Again love, the limb-loosener, rattles me

bittersweet, irresistible, a crawling beast.

— Sappho

Louis was observing the prince in silence. On the contrary, all the other children were screaming and laughing at everything Peleus' son said, probably trying to gain his attention.

Harry's hands and arms were red, droplets of juice running from his palms down to his elbows as he ate the crimson pulp of the figs. He had been juggling them just a moment before, all the other children hanging on his every word as he smiled his charming smile and his dark curls glowed in the sun.

Louis had thought of the other child as unreachable ever since he had laid his eyes upon him, when he first got to Phthia. At the time, he was all shaky limbs and wide eyes; scared but still as fascinated by the prince as he was now, just like everyone else in that dining room.

He wasn't trying to gain his attention, though. It wasn't something he hoped he could ever achieve, nor something he thought he'd ever want.

And maybe that's why the prince's gaze found him every once in a while, and his smile grew ever so slightly. They had never spoken before, not outside the throne room, but their eyes had met countless times. And when that happened, Louis felt his face get as red as the fruits that the prince was so gluttonously eating, his breath hitching and stomach fluttering each time.

Perhaps it was shame that always caused him to be the first one to look away, eyes cast down and shoulders hunched, lost in the vehemence of the children that surrounded him. He never felt like part of the group, always hiding in some spot in the palace while his peers partook in battle training.

It wasn't for him. It had never been, not before the incident, nor after.

It was immediately after he was born that he quickly became a disappointment. He was small, slight. He was not fast, not strong. He could not fight. The best that could be said of him is that he was not sickly. His father was never fond of him and his mother was absent, busy drowning her sorrows in burgundy wine. The only people that cared for him were the servitude, and only because it was asked of them. Nobody ever cared for nor about him of their own free will.

The only thing his father cared about was reputation, honor. And when something— someone threatened to take that away from him, that's when he would start caring about Louis. He cared when he'd be the slowest child at the games. He cared when people told him that his son didn't look manly enough. He cared on that fateful day, when the blue-eyed boy did something that still haunted his dreams—that day, King Menoetius cared so much about Louis that he sent him away, aged twelve and incredibly frightened.

He hadn't processed what had happened at first, his pale tunic ruined by blood and his mouth still gaping. He had seen the other child's eyes pop open when his head thudded dully against stone; he could not forget how the ground around him began to bleed. Louis immediately felt his throat close in horror at what he had done. He could not breathe and, for a moment, he could not move. He had never seen another human being die before, and thinking that he was the reason for that death was what had made him flee: he ran and fell and gasped for air as shocked tears streamed down his face.

Later in the day they had found him hiding by the roots of an old olive tree, his nose filled with the smell of the flux, his ears still ringing with the cracking of the other boy's skull against the ground. Louis pushed him because the child had mocked him. Now he was dead. Louis was just as limp and pale as him, surrounded by his own vomit and gazing upon vacancy while his father shouted and shook his fists at him.

Menoetius gestured, and the servants that accompanied him lifted the blue-eyed boy and carried him inside. On the way back, Louis locked eyes with his father, who angrily stared back at him, his lips drawn back to show his yellowing teeth. Louis immediately knew he was not going to get away with what he had done. Not when a small thing such as losing a game would get him in trouble.

Back at the palace, the family of the other child demanded that he either be put to death or exiled: they were important people, and Louis killed their oldest son, Clysonymus. People like them might have accepted seeing their fields burn or having their daughters raped, but you could not touch a man's son. For that, the nobles would riot. Blood feud.

His father would not risk losing his kingdom over such a son as Louis, not when he represented all that the king despised. However, death was not an option.

That's why he was sent away. Not because of his father's mercy, but because a big funeral would cost more than simply paying someone else to take him in. That's how Louis came to be twelve, and an orphan.

That's how he came to Phthia.

Of his ride to the Myrmidon city he distinctly remembered the hot sun burning his exposed back as he laid on the wooden carriage, and the trot of the horses lulling him to sleep. He had covered his face so as to not be seen by people he knew, not wanting to look at their pitiful faces or feel the weight of their mocking glances as he left. He was unable to rest and could only weep, thinking about what his future as a child with no family name would be like. He had no parents, no inheritance. Death was preferable. That's all he could think about as hay stung and irritated his skin: he'd rather be dead than a burden for someone that couldn't possibly care about him, not when his father had to pay to get rid of his only child.

