering how he hadn’t been feeling it before now when such a ginger touch from the physician’s son had him feeling slightly nauseous.
“He’s wrong isn’t he?” Achilleas pressed at one of the less visible and yet more painful wounds from the confrontation with his cousin. “ I’ve been being discreet. I haven’t done anything that others haven’t done. I’m not some…” the words trailed off and the lord dropped his head. His arguments would carry more weight were it not for the fact that he was not like everyone else. Stephanos might have been vulgar in his wording but the fact of the matter was, he had spoken straight to the heart of Achilleas’ fears, the very reason he snuck around and irritated his lover by his insistence that no one knew of their relations. “Do you think I am being stupid?” he asked finally, trusting Krysto to tell him the truth.
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Krysto had been his friend for over a decade now since they were both scrape-kneed boys picking up a practice sword and learning to swing it properly. Achilleas hadn’t really understood the things that divided them then, the royal blood that set his path apart. But even as they had grown, spindly-legged children into strapping young men, their differences had not been enough to shake the friendship that had formed.
Krysto, more easy-going than the Captain he served, knew Achilleas well enough to push him when it was needed, but also to let him be when the lord’s natural introversion required it. He was level-headed and thoughtful in a way that the Mikealidas heir could appreciate, and whilst Krysto was more than happy to kick back and raise hell when the situation allowed, he had diligence and discipline that made it easy for Achilleas to trust him. The years had seen them through enough scrapes with one another that there were few secrets between them, and though they could claim no blood ties, there was no doubt, in Achilleas’ mind at least, that they were brothers.
Which was why, Achilleas realised as he scrutinised his friend’s face for even the barest hint of what he was thinking, Krysto’s opinion mattered to him so much. He and Stephanos were his closest friends, and having been left with no doubt as to his cousin’s opinion, an awful lot was riding on whatever the Euttican soldier would say next. If he were to show the same scorn that the prince had then Achilleas didn’t know what he would do. He caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth as he awaited a reaction, biting just hard enough to keep his nerves from carrying him off. And then Krysto was talking and the Mikaelidas lord felt some of the tension flood out of him like the release of a breath.
Okay, this was okay. He hadn’t fucked everything up so terribly
For a moment, Achilleas stared across at his friend, so calm and matter of fact and he wanted to hug him, to pull him in and anchor himself to that steadiness that was Krysto, to express the overwhelming rush of affection he felt toward the other at that moment. But he had never been that demonstrative and he thought he’d done enough to prove himself a madman in the past minutes, and so instead Achilleas gave a shaky exhale and did as he was told, moving back towards the small stool and letting himself flop onto it like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He let Krysto poke and prod at his face as he wanted to, only jerking back a little when he pressed on a tender spot and waited until his friend had turned away to gather lint and clean water to speak.
“Stephanos thinks I am an embarrassment to Taengea,” he said, the words etched clearly with the hurt that accompanied them. “That because of who my father is I shouldn’t ..ow, fuck Krysto!” He stopped long enough to shoot an outraged look at the lieutenant, wondering how he hadn’t been feeling it before now when such a ginger touch from the physician’s son had him feeling slightly nauseous.
“He’s wrong isn’t he?” Achilleas pressed at one of the less visible and yet more painful wounds from the confrontation with his cousin. “ I’ve been being discreet. I haven’t done anything that others haven’t done. I’m not some…” the words trailed off and the lord dropped his head. His arguments would carry more weight were it not for the fact that he was not like everyone else. Stephanos might have been vulgar in his wording but the fact of the matter was, he had spoken straight to the heart of Achilleas’ fears, the very reason he snuck around and irritated his lover by his insistence that no one knew of their relations. “Do you think I am being stupid?” he asked finally, trusting Krysto to tell him the truth.
Krysto had been his friend for over a decade now since they were both scrape-kneed boys picking up a practice sword and learning to swing it properly. Achilleas hadn’t really understood the things that divided them then, the royal blood that set his path apart. But even as they had grown, spindly-legged children into strapping young men, their differences had not been enough to shake the friendship that had formed.
