Chapter Text
it started all too suddenly. odysseus missed his wife - that was a given, penelope had been a delight to be around, a witty and smart woman, the only one whose company he had truly enjoyed. he missed a lot of things, actually. like the calm of the ithacan waves, kissing the glowing shore, rarely stained by foreign ships. like his newborn son, who clearly takes after him, but with his mother's benevolently clever eyes. like the mountains with neatly stacked little houses. like the love of his people. like the warmth of other's skin. like peace.
odysseus is a simple man and doesn't need a lot. he may be a king, but never spoiled, may be out for profit, but only the deserved one. what he needs is a spacious house with his family and a bed warm enough to sleep in beloved's embrace. what war took from him first was this. then came homicide virginity, if you may. then came the ability to feel.
when odysseus thinks about what he feels, there are primaries. satisfied by a great meal, scared because he didn't notice an enemy and he's in odysseus' vicinity now, angry because agamemnon doesn't get it, and he has to watch the army fumble before they listen to him, wanting, because he's a simple man, a young one, craving relief.
and that became a problem. because he was determined to stay faithful at first. he took slaves, but never laid a finger on them, only using them for chores around the camp, mostly ignoring the dissatisfaction. then he started relieving himself, but it wasn't enough, and to make it enough he needed a person.
odysseus felt reluctant about using a slave, because every time he thought about the possibility, he remembered his wife. it wasn't the drive to stay loyal that got him, but an idea of what it would be like for her to be forced upon. what he needed was a willing equal, and that wasn't easily found.
"have you ever been with a man?" diomedes asked him once, over dinner. they ran away from the rest of the army: the commoners were loud and his head hurt.
"no," odysseus frowned at the thought. it wasn't like he hadn't thought about it, he had, but the idea had never appealed to him enough to take the risk of suggesting it to someone else. the wine was doing its thing, so that's what he tells his friend. "i thought of it, but not everyone is okay with that kind of arrangement, so i never really tried."
diomedes hums in thought. "would you like to?" the gaze of his is somewhere else, almost uninterested. odysseus assumed it followed the outside noise. he laughed.
"are you offering?"
"simply curious," there was now a frown of something lighter than offence. diomedes' dark curls were getting in his face, the hair getting longer, and odysseus thought of things he shouldn't had even considered.
"maybe," he eventually replied. “have you?"
"i have."
"what was it like?" diomedes brought his gaze back to odysseus, surprised with the question.
"not much different from a woman, in terms of sensations."
"erastes, at your age?" odysseus' eyes widened. at the time of the conversation, diomedes was barely eighteen. you were considered a man, but barely so. and diomedes had quite a youthful spirit, reactive, energetic. odysseus wasn't much older, but he was more mature and wise. he liked the guy, truly, maybe would even call him his best friend, but sometimes he just didn't know what to do with him, like when he's homesick or filled with rage.
"there is a finite number of men you can bed, much less kings," right. the social status. when diomedes had arrived in troy, he had already been king of argos. that makes them equals, though.
"well, if you ever need a hand..." odysseus’ smirked was clearly suggestive and he would definitely think it over sober. diomedes didn't laugh.
they left the tent together, and one of odysseus' desires was satisfied.
---
diomedes starts appearing in his tent more often. first, it's rare and quick, hands around each other to assist with the acute loneliness. odysseus notices then how broad he is, taller than him by a head or so, legs strong but slimmer than his own.
the first time diomedes undresses and a fireplace reflects on an almost burgundy silky skin of his, odysseus finds himself hard without previous touch. diomedes probably notices, but he cannot bring himself to care.
the first time odysseus undresses he's slightly self conscious. he's rounder around the edges, skin almost olive, thighs soft.
"handsome," diomedes hums, and he notices that arousal comes easier.
---
the first one to find out is patroclus. he's in a similar situation of his own, so when he walks in on them, simply excuses himself and promises to visit later. diomedes is terrified, but odysseus soothes him. patroclus wouldn't tell, not when his companion is his lover, too, far more intimate. it seems to help, and he's relieved. he has never been quite good at support.
but by definition, of course, knows achilles. he doesn't judge, being smitten with his beloved, but asks a lot. achilles seems to like diomedes more than odysseus, and that's a given.
---
"would you like a proper one?" diomedes asks once. odysseus contemplates.
"does it hurt?"
"wouldn't know," he smirks. "i thought you'd want to be the giver."
"i thought you were set on your position," odysseus frowns. diomedes barks a chuckle.
"you can refuse later if it does, then."
so, they do it. it doesn't hurt at first, maybe because diomedes is scarily gentle with his hands for a terrifying killer, maybe because of the oil. it's slightly uncomfortable, but not too much, so he bears with it. then something happens, and it's good, so, so good odysseus nearly cries out. diomedes smiles like a cat, sly. again, again, and again.
then it does, almost to the point of bringing the tears out. odysseus gasps and chokes on it, embarrassed of his own sounds. they don't sound like those of his wife, nor like his own when he's with her. they're obscene.
"shall i stop?"