He dared to sit up only when the carriage came to a slow halt. His eyes were puffy and wires of hay were stuck to his reddened cheeks and tangled in his hair. That's how the prince first saw him, with his hair ruffled and red splotches covering parts of his body. At first, Louis had been too tired, too ashamed to notice him or the way he leaned against one of the columns of the palace.

He must've looked pathetic in his eyes.

However, Louis was too busy trying not to suffocate with the way the dust from the courtyard clogged in his throat to care. His eyes and lungs burned because of the sun and the scorching heat, his dry tongue painfully sticking to his palate. He stood still while the guards that accompanied him handed his weight in gold to the Myrmidon servants—five goblets with engraved stems, a heavy knobbed scepter, a beaten-gold necklace, two ornamental statues of birds, a carved lyre.

He did not want to look.

He felt too ashamed to even think about the fact that he had a price. He'd never forget how being sold like an animal at the market felt.

He bit his cheek so hard that he tasted blood, but it didn't hurt. He simply felt numb.

It was that afternoon that he discovered he was not the only foster child of King Peleus, the presence of other children becoming evident to him right after his meeting with the prince. At first, he was led through the palace by a servant whose name he did not know. He had nothing with him. No belongings, no honor, no family name. He wondered if he still had himself.

Louis quickly realized he was being led to the throne room. There, he expected to meet the king, already preparing himself to kneel in front of him and pour his gratitude for not being thrown on the streets. However, the servant suddenly stopped at a side door. King Peleus was absent, he told him. He would have to present before his son instead. Louis was unnerved: that was not what he had prepared for—he couldn't even think about being scrutinized by someone his age.

He was left alone after the doors that led to the room closed behind his back. He was not used to being in such rooms, not when his father was so ashamed of him that he prohibited him from entering them. That room felt too big for just two people.

Louis felt naked and completely defenseless in front of the Prince of Phthia.

He noticed he was laying on his back on a pillowed bench, his gaze directed towards the ceiling. Louis did not know if he did not hear him enter, or simply if he chose not to look. That is how Louis first began to understand his place there. Until that moment he had been a prince, important and expected.

Now, he was negligible.

He took another step forward, and the prince's head lolled to the side to regard him. Louis noticed he had changed much in the five years since they met last, at the games Menoetius had hosted. He was irritated, remembering what his father had said: This is what a son should be.

"I saw you out there," said the prince. "You've still got hay stuck on your face." He was either feigning indifference or actually did not care about him. There wasn't an intention to humiliate in what he said. He was simply making an observation.

Still, Louis felt himself flush, a hand immediately going to cover one of his cheeks, feeling just how hot his skin had gotten during their encounter. He could not let a prince with a kingdom that was half, a quarter, an eighth the size of his father's, embarrass him. Humiliation stained his neck and chest red, his other hand fisting the fabric of his tunic, creasing it.

"I hope my dirty tunic won't bother you as well," he settled on answering. He hoped his voice didn't sound as uncertain as he felt.

But no matter how confident he tried to sound, he'd always be the boy whose father didn't want him.

The prince looked surprised, as if he hadn't actually expected him to answer. His eyebrows were raised, a smirk forming on his lips as he carelessly balanced a lyre on his stomach, his fingers plucking at its cords. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his lips plush. "What is your name?" he asked, Louis' question going unanswered.

Did he even care about that?

Louis was trying to remain calm, his mind trying to remind him that the prince had every right to treat him like this— he wasn't royalty anymore. He was a nobody. Still, he felt hurt. He had killed a boy and been exiled and still he did not know his name.

He forced his jaw to open. "Menotiades," he announced after having cleared his throat. He hated the way that name tasted on his lips.

The prince shook his head. "I asked for your name, not your father's."

Louis swallowed, his jaw twitching. He answered a couple of seconds too late. "Louis." He thought it ironic for his name to mean 'famous in battle' . It tasted bitter on his tongue, no better than the way 'Menotiades' did.

If the prince thought something of his name's meaning, he did not let that show. He rolled onto his side to face Louis. A stray strand of hair fell partly into his eyes. He blew it away, the curl bouncing back on his forehead. Louis found himself guilty of following the prince's movements with his eyes. Despite everything, he couldn't help but think he was beautiful.

"My name is Harry." Harry, 'ruler' . Louis wanted to roll his eyes at how adequate that was. Instead, he settled on jerking his chin up, in bare acknowledgment.

"Welcome to Phthia," murmured Harry. His eyes, for some reason, never left Louis'. The blue-eyed boy's hand flew to the reddened skin of his cheek to check if he still had something on his face.

He didn't.

The first few weeks of exile did nothing but remind Louis of what he didn't have anymore. The privilege of not having to train was what he missed the most, his thin arms aching with the effort of throwing spears. He refused to train with the other children (for a valid reason), therefore the arms-master wore him out.

The meals in the vaulted dining hall were where he found his only relief. There, the walls did not seem to press in on him so much—he felt like he could breathe again only when sitting alone with his food. It also was the only time he saw Harry. His days were separate, princely , filled with duties the other children had no part of. But Harry still took each meal with them, circulating among the tables and chatting with the children he deemed interesting.

Which brought Louis to where he sat, watching Harry as he ate figs and entertained the other children in the hall.

Louis did not know why he cared or kept thinking about the prince after their first encounter. Harry had been nothing but indifferent towards him, maybe even bored of his presence.

Louis considered that his lack of thought control could be down to one reason—he envied Harry. Tall, charming, athletic. The perfect son.

Exactly what his father wanted him to be.

The blue-eyed boy could not accept the truth, maybe didn't even know what it was. The only thing he was certain of, was that he couldn't help but fall for the prince's charm.

In the huge hall, his beauty shone like a flame, vital and bright, drawing Louis' eye against his will. Even from where he sat, he could see Harry's eyes were as green as the trees that surrounded Louis' old kingdom, his lips red as pomegranates, his nose straight as an arrow. When he was seated, his stance exuded dominance, even at such a young age.

How was he able to do that?

Louis watched him from his seat at a corner table, absentmindedly playing with the bread on his plate while the other children had already finished eating, crumbs sticking to the sweaty skin of their palms.

That day, Harry sat closer to him than usual—only a table distant. He turned, as if he had sensed Louis' gaze lingering on him. For a second their eyes held, and Louis felt a shock run through him, which made him come back to reality. The boy jerked his gaze away, and busied himself with his bread. He did not know that being caught staring at someone could be that embarrassing. His cheeks were hot, and his skin prickled.

When, at last, he ventured to look up again, all he could see was green. Looking more closely, he could also see amusement, curiosity, maybe interest. That was new.

And just as Louis started to wonder if he had imagined everything, it was all gone in a heartbeat. The prince cautiously picked up a couple of figs so as to not bruise their delicate skin, and started juggling again. He then added a third, and a fourth. The other boys abandoned their conversations, starting to hoot and clap and cheer him on. They were all wrapped around his finger, including Louis.

That time he could not feign disinterest, could not look away. Especially when the prince's gaze, which had been following the circling fruits, flickered to his, again and again and again.

Louis could not help but think that he was doing that for his eyes only, even though that sounded ridiculous. Someone like him could not be interested in an orphan, not when everyone knew why he was there. Not when all of the other children avoided him like the plague, afraid that he'd do something to them. But he could not even fight . How could they think he could possibly overpower one of them?

He could sense their eyes on him, probably wondering what had caught the prince's attention. He wanted to leave.

However, he did not have time to look away before the prince said, softly but distinctly, "Catch."

A fig was tossed from the other child's hands towards him—it fell right into the cup of his rosy palms, slightly warm and soft. Louis' breath hitched and he looked up again, only to be met with the sight of the prince biting into one of the figs he was previously playing with. Louis could do nothing but bite into his fig as well, feeling as if he were under Harry's spell.

Sweetness erupted in his mouth and he closed his eyes at the taste. He hadn't been able to eat one of these fruits in a while, not since his father sent him away. Louis smiled at the sensation, juice tinting his lips red. When he opened his eyes back up, the prince's attention was, once again, only on him.

— —

His bed felt like a rock beneath his back. He could not relax, restlessly twisting and turning to try to find a comfortable position to sleep in. However, he wasn't sure he actually wanted to fall asleep—not when the only thing he could dream about was the incident, the boy's face and his blood still haunting Louis.

Moreover, the fact that he had to sleep on such an uncomfortable bed was ridiculous to him. The fact that he had to share his room with thirty other children even more so.

They were noisy and gross and gods they stunk.

Was that how normal people had to live? Louis didn't like that. He wasn't a prince anymore but he used to be one. He at least deserved to be treated better than the other foster children. They were just children of slaves or farmers that didn't want them anymore. They were not similar. How could Peleus associate him with... them?

Or maybe Harry had asked him to do so. Louis still hadn't spoken to the king, only to the prince. Gods , he detested him and his stupid smile and endearing gaze and perfect curly hair. Or so he thought.

Louis huffed while turning again, the hay bedding scratching his naked arm, making him hiss. He wanted his old life back, but at that moment the thing he wanted the most was to have his old bed back. And his room. And his privacy. He sniffled and hastily sat up, the heels of his hands pressing against his eyelids, making him see stars. He kicked at the thin and itchy cloth he used as a blanket, carelessly letting it fall on the ground as if it were the reason for his suffering.

He was beginning to lose his appetite, which combined with his lack of sleep made him look more dead than alive. The bags beneath his eyes were so violaceous that sometimes, when looking at himself in a mirror, he thought he could reap them like sweet plums and eat them to conceal the usual bitter taste of loneliness.

He did not think it could get worse than when he was in Opus. He was mistaken. At home, he at least had the servants who pretended to care about him. But he wasn't too sad about not interacting with the other children. After all, he did not like them, just like they did not like him. The feeling was mutual.

With a huff, he removed his hands from his face, looking around the cramped room—beds covered every inch of its floor. The child at his right was snoring, a continuous buzzing filling his ears like an irritating bee, threatening to make him lose his mind. Then, when turning to his left, he met the gaze of the boy that was sleeping on that bed. He was sitting up as well, his jaw tense.

"Stop it," he murmured, his hands clutching his own sorry excuse of a blanket.

Louis was taken aback, blinking while looking at the other boy. "What?" he uttered. How dared he to talk to him like that?

"You heard me," he replied, seemingly unbothered by the way Louis was looking at him. "If you can't sleep, simply get out of here and let us rest, princess, " he bit back at him, mocking his old title. Louis did not know where he found the courage to speak such words when every single one of them avoided him during the day. He figured that the darkness gave him courage.

"There's at least another ten people in here making as much noise as I am. Why am I the problem?"

Annoyed Boy (Louis did not know his name) huffed, his eyes finding Louis'. "They at least work as hard as the rest of us do. You, however, do not." He was talking to him as if he were a child; a child that did not understand anything. That was how his father used to talk to him. Louis did not know how to feel.

"Watch your mouth," he murmured. He did not know what to say, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears.

"No, you watch your mouth. You may have killed someone but me and another one of these guys could overpower you in no time."

"Why don't you do that, then?" snapped Louis, his legs trembling when standing up to tower over the sitting child. The other just smirked, a chuckle leaving his mouth.

"Watch your back," he whispered before laying back down. Nobody dared say anything after that.

— —

Phthia was the smallest of their countries, so tiny that it could fit in a crook of land between the ridges of Mount Othrys and the sea. Its dark and rich soil welcomed Louis' feet in a reassuring embrace as he hid behind a large fig tree, his toes moving in the damp loam to distract himself from what was happening before his eyes.

All the other foster children were waiting for the arms-master to arrive and start battle training. He couldn't endure that anymore. The others were playing with sticks and hitting each other's backs and limbs, laughs erupting from their mouths as if they weren't getting whipped and red welts weren't forming all over their skin.

Louis had never understood how anybody could enjoy something as grotesque as violence, let alone find it funny. He was never a violent person and had never planned on becoming one: it had been imposed on him. The blue-eyed boy couldn't stop thinking about the fact that that one child shouldn't have died for something as innocent as a push. Apparently, that wasn't what the Fates thought. For them, Louis had to fight, to kill. Just like every other Hellenic man of worth.

He had to live up to the name his father had chosen for him.

But that wasn't him .

He swore he'd never kill anybody ever again—therefore, he couldn't risk injuring someone else by accident. Battle training simply wasn't an option. He had been able to endure the lessons up until that moment, but he was tired. Tired of feeling sore and tired of worrying all the time.

Where would he even go if he killed someone else?

Louis shook his head to stop thinking about what had happened, his hands cramping from gripping his tunic for so long. He seemed to do that a lot while reflecting.

He was smoothing his clothes out with his trembling hands when he saw something that made him flinch. In a matter of seconds, one of the other foster children fell on the ground and let go of the stick he was holding in one of his hands. Louis immediately averted his gaze from the scene and started to frantically look for a way to get away from there, not wanting to see if the child hit his head. His heart was racing inside his chest, he could feel it in his ears and throat as his breath hitched.

Then, the child got up.

He wasn't dead.

Louis released a breath he wasn't aware of holding, his eyes finding his own feet again after closing them tightly to calm himself down. He had recently learned that counting to ten while breathing in helped him not to panic, his arms wrapping around his torso like a shield. He didn't know how to protect himself from his own mind, though.

He took a step back when he sensed a couple of children getting closer to his hiding place, stepping away from the hole that welcomed his reddened feet.

He couldn't risk being seen, not when he could be taken before the king. Peleus was one of those men that the Gods loved, a foster father to many—even damaged children like Louis, who Peleus welcomed and took in when no one else would. He didn't want to disappoint the king, couldn't even think about the possibility of that man being angry at him.

Louis and the other children were only there to become part of his army; they served no other purpose. He could be sent away for not partaking in the training. And Louis couldn't let that happen—he knew he wouldn't be able to handle being sent away, not again.

His feet started moving on their own accord after he made sure that nobody could see him sneak away from behind the tree. He had to run through the land that surrounded the palace to reach the hiding spot he had previously picked, his naked feet burning against the ground and the screams coming from the other children sounding more and more distant to his ears.

He wasn't sure what to do nor where to go, since he couldn't recognise the direction in which he ran. Wracking his brain, he thought that he'd be fine as long as he could reach the palace and enter through the servants' quarters. There, he could probably hide in one of the storerooms.

Therefore, after passing what seemed to be hundreds of olive trees, Louis managed to find solace in the shadow produced by the palace's wall against the dry ground. When turning his head, Louis noticed that next to him was one of the many backdoors, and after having caught his breath, the boy leaned towards the entrance to glance inside the room and make sure that nobody was there.

Luckily for him, the servants seemed too busy to care about him or even notice him in the first place, hence why he didn't have to pay too much attention to what was happening around him nor care about making noise.

As he entered through the backdoor, the creaking of the rusty hinges accompanying his movements, he looked back over his left shoulder, making sure that nobody was following him. Then, he made his way into the storeroom, looking at the cracks in the floor while trying not to step on them, his fingertips tracing the carved whorls in the stone walls as the room's cool air refreshed his overheated skin.

Louis' bare feet felt cold against the paved ground, his eyes scanning the room and his mouth salivating at all the delicacies he could see and smell. However, he was not going to take advantage of being there alone and become a thief. He slowly made his way to one of the walls and let himself slide down on the floor, his knees pressed against his chest. There, with his shoulders squeezed between amphorae of olive oil and wine barrels, he finally felt like he could breathe again, the coverage provided by the food containers making him feel safe.

He let his head rest on his knees and closed his eyes.

"I heard you were here."

Louis' head jerked up. He did not know how much time had passed, but he almost could not feel his legs after keeping them bent for so long. His eyes struggled to adjust to the light.

It was Harry, standing over him. His face was serious, the green of his irises steady as he regarded him. Louis' skin prickled with guilt: he was not supposed to be there and he knew it.

"I have been looking for you," said the prince. "You have skipped the last lessons." Louis' face went red. He couldn't find the words to answer, so he remained silent. He felt like a child being scolded by his parent.

"The arms-master noticed, I heard him speak to my father," he continued on, probably thinking Louis wasn't going to engage in the conversation, his eyes lingering on the younger boy's legs.

"And he sent you," Louis whispered back, voice so low that he thought he had only imagined it. But Harry clearly heard him, as he crouched down to look him in the eyes. Louis bit his own cheek, not knowing where to look. Harry's gaze was too much for him to bear.

After a moment of silence, "No, I came on my own." Harry's lips moved slowly, as if he wanted to make sure that Louis could understand him. His voice was cool, but his jaw tightened, just a little. Louis noticed, but said nothing. "I came to see if you were ill," he whispered then, his voice sounding sincere, eyes staring right at him.

Louis did not answer. He didn't know what to think, couldn't fathom the idea of Harry caring about his well-being. How did the prince even know where to find him? Louis was sure nobody saw him get in there. But then again, maybe a servant had caught him and decided to tell the prince.

"I just wanted to breathe a bit. I don't really like the other boys," he settled on murmuring. "And I suck at battle training, so."

Silence.

"So you're not ill?"

Louis chewed on his bottom lip. "No."

Harry seemed to consider his answer carefully, his long fingers tapping on his own knee for a few seconds. Then, he started speaking again. "We will need to find a better excuse for your absence," he whispered. At that, Louis looked at him, confusion written all over his face. We?

As if sensing his uncertainty, the prince sighed and ran a hand through his unruly curls, his eyes leaving Louis' face for a moment in favor of looking at the floor. "My father was thinking about punishing you," he said. "I think you don't deserve that. Therefore, we need to find an excuse as to why you weren't training," he explained, his gaze burning on Louis' skin.

"Why do you care?" he hesitated. He didn't know why he asked that, not when he should've been grateful for not having to face such humiliation. It was known that punishments were corporal and often public. A prince would never be whipped—but he was no longer a prince. The possibility scared him.

Harry decided not to reply—Louis noticed that he seemed to do that a lot. Instead, he got up, a hand circling Louis' upper arm to drag him up as well. He did that as if Louis weighed nothing. The blue-eyed boy just blinked at him, breathless.

"I could tell him you were with me," suggested Harry.

"And why would you do that?" Louis tried asking again, his hands busy smoothing out his wrinkled tunic, probably out of habit.

The prince frowned, looking him in the eyes and taking a step forward, his right hand reaching out to Louis. The younger boy stood still as his eyes followed his every movement, knowing better than to disrespect a prince. It took him by surprise when Harry lightly caressed the top of his head before letting his fingers slide down to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. His hands were gentle and Louis could swear that, for a moment, the prince's fingertips brushed against the soft skin of his neck and lingered there.

Both their breaths faltered. Or maybe just his. He wasn't sure.

Another question going unanswered. Louis found that he didn't care much, not when his own heartbeat was the only thing he could hear and green was the only thing he could see. At last, Harry took a step back, seemingly unaffected.

He cleared his throat. "You had something in your hair," he explained.

Harry's eyes suddenly started avoiding Louis' as he busied himself by picking up something that was placed on a shelf. Louis found himself holding his breath once again, his mouth still parted. He must have looked like an idiot, but he couldn't process what just happened. For some reason he could not name, he felt hot all over.

He blinked and closed his mouth when the prince looked back at him. Something shifted in Harry's face. A decision. "Come," he said— ordered . Prince Harry was back.

"Where?" asked Louis. He was wary, his voice unsure and his skin still burning where Harry had touched him. Perhaps the prince wanted to trick him into going to a lesson, or worse, being punished.

"To my lyre lesson. So the fact that you were with me would not be a lie. Afterwards, we will speak with my father."

"Now?"

"Yes. Why not?" Harry watched him, curious. He knew he had nothing better to do.

Why not? Louis found himself thinking. Then, he nodded, his body automatically starting to follow the prince. For some reason, he trusted him.

His chest thrilled with something he could not quite name.

— —

They walked in silence through the frescoed halls of the palace, Louis looking around and counting his own steps so as to keep his mind busy. He didn't want to risk saying something wrong, thus making Harry regret his decision to help him, so he kept his mouth shut and his hands behind his back. His fingers were itching to touch the decorated walls but he fought against it.

Gripping at his tunic to keep his hands busy, he noticed that the frescoes depicted people of all kinds surrounded by nature, either doing sports or playing an instrument. Motifs containing Greek Keys and natural elements such as figs and olives surrounded the different scenes—he wondered if Harry was depicted in any of them. Figs, lyres, and sports definitely fit his personality.

He found himself thinking that Harry should be depicted there, just like the gods were. Afterall, he was a demigod. It was no secret that he was born from the union of a human, Peleus, and a goddess, Thetis. Many were the stories revolving around their marriage, but for some reason Louis believed the one where it was said that Thetis did not want to marry the king: she was forced into the marriage, just like his own mother was. Maybe he was biased and wanted someone to feel the way he did, to feel less lonely.