Krysto, more easy-going than the Captain he served, knew Achilleas well enough to push him when it was needed, but also to let him be when the lord’s natural introversion required it. He was level-headed and thoughtful in a way that the Mikealidas heir could appreciate, and whilst Krysto was more than happy to kick back and raise hell when the situation allowed, he had diligence and discipline that made it easy for Achilleas to trust him. The years had seen them through enough scrapes with one another that there were few secrets between them, and though they could claim no blood ties, there was no doubt, in Achilleas’ mind at least, that they were brothers.
Which was why, Achilleas realised as he scrutinised his friend’s face for even the barest hint of what he was thinking, Krysto’s opinion mattered to him so much. He and Stephanos were his closest friends, and having been left with no doubt as to his cousin’s opinion, an awful lot was riding on whatever the Euttican soldier would say next. If he were to show the same scorn that the prince had then Achilleas didn’t know what he would do. He caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth as he awaited a reaction, biting just hard enough to keep his nerves from carrying him off. And then Krysto was talking and the Mikaelidas lord felt some of the tension flood out of him like the release of a breath.
Okay, this was okay. He hadn’t fucked everything up so terribly
For a moment, Achilleas stared across at his friend, so calm and matter of fact and he wanted to hug him, to pull him in and anchor himself to that steadiness that was Krysto, to express the overwhelming rush of affection he felt toward the other at that moment. But he had never been that demonstrative and he thought he’d done enough to prove himself a madman in the past minutes, and so instead Achilleas gave a shaky exhale and did as he was told, moving back towards the small stool and letting himself flop onto it like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He let Krysto poke and prod at his face as he wanted to, only jerking back a little when he pressed on a tender spot and waited until his friend had turned away to gather lint and clean water to speak.
“Stephanos thinks I am an embarrassment to Taengea,” he said, the words etched clearly with the hurt that accompanied them. “That because of who my father is I shouldn’t ..ow, fuck Krysto!” He stopped long enough to shoot an outraged look at the lieutenant, wondering how he hadn’t been feeling it before now when such a ginger touch from the physician’s son had him feeling slightly nauseous.
“He’s wrong isn’t he?” Achilleas pressed at one of the less visible and yet more painful wounds from the confrontation with his cousin. “ I’ve been being discreet. I haven’t done anything that others haven’t done. I’m not some…” the words trailed off and the lord dropped his head. His arguments would carry more weight were it not for the fact that he was not like everyone else. Stephanos might have been vulgar in his wording but the fact of the matter was, he had spoken straight to the heart of Achilleas’ fears, the very reason he snuck around and irritated his lover by his insistence that no one knew of their relations. “Do you think I am being stupid?” he asked finally, trusting Krysto to tell him the truth.
There was a lot of affection between the two men despite their generally distanced demeanor. There were times when they were sparring, sweaty and breathless when they simply hugged it out once the irritation set in. Krysto had never beat Achilleas in a fight but he'd gotten close. Once or twice. If any two people were more attached at the hip than the two of them had been for years, even at a distance, Krysto would call out their bullshit. It was rare to find the kind of friendship in someone that the two men had found in one another. Achilleas was quiet and reserved, Krysto was somewhat warm but distrusting nearly everyone around them that wasn't just the two of them.
He had even less reason to trust Stephanos now. It wasn't as if he truly trusted Stephanos in the first place; the man had a penchant for throwing Krysto's name around where it didn't belong and it sometimes got him into trouble. Infuriating even though it was a prank, Krysto had had to be held back once or twice from attempting to lay the prince out for something that Krysto rightfully deserved retribution. Even now, seeing Achilleas' dejected expression, his frustration at being rejected by his own cousin, it made Krysto consider that he might be able to catch the prince off guard. Even in the middle of the day.
Krysto moved about the small tent to grab his supplies and settled back down in front of Achilleas, observing and prodding at the man's face so that he could see what needed done. His nose wasn't broken, thankfully. That was one pain that the lord wouldn't have to endure today and hopefully not after any battle, either. So he worked at patting the man's few scrapes to remove the blood, his brows furrowed in silent concentration.
It was Stephanos' words from Achilleas' mouth that had Krysto meeting Achilleas' gaze again. There was unhindered agitation there. A want to march out of this tent and give the prince a piece of his mind. But it would look bad of them to suffer infighting, so he simply didn't. Gritting his teeth a moment, Krysto simply gathered his thoughts. Honestly, those were cheap words from Stephanos considering the prince sometimes found worse trouble than a momentary tumble with a Colchian soldier. Krysto could remember Stephanos scrubbing the stones of the Taengean streets as punishment. He sighed deeply through his nose.
"He thinks that because your father openly spurns his wife and carts his mistress around instead that you are a bad person? Even though, no offense, but both actions by both parties are abnormal?" Krysto asked, humor actually lacing his voice. "What you've done is a lot less harmful to your family and station than the activities your father takes up. Being a prince doesn't give him licence to be an absolute prat. Someone should tell Stephanos that, too," Krysto murmured, shaking his head, his blue eyes dark with continued irritation.
"When is Stephanos ever right about anything philosophical?" Krysto muttered at his friend, his dark brows furrowing sharply. "The fact that I had no clue just means you've been doing what you should have. Just because Stephanos doesn't know how to announce himself and just walks in where he's not invited doesn't mean that you're some disgrace to Taengea. No, I don't think you're being stupid," Krysto finally huffed, "Except that you talking makes it really hard to take care of your face. Shush."
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There was a lot of affection between the two men despite their generally distanced demeanor. There were times when they were sparring, sweaty and breathless when they simply hugged it out once the irritation set in. Krysto had never beat Achilleas in a fight but he'd gotten close. Once or twice. If any two people were more attached at the hip than the two of them had been for years, even at a distance, Krysto would call out their bullshit. It was rare to find the kind of friendship in someone that the two men had found in one another. Achilleas was quiet and reserved, Krysto was somewhat warm but distrusting nearly everyone around them that wasn't just the two of them.
He had even less reason to trust Stephanos now. It wasn't as if he truly trusted Stephanos in the first place; the man had a penchant for throwing Krysto's name around where it didn't belong and it sometimes got him into trouble. Infuriating even though it was a prank, Krysto had had to be held back once or twice from attempting to lay the prince out for something that Krysto rightfully deserved retribution. Even now, seeing Achilleas' dejected expression, his frustration at being rejected by his own cousin, it made Krysto consider that he might be able to catch the prince off guard. Even in the middle of the day.
Krysto moved about the small tent to grab his supplies and settled back down in front of Achilleas, observing and prodding at the man's face so that he could see what needed done. His nose wasn't broken, thankfully. That was one pain that the lord wouldn't have to endure today and hopefully not after any battle, either. So he worked at patting the man's few scrapes to remove the blood, his brows furrowed in silent concentration.
It was Stephanos' words from Achilleas' mouth that had Krysto meeting Achilleas' gaze again. There was unhindered agitation there. A want to march out of this tent and give the prince a piece of his mind. But it would look bad of them to suffer infighting, so he simply didn't. Gritting his teeth a moment, Krysto simply gathered his thoughts. Honestly, those were cheap words from Stephanos considering the prince sometimes found worse trouble than a momentary tumble with a Colchian soldier. Krysto could remember Stephanos scrubbing the stones of the Taengean streets as punishment. He sighed deeply through his nose.
"He thinks that because your father openly spurns his wife and carts his mistress around instead that you are a bad person? Even though, no offense, but both actions by both parties are abnormal?" Krysto asked, humor actually lacing his voice. "What you've done is a lot less harmful to your family and station than the activities your father takes up. Being a prince doesn't give him licence to be an absolute prat. Someone should tell Stephanos that, too," Krysto murmured, shaking his head, his blue eyes dark with continued irritation.
"When is Stephanos ever right about anything philosophical?" Krysto muttered at his friend, his dark brows furrowing sharply. "The fact that I had no clue just means you've been doing what you should have. Just because Stephanos doesn't know how to announce himself and just walks in where he's not invited doesn't mean that you're some disgrace to Taengea. No, I don't think you're being stupid," Krysto finally huffed, "Except that you talking makes it really hard to take care of your face. Shush."
There was a lot of affection between the two men despite their generally distanced demeanor. There were times when they were sparring, sweaty and breathless when they simply hugged it out once the irritation set in. Krysto had never beat Achilleas in a fight but he'd gotten close. Once or twice. If any two people were more attached at the hip than the two of them had been for years, even at a distance, Krysto would call out their bullshit. It was rare to find the kind of friendship in someone that the two men had found in one another. Achilleas was quiet and reserved, Krysto was somewhat warm but distrusting nearly everyone around them that wasn't just the two of them.
He had even less reason to trust Stephanos now. It wasn't as if he truly trusted Stephanos in the first place; the man had a penchant for throwing Krysto's name around where it didn't belong and it sometimes got him into trouble. Infuriating even though it was a prank, Krysto had had to be held back once or twice from attempting to lay the prince out for something that Krysto rightfully deserved retribution. Even now, seeing Achilleas' dejected expression, his frustration at being rejected by his own cousin, it made Krysto consider that he might be able to catch the prince off guard. Even in the middle of the day.
Krysto moved about the small tent to grab his supplies and settled back down in front of Achilleas, observing and prodding at the man's face so that he could see what needed done. His nose wasn't broken, thankfully. That was one pain that the lord wouldn't have to endure today and hopefully not after any battle, either. So he worked at patting the man's few scrapes to remove the blood, his brows furrowed in silent concentration.
It was Stephanos' words from Achilleas' mouth that had Krysto meeting Achilleas' gaze again. There was unhindered agitation there. A want to march out of this tent and give the prince a piece of his mind. But it would look bad of them to suffer infighting, so he simply didn't. Gritting his teeth a moment, Krysto simply gathered his thoughts. Honestly, those were cheap words from Stephanos considering the prince sometimes found worse trouble than a momentary tumble with a Colchian soldier. Krysto could remember Stephanos scrubbing the stones of the Taengean streets as punishment. He sighed deeply through his nose.
"He thinks that because your father openly spurns his wife and carts his mistress around instead that you are a bad person? Even though, no offense, but both actions by both parties are abnormal?" Krysto asked, humor actually lacing his voice. "What you've done is a lot less harmful to your family and station than the activities your father takes up. Being a prince doesn't give him licence to be an absolute prat. Someone should tell Stephanos that, too," Krysto murmured, shaking his head, his blue eyes dark with continued irritation.
"When is Stephanos ever right about anything philosophical?" Krysto muttered at his friend, his dark brows furrowing sharply. "The fact that I had no clue just means you've been doing what you should have. Just because Stephanos doesn't know how to announce himself and just walks in where he's not invited doesn't mean that you're some disgrace to Taengea. No, I don't think you're being stupid," Krysto finally huffed, "Except that you talking makes it really hard to take care of your face. Shush."
Now the adrenaline was wearing off, Achilleas was starting to feel some of the hits his cousin had managed to land. With the inevitable soreness came the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it had even got this far, that they’d been trying to do eachother real harm. It was the guilt of that knowledge perhaps that saw him seek validation from the man before him, Achilleas waiting until Krysto had turned to wring out a bloodied cloth before he spoke, trying to fit his words in and around the man making him wince
But much as he wanted to feel relief at the humour that laced his friend’s tone,he didn’t think the man had understood.
“No..Just that as the son of a gen...” He didn’t really want to explain what he thought Stephanos had meant. He’d gotten the message quite clearly even if his relaying it to Krysto had confused matters. Achilleas was engaging in behaviour I’ll fitting of his station and his bloodlines. . “ It doesn’t matter”
There was a little comfort to be found in the fact that Krysto was annoyed with the prince, Achilleas could be grateful for that even if they were thoughts never expressed outside of the canvas walls of the tent they were in.
“Don’t let him hear you say that” he cautioned, turning a warning look toward his friend. “ I appreciate it but he’s still our prince” Achillleas said ‘our’ but the truth of the matter was he could get away with things with his cousin that Krysto would not. It was only rarely that Stephanos would pull rank on him. He wondered if this might change that, if there would be consequences for his loss of temper. How would he explain it to anyone else?
For now though, he lapsed into silence and let Krysto do what he wanted to do with his face. He wasn’t sure there was much that could be done, he was going to look a mess for a few days either way. And now he was here and out from under the eyes of the camp, Achilleas felt bone weary and drained.
“Were you sleeping?” He asked belatedly, noting the rumpled sheets and the comparative darkness of the tent. “Sorry”
And then because he couldn’t face going back to his own tent and running into either Damocles or Stephanos “Can I stay here?” It was hardly the best of hiding places, the first anyone would look, but Krysto was comfortable and safe and Achilleas just needed some time to figure out what the hell had just happened and what he was to do next.
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Now the adrenaline was wearing off, Achilleas was starting to feel some of the hits his cousin had managed to land. With the inevitable soreness came the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it had even got this far, that they’d been trying to do eachother real harm. It was the guilt of that knowledge perhaps that saw him seek validation from the man before him, Achilleas waiting until Krysto had turned to wring out a bloodied cloth before he spoke, trying to fit his words in and around the man making him wince
But much as he wanted to feel relief at the humour that laced his friend’s tone,he didn’t think the man had understood.
“No..Just that as the son of a gen...” He didn’t really want to explain what he thought Stephanos had meant. He’d gotten the message quite clearly even if his relaying it to Krysto had confused matters. Achilleas was engaging in behaviour I’ll fitting of his station and his bloodlines. . “ It doesn’t matter”
There was a little comfort to be found in the fact that Krysto was annoyed with the prince, Achilleas could be grateful for that even if they were thoughts never expressed outside of the canvas walls of the tent they were in.
“Don’t let him hear you say that” he cautioned, turning a warning look toward his friend. “ I appreciate it but he’s still our prince” Achillleas said ‘our’ but the truth of the matter was he could get away with things with his cousin that Krysto would not. It was only rarely that Stephanos would pull rank on him. He wondered if this might change that, if there would be consequences for his loss of temper. How would he explain it to anyone else?
For now though, he lapsed into silence and let Krysto do what he wanted to do with his face. He wasn’t sure there was much that could be done, he was going to look a mess for a few days either way. And now he was here and out from under the eyes of the camp, Achilleas felt bone weary and drained.
“Were you sleeping?” He asked belatedly, noting the rumpled sheets and the comparative darkness of the tent. “Sorry”
And then because he couldn’t face going back to his own tent and running into either Damocles or Stephanos “Can I stay here?” It was hardly the best of hiding places, the first anyone would look, but Krysto was comfortable and safe and Achilleas just needed some time to figure out what the hell had just happened and what he was to do next.
Now the adrenaline was wearing off, Achilleas was starting to feel some of the hits his cousin had managed to land. With the inevitable soreness came the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it had even got this far, that they’d been trying to do eachother real harm. It was the guilt of that knowledge perhaps that saw him seek validation from the man before him, Achilleas waiting until Krysto had turned to wring out a bloodied cloth before he spoke, trying to fit his words in and around the man making him wince
But much as he wanted to feel relief at the humour that laced his friend’s tone,he didn’t think the man had understood.
“No..Just that as the son of a gen...” He didn’t really want to explain what he thought Stephanos had meant. He’d gotten the message quite clearly even if his relaying it to Krysto had confused matters. Achilleas was engaging in behaviour I’ll fitting of his station and his bloodlines. . “ It doesn’t matter”
There was a little comfort to be found in the fact that Krysto was annoyed with the prince, Achilleas could be grateful for that even if they were thoughts never expressed outside of the canvas walls of the tent they were in.
“Don’t let him hear you say that” he cautioned, turning a warning look toward his friend. “ I appreciate it but he’s still our prince” Achillleas said ‘our’ but the truth of the matter was he could get away with things with his cousin that Krysto would not. It was only rarely that Stephanos would pull rank on him. He wondered if this might change that, if there would be consequences for his loss of temper. How would he explain it to anyone else?
For now though, he lapsed into silence and let Krysto do what he wanted to do with his face. He wasn’t sure there was much that could be done, he was going to look a mess for a few days either way. And now he was here and out from under the eyes of the camp, Achilleas felt bone weary and drained.
“Were you sleeping?” He asked belatedly, noting the rumpled sheets and the comparative darkness of the tent. “Sorry”
And then because he couldn’t face going back to his own tent and running into either Damocles or Stephanos “Can I stay here?” It was hardly the best of hiding places, the first anyone would look, but Krysto was comfortable and safe and Achilleas just needed some time to figure out what the hell had just happened and what he was to do next.
It did matter, but Krysto wasn't the type to press his friends for more than they wanted to say. He wasn't going to chase Achilleas's here. When both of them weren't so tired, they would have more of a chance to talk about it. Also, when there wasn't danger of Stephanos coming to look for his cousin, things would be much easier to talk about. For now, he just wanted to ensure that Achilleas' wounds were taken care of so that they could rest before the next battles began. The endliess tide of battle always left them exhausted, and Krysto's paranoia was no help in him finding rest.
"I wouldn't let him," Krysto noted, shaking his head and focusing on his work instead of continuing any bit of conversation at all. He was flagging again, but he would be there for Achilleas if it was the last thing that he did. "He is our prince, but princes aren't always correct in their convictions," was all that Krysto noted. And not everyone had to agree with the words that were spoken.
Finally finishing up with the wounds, Krysto got back to his feet, gathering the supplies that he had used so that he could take care of them. The cloths needed to be soaked and rinsed so that they could be used again. His hands needed to be rinsed as well and he left the tent for just a few moments to ensure that his bandages got to the military's washer. Then he was finding a ewer of water to use to rinse his hands before coming back inside of his tent. The question didn't catch him off guard, Krysto simply shrugged his shoulders.
"I was," he noted carefully before looking around his tent, "More like... drifting in and out with the restlessness and paranoia, but sleep is a better word for it," he murmured, running his fingers back through his curly locks, looking a little more tired than he had a few minutes before. There wasn't even a pause before Krysto was nodding, "Of course you can stay here," he murmured, stepping aside and motioning to the bedroll that Krysto had been sleeping on. "You can have that," he murmured.
Honestly, he wasn't sure that he would find sleep again for a while anyway. His head ached with want of it, but now that he was awake, he was simply seeing all of the things that he could be doing instead of resting. "I'm going to go through my medical supplies again," he murmured, "I want to monitor you anyway, just in case the princes gave you a concussion."
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It did matter, but Krysto wasn't the type to press his friends for more than they wanted to say. He wasn't going to chase Achilleas's here. When both of them weren't so tired, they would have more of a chance to talk about it. Also, when there wasn't danger of Stephanos coming to look for his cousin, things would be much easier to talk about. For now, he just wanted to ensure that Achilleas' wounds were taken care of so that they could rest before the next battles began. The endliess tide of battle always left them exhausted, and Krysto's paranoia was no help in him finding rest.
"I wouldn't let him," Krysto noted, shaking his head and focusing on his work instead of continuing any bit of conversation at all. He was flagging again, but he would be there for Achilleas if it was the last thing that he did. "He is our prince, but princes aren't always correct in their convictions," was all that Krysto noted. And not everyone had to agree with the words that were spoken.
Finally finishing up with the wounds, Krysto got back to his feet, gathering the supplies that he had used so that he could take care of them. The cloths needed to be soaked and rinsed so that they could be used again. His hands needed to be rinsed as well and he left the tent for just a few moments to ensure that his bandages got to the military's washer. Then he was finding a ewer of water to use to rinse his hands before coming back inside of his tent. The question didn't catch him off guard, Krysto simply shrugged his shoulders.
"I was," he noted carefully before looking around his tent, "More like... drifting in and out with the restlessness and paranoia, but sleep is a better word for it," he murmured, running his fingers back through his curly locks, looking a little more tired than he had a few minutes before. There wasn't even a pause before Krysto was nodding, "Of course you can stay here," he murmured, stepping aside and motioning to the bedroll that Krysto had been sleeping on. "You can have that," he murmured.
Honestly, he wasn't sure that he would find sleep again for a while anyway. His head ached with want of it, but now that he was awake, he was simply seeing all of the things that he could be doing instead of resting. "I'm going to go through my medical supplies again," he murmured, "I want to monitor you anyway, just in case the princes gave you a concussion."
It did matter, but Krysto wasn't the type to press his friends for more than they wanted to say. He wasn't going to chase Achilleas's here. When both of them weren't so tired, they would have more of a chance to talk about it. Also, when there wasn't danger of Stephanos coming to look for his cousin, things would be much easier to talk about. For now, he just wanted to ensure that Achilleas' wounds were taken care of so that they could rest before the next battles began. The endliess tide of battle always left them exhausted, and Krysto's paranoia was no help in him finding rest.
"I wouldn't let him," Krysto noted, shaking his head and focusing on his work instead of continuing any bit of conversation at all. He was flagging again, but he would be there for Achilleas if it was the last thing that he did. "He is our prince, but princes aren't always correct in their convictions," was all that Krysto noted. And not everyone had to agree with the words that were spoken.
Finally finishing up with the wounds, Krysto got back to his feet, gathering the supplies that he had used so that he could take care of them. The cloths needed to be soaked and rinsed so that they could be used again. His hands needed to be rinsed as well and he left the tent for just a few moments to ensure that his bandages got to the military's washer. Then he was finding a ewer of water to use to rinse his hands before coming back inside of his tent. The question didn't catch him off guard, Krysto simply shrugged his shoulders.
"I was," he noted carefully before looking around his tent, "More like... drifting in and out with the restlessness and paranoia, but sleep is a better word for it," he murmured, running his fingers back through his curly locks, looking a little more tired than he had a few minutes before. There wasn't even a pause before Krysto was nodding, "Of course you can stay here," he murmured, stepping aside and motioning to the bedroll that Krysto had been sleeping on. "You can have that," he murmured.
Honestly, he wasn't sure that he would find sleep again for a while anyway. His head ached with want of it, but now that he was awake, he was simply seeing all of the things that he could be doing instead of resting. "I'm going to go through my medical supplies again," he murmured, "I want to monitor you anyway, just in case the princes gave you a concussion."
‘He is our prince, but princes aren't always correct in their convictions’
Achilleas couldn’t say how much comfort he found in his friend’s words just then. So he didn’t try, just glanced up gratefully and tried to stay still as Krysto’s careful hands wiped away the worst of the blood and grit from his face. Now he was still and slightly calmer he could feel the sting of it, and his nose was throbbing, knuckles too.
When Krysto rose to tidy away his things, Achilleas sighed and tried not to think about his cousin was faring. He wished almost that the anger had remained because that was easier than the dull ache of guilt-tinged worry that he felt now. The guilt was only reinforced when he realised he’d disturbed Krysto from rest, his face taking on a look of concern at the man’s telling response to his question.
This campaign had been hard on them both, a brutal introduction to real battle, and he could see the weariness etched in the still youthful features of his friend. Perhaps soon they would get to return to Taengea and snatch a month’s rest or so. There had been no word to suggest such relief were imminent though. Just more directives to hold the Egyptians back, to try and take control of more of the rich lands that bordered the Nile.
Had he anywhere he could face going to, Achilleas would have left Krysto to try and sleep a little, but the camp was hardly big, and he couldn’t make himself deal with the fallout of the situation yet, so instead he had to impose further on the man’s kindness. However, he objected to the notion of taking Krytsto’s bedroll and told him so, wincing as the motion of getting to his feet pulled at a sore spot on his ribs.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine on the mat. And my head is fine.”
He sank down on to the matted floor with a grimace, thought how stupid he was to pick up injury fighting with his cousin when the morrow would see them standoff against the Egyptians once more.
He wasn’t certain he was going to get any rest either, despite how weary he felt now. Too many thoughts and questions whirling in his mind. Whilst Krysto had at least partially soothed the sting of his cousin’s words, the very fact that his secret regarding Damocles was no longer a secret wedged like a shard of ice in his gut.
Should his father come to learn of it…
It was not that it was all that rare, men bedding men, but certainly not talked about. And much as Achilleas did not want to admit it to himself, there were certain standards he was held to because of who he was, because of who his father was, that would see his conduct as being less than acceptable. And now Stephanos and Krysto knew, and if anyone else were to find out…
It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it.
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‘He is our prince, but princes aren't always correct in their convictions’
Achilleas couldn’t say how much comfort he found in his friend’s words just then. So he didn’t try, just glanced up gratefully and tried to stay still as Krysto’s careful hands wiped away the worst of the blood and grit from his face. Now he was still and slightly calmer he could feel the sting of it, and his nose was throbbing, knuckles too.