"no," odysseus is probably too quick. "i want that again," he overexplains, probably, but again, doesn't really care.
he needs to squeeze something badly, unable to contain the tension, and the bed sheets aren't enough. he finds diomedes' hand and laces their fingers, tied tightly. if diomedes is surprised, he doesn't comment on it. he squeezes back.
it ends up being nice, the stimulation intense. after the peak, he thinks that he's never felt better in his life. it's a little bit scary, but his body has its own rules, why deny it anything?
---
it happens more often in that position, but it requires more time, so not as much. odysseus holds diomedes' hand every time, and diomedes kisses him once. he responds. they're sloppy, wet and clingy. this time, his manhood isn't touched, yet he still finishes.
fuck.
---
diomedes' hand brushes over his own unsurely when they dine alone, and odysseus jerks it away. with a moment's delay, diomedes raises his hands in the air with an apologetic look. odysseus tries to forget. but it never happens again, so it's fine, he guesses.
—
the battle leaves odysseus sore mentally. sometimes it happens and sometimes he fails, but it leaves him pained intellectually, so to speak. his chariot rider is dead, by his mistake. and he didn't know him well, but he's all bloody and sweaty, and he feels like the steam is radiating from his skin.
diomedes saw, probably sees the weariness in his eyes now, so he's gentle, far too gentle when he puts his hand on his cheek before he even has the chance to clean up. both of them are messy, frankly, and the touch makes his mind go blank, so he kisses hard and bites a lot.
it brings him relief.
---
achilles is an omnipresence these days. he's only couple months older than diomedes is, as reckless and intense. probably as sadistic, too, but patroclus seizes him and keeps him in check. they often find themselves as a group of four, and it's weird, because he never quite liked achilles. he thinks the sentiment is shared and achilles finds him irritating.
on a parody of a day off, they're like that at the beach. diomedes is splashing achilles with sea water and they laugh all the time. patroclus is a little sick, so he sunbathes on the shore. odysseus used to think of something, but the heat snatched the idea away. he's not really here, either way.
achilles sends an air kiss to patroclus from far away, who smiles in return warmly. the exchange is short and achilles is back at his water battle with a friend. diomedes fails to defend himself, because he stares at something at the shore. their eyes lock, but not for long.
---
odysseus thinks of penelope sometimes. how does she look like, a couple years in? what does she do now? how does she manage the palace? his son, too. he has probably grown up now, and achilles wonders if he knows the word "dad" by now.
diomedes taps his shoulder and looks at him, eyes wide with a question. odysseus slowly learns to understand his expressions.
"if i'm dead by the end of the war," he suddenly says, "take penelope for a wife."
"i am married," his tone confused.
"your wife is a menace. you'd like mine."
diomedes doesn't speak on the matter anymore, and odysseus is glad. something is off.
---
diomedes whispers sweet nothings on their way to the bed. odysseus can't understand what he's saying, but doesn't ask again. his eyes are sad, then, and he wonders what his own are like.
—
sometimes they fall asleep in the same bed. odysseus likes to sleep longer, but it doesn't cure the tiredness in his bones. when he wakes up, curled up in a mixture of limbs and hot breath on his neck, he feels suffocated of the heat, at first. dark skin to tan, ribs to shoulders, diomedes' hair sticks to his forehead at times. sleeping together is entirely impractical in the summer.
there is also a hollow tug in his chest after, like he didn't notice an enemy and almost got killed because of it. he untangles himself and leaves, usually, feeling strangely rested and scattered at the same time.
today diomedes wakes up first and scoots away just slightly, but doesn't get up. when odysseus is awake, the gaze is burning his neck. he's still hot, despite the lack of touch.
---
diomedes likes wine, and odysseus thinks his skin resembles it a lot. he says it's for the taste, odysseus does it for the pleasant blankness of mind and faux courage. they laugh more and none of them care for formalities, especially when they are alone.
diomedes is in his lap and odysseus rests his head on his shoulder. it brings him back to how they started out, drunk and younger. years wear them out, make them more mature.
diomedes lacks the youthfulness in his cheeks now and his shoulders are even broader, frame resembling a triangle. balanced, natural, powerful. his hair reaches his shoulder blades, braided, which he learnt to do from menelaus, along with achilles. he has found a best friend in an unapproachable, power move, if you ask him.
odysseus doesn't change much. his beard grows thicker and he stops shaving, he leans out, and he wonders if it's stress or maturity.
"what are you thinking of?" diomedes chuckles in his cheek. it burns hot, like wine in his throat.
"how you changed," truth, a rare sight.
"oh?" the sly smile is here and he turns around, now facing him directly. he is tall and hovers over odysseus. "did i improve?"
odysseus doesn't reply, and they still kiss, lips tasting the sour of blood, changing to salty of skin, to sweet of other fluids. odysseus is on his knees for the first time, and diomedes looks like a god from below.
---
the camp is struck by plague and they don't see each other. the priest reveals Phoebus is mad, and when they comply with His, it rains acid.
achilles doesn't fight anymore and diomedes barely visits him, but talks about him a lot.