However, Louis hoped that Harry wasn't as indifferent to Thetis as he himself was to Philomela, his mother. Could he even call her that anymore? He had been disowned. But even before the exile, she had never really been an involved parental figure in his life. He found he couldn't blame her, not when her life was just as miserable.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he wondered if Harry ever saw his mother. He envied the other child for having a non-human parent, knowing that she probably had an escape. From what Louis knew, she was never at the palace, hadn't been since the prince was born. As a sea nymph, she most likely spent time in the water, away from Peleus and away from Harry. The younger boy wished his own mother could have gone away just like that, not having to endure living with an unloving husband and an unwanted son. Unfortunately, her only escape had been wine. The blue-eyed boy believed he'd never be able to drink it, not when its intoxicating effects ended up taking Philomela away from Louis anyway, even though she never really left. He did not want to end up like her.

Louis' breath caught in his throat when he collided against Harry's back, too immersed in his own thoughts to notice that the prince had come to an abrupt halt. Luckily, he managed to catch himself and not fall onto the paved floor, his cheeks burning and his eyes cast down. He kept on embarrassing himself. He hated the fact that the prince managed to turn him into a clumsy fool.

"I don't feel like attending my lyre lesson," announced Harry, his head tilting to look at Louis over his right shoulder. The other child cowered and took a step back, his shoulders sagging and his ears turning pink.

He forced his mouth to open and mutter something, anything . The prince was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. "So, um," he cleared his throat and shied away when Harry turned around, the prince almost crowding him against the wall. "Would you rather go back to the storeroom?" he whispered finally, muttering the first thing that came to his mind.

"That's not what I was implying," he replied.

Louis fought against the urge to roll his eyes. Was he supposed to read his mind? He didn't voice his question though, deciding to remain silent and see if Harry was going to elaborate on what he had said. He did not.

"Follow me."

Louis found himself thinking, I already was.

The room Harry took him to wasn't a place he had visited when he first got there; Louis figured he shouldn't even know about its existence. It shouldn't concern him, not when he spent the majority of his time in the simplest parts of the palace with thirty or so other children.

His dirty feet clashed with the white and polished look of the room; he felt out of his element—the tunic he was wearing was simple, his skin was reddish. On the contrary, Harry looked perfectly at ease in the middle of decorated columns and coral-coloured walls.

Letting his own eyes roam, Louis couldn't help but notice the inground pool placed at the center of the room, a hole in the roof providing it with natural light.

"What are we doing here?" he found himself whispering as his fingers lightly brushed against a plant's leaves. Was it a secret garden? Did Harry plan on drowning him? Was that how he planned to help him, by taking him out of his misery?

Louis shook his head at the way his intrusive thoughts took over his mind. That sounded ridiculous...right? Right.

"I think you— we should take a bath." The prince cleared his throat.

Turning in his direction, the younger boy simply looked at Harry, pondering his words. He wondered what the reason for them was.

When Louis said nothing in return, the prince spoke again: "We are going to meet my father later. Surely you don't want him to see you like this," he murmured while turning his back to Louis, already starting to walk towards the pool. His steps echoed in the silent room.

Louis swallowed, not knowing what to say. Shame made his skin prickle as he averted his gaze for a moment—he did not know how he looked, but it must've been bad. "You're right, I don't wish for that to happen," he murmured back, letting his shoulders sag. His eyes went back to following Harry's every movement. It was hard for him to focus on anything else in that room, even though the indoor garden was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Harry was magnetic to say the least—Louis was sure he could convince anybody to do anything just with a wave of his hand, a glance, a word. Or, maybe, the only person he could convince was Louis. He didn't linger on that thought.

"Take off your clothes."

Louis felt his heartbeat skyrocket, his ears ringing at the speed at which blood flowed to his face. He blinked rapidly when his gaze focused back on Harry, their eyes meeting. At some point, the younger boy had choked on his saliva, failing to contain his coughs, his eyes watering. What?

"What?"

For some reason, what Harry asked of him was completely unexpected, even though it should've been normal in that context. The prince frowned while looking back at him, his dark tunic already shifted to show his chest, the burgundy fabric gathering at his waist.

"You're not to get in my pool with your dirty tunic on," he explained, his tunic falling to the ground and pooling at his feet. Louis tried his best not to let his gaze leave the prince's face. "Some servants will wash our clothes while we bathe," he concluded while stepping down into the pool, the water somewhat concealing his nudity.

Louis felt like he could breathe slightly better.

"Won't—" he panted, "won't the tunics be wet?" he hesitated.

Harry laughed, his chest heaving and his hair getting in front of his eyes. "That is the goal, yes." He raised one of his eyebrows, looking in his direction as if he were crazy. Louis cringed at the way he voiced his question.

"I—I meant for when we'll meet your father?" Why on earth was he making him stutter ?

"Who cares?"

Louis looked at him for what seemed the hundredth time that day, not being able to understand what Harry's actual temperament was like. It was so important to be clean to meet the king that they had to bathe together, but it did not matter if they were sopping wet? He swallowed and slowly started walking towards Harry, his feet stopping right in front of the pool's edge, the lukewarm water tickling his toes. "Yeah, who cares," he repeated, trying not to think about how Peleus would surely judge him for dripping all over his floors. Or at least, that's what his father would have done. He chewed on his bottom lip and looked at the way a servant tried not to interrupt them while gathering Harry's finely decorated tunic. Louis thought the simple one they had given him on his first day would look absolutely ridiculous next to it.

It was when he noticed that they were waiting for him to undress that he nervously took the right shoulder strap of his tunic between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the rough material for a couple of seconds before letting it slide down his tanned arm. The air hit his exposed chest and made his hairs stand up with goosebumps; he exhaled shakily as his fingers lingered on his naked shoulder.

A cough.

"You know," Harry said, blurted . Louis had almost forgotten he was there with him. Water splashed on Louis' legs as the prince lifted both hands to wet his face and slick his hair back all in one motion. "I remember seeing you at that game, all those years ago. The one where you stood right next to your father because you felt sick and couldn't participate," he continued.

So that's what his father had told everyone. A bitter laugh threatened to spill out of his lips. Instead, Louis simply looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to have a conversation."

Louis sighed, his face and neck burning. "Yes, I understand that," he whispered, halting his own movements with shaky hands. "Do you really have to look?"

He felt ashamed. He had never shown his body to anyone before, not since he was a child. He even refused to let his caregiver wash him and help him get dressed. Harry's gaze burned on his skin in a way he could not bear.

"How is it going to make a difference when I'll eventually look at you anyway?"

Louis couldn't argue with that. He decided to keep his mouth shut and finished undressing while looking at the wall behind Harry's head, so as to not have to see the expression on his face.

"We are both men, aren't we?" Harry interrupted the silence, his voice strangled. "It would've been different if you were a woman," he said.

Louis' tunic fell on the ground with a thud.

"Probably," he whispered in reply, his eyes finding Harry's face again only when he was finally seated in the pool, the water arriving at the base of his neck. He chose to sit in the furthest corner from where Harry was, his arms curling around his abdomen to try to conceal himself. He did not know if the prince ended up looking at him while he undressed, but he covered his nudity anyway. "But I wouldn't be here if I were a woman," he concluded.

"I suppose not," observed Harry, his eyes lingering on the sliver of Louis' tanned skin that was not submerged in the water. "Tell me something about you," he said. He did not ask Louis to tell him about what brought him there. The blue-eyed child doubted he didn't know—heck, what happened in Opus was on everyone's lips. He felt a certain hotness spread in his own chest: gratitude.

"I'm afraid I'm not really interesting," he said.

" I find you interesting, therefore that must not be true." The prince simply shrugged and got up to sit closer to him, leaning against the pool's edge. "What is your age?" he asked, his breath ticking Louis' skin.

Louis flushed, his legs squeezing together as he tried to take up less space, cornering himself against the pool's edge. "I'm twelve years old," he answered, his eyes finding Harry's. "I'll be thirteen this winter," he concluded.

The prince simply hummed while nodding his head, his left hand playing with the water's surface. "I am thirteen."

Louis nodded while trying to relax his tense body, letting his cheek rest on the pool's edge. "For some reason I thought you were older," he murmured.

Harry hummed, shaking his head. "Do I look old?"

"I'm just saying you changed a lot," observed Louis, his eyes roaming over Harry's face and chest, trying