When Krysto rose to tidy away his things, Achilleas sighed and tried not to think about his cousin was faring. He wished almost that the anger had remained because that was easier than the dull ache of guilt-tinged worry that he felt now. The guilt was only reinforced when he realised he’d disturbed Krysto from rest, his face taking on a look of concern at the man’s telling response to his question.
This campaign had been hard on them both, a brutal introduction to real battle, and he could see the weariness etched in the still youthful features of his friend. Perhaps soon they would get to return to Taengea and snatch a month’s rest or so. There had been no word to suggest such relief were imminent though. Just more directives to hold the Egyptians back, to try and take control of more of the rich lands that bordered the Nile.
Had he anywhere he could face going to, Achilleas would have left Krysto to try and sleep a little, but the camp was hardly big, and he couldn’t make himself deal with the fallout of the situation yet, so instead he had to impose further on the man’s kindness. However, he objected to the notion of taking Krytsto’s bedroll and told him so, wincing as the motion of getting to his feet pulled at a sore spot on his ribs.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine on the mat. And my head is fine.”
He sank down on to the matted floor with a grimace, thought how stupid he was to pick up injury fighting with his cousin when the morrow would see them standoff against the Egyptians once more.
He wasn’t certain he was going to get any rest either, despite how weary he felt now. Too many thoughts and questions whirling in his mind. Whilst Krysto had at least partially soothed the sting of his cousin’s words, the very fact that his secret regarding Damocles was no longer a secret wedged like a shard of ice in his gut.
Should his father come to learn of it…
It was not that it was all that rare, men bedding men, but certainly not talked about. And much as Achilleas did not want to admit it to himself, there were certain standards he was held to because of who he was, because of who his father was, that would see his conduct as being less than acceptable. And now Stephanos and Krysto knew, and if anyone else were to find out…
It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it.
‘He is our prince, but princes aren't always correct in their convictions’
Achilleas couldn’t say how much comfort he found in his friend’s words just then. So he didn’t try, just glanced up gratefully and tried to stay still as Krysto’s careful hands wiped away the worst of the blood and grit from his face. Now he was still and slightly calmer he could feel the sting of it, and his nose was throbbing, knuckles too.
When Krysto rose to tidy away his things, Achilleas sighed and tried not to think about his cousin was faring. He wished almost that the anger had remained because that was easier than the dull ache of guilt-tinged worry that he felt now. The guilt was only reinforced when he realised he’d disturbed Krysto from rest, his face taking on a look of concern at the man’s telling response to his question.
This campaign had been hard on them both, a brutal introduction to real battle, and he could see the weariness etched in the still youthful features of his friend. Perhaps soon they would get to return to Taengea and snatch a month’s rest or so. There had been no word to suggest such relief were imminent though. Just more directives to hold the Egyptians back, to try and take control of more of the rich lands that bordered the Nile.
Had he anywhere he could face going to, Achilleas would have left Krysto to try and sleep a little, but the camp was hardly big, and he couldn’t make himself deal with the fallout of the situation yet, so instead he had to impose further on the man’s kindness. However, he objected to the notion of taking Krytsto’s bedroll and told him so, wincing as the motion of getting to his feet pulled at a sore spot on his ribs.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine on the mat. And my head is fine.”
He sank down on to the matted floor with a grimace, thought how stupid he was to pick up injury fighting with his cousin when the morrow would see them standoff against the Egyptians once more.
He wasn’t certain he was going to get any rest either, despite how weary he felt now. Too many thoughts and questions whirling in his mind. Whilst Krysto had at least partially soothed the sting of his cousin’s words, the very fact that his secret regarding Damocles was no longer a secret wedged like a shard of ice in his gut.
Should his father come to learn of it…
It was not that it was all that rare, men bedding men, but certainly not talked about. And much as Achilleas did not want to admit it to himself, there were certain standards he was held to because of who he was, because of who his father was, that would see his conduct as being less than acceptable. And now Stephanos and Krysto knew, and if anyone else were to find out…