—
it all goes well. agamemnon is pissed at achilles and the sentiment is shared. the greeks play push and pull with the trojans. diomedes fights gods and gets shot in the shoulder: the only thing odysseus watches despite more pressing matters. it pisses him off.
it all goes well. odysseus is chosen to talk with achilles, promise him the world and get him out of his tent to the battlefield. achilles is more pleased to see him than expected, but refuses them anyway. gods know he tried.
it all goes well. their ships burn and the wall will be done if not for the night coming just in time to save them. odysseus is injured, forced off of the battlefield. diomedes follows, shot in the foot. he's raging and so alone in the medical tent, among the crowd of the crying soldiers and his so-called lover.
“they bared your heart,” diomedes hisses at the wound. the words strike him too much to reply, but he promises it's just the pain.
---
there is smoke in the sky, and the sounds of metal and battle cries are heard even from the camp.
patroclus' dead body is brought to the camp, diomedes and ajax winning it away from the trojans. it's late evening, the fighting is paused.
the whole world seems to stop when achilles weeps, so loud the whole ilion must be shaking. diomedes stands beside him, shivering, covered in blood head to toe.
odysseus feels his hand reaching out, but then what the hell is he doing?
diomedes tugs at the bottom of odysseus' tunic, and the proximity is disgusting, or terrifying, or he doesn't know, but it makes him feel bare. he lets him anyway.
---
he doesn't know what to do with him again, when he cries in private, for the first time in months.
"can you just stay?" it shakes so badly and it's weak, as if diomedes knows he doesn't have a right to ask. odysseus feels a surge of responsibility, and he's told what's expected, so he does exactly that.
diomedes presses his body into his with a sob, arms tight around his back. odysseus does something instinctively, maybe says something soothing, maybe places his lips on top of the head, maybe caresses his shoulder, he doesn't really know. something he's learnt throughout caring for his infant son, when he was still present.
odysseus' chest hurts from the inside, it burns everything down, and he doesn't understand why. after all, the only injury is on his skin.
—
odysseus busies himself with looking after achilles. diomedes busies himself with rampage.
---
"you shall eat," odysseus sighs. it's not the first time he tries.
achilles is silent, sitting on the floor, face in his hands. his once long golden hair is now a greasy short mess. in the back of the tent, there is a body rotting on the bed, but achilles never seems to mind. his eyes are dead and face is either neutral or angry, but in front of odysseus, he cries. it's the same every night. achilles doesn't even wash off the blood, smells like burnt flesh and sweat and mucus. war isn't pretty, not even on him.
odysseus holds him, and it doesn't mean anything to him, but he can't look at the kid torturing himself like that. he may be going insane, but who isn't? machaon doesn't treat mad, anyway.
---
diomedes hasn't left odysseus' tent for days, except for the battle. it's autumn, so odysseus thinks it's only fair to stay in bed with him, providing a relief of a different kind from their usual. he barely speaks to diomedes, and diomedes plays with his hair, which is covering his ears now. he should cut it, he thinks, after patroclus' funeral.
"how is achilles?" diomedes asks in a whisper.
"unwell," it's the same as always. diomedes doesn't speak anymore, and odysseus bites his lip as to punish himself.
—
achilles allows his lover's burial after priam's visit. there is a sacrifice, a fire, soldiers cut off stands of hair in mourning, odysseus does too. patroclus was a strong warrior with a gentle soul, may it rest in peace.
achilles is still relentless in his massacre, mad, even, but who could blame him?
for a second, he wonders what would diomedes do if he died, but he doesn't like the thought, so he pretends it has never existed.
---
achilles follows shortly after. odysseus organisers the burial this time. his ashes are mixed with patroclus'.
diomedes is devastated about it. odysseus feels something he can't quite name, a bitter taste of guilt at his tongue with a tug of something sadder. for some reason, he is at fault.
---
they still lay together sometimes, but never take their time anymore. odysseus constantly feels like he's going to erupt and he takes it out. diomedes is so full of tension, he releases it too.
it's not pretty. rude, heavy, necessary. it's not even erotic, it's everything but eroticism, it's vulgarity and shamelessness. odysseus thinks of his now visible ribs and smaller thighs, but they don't have to be attracted to each other to be of use.
diomedes' hand is around odysseus, he breathes hot, not a sound more. he mirrors the action, and diomedes mostly mutters swears in whispers. he comes first.
"i love you," diomedes says here. it's so earnest that odysseus wishes he slapped him instead. he finishes nevertheless, panting, eyes wide.
"i'm married," odysseus' voice is low. he hates how much of a plea it sounds to be. he is still, a wounded animal.
it takes diomedes a moment to process rejection. his eyes are sad again. "i didn't mean it- not seriously, i just, you know, in the heat of the moment. sorry, i wouldn't say it like that," the whole conversation is a bargain. the argument is not convincing, nor the heavy breathing helps him, but maybe odysseus just imagines it, just like he imagines the sad eyes. "i promise," merely a whisper, and it's enough to believe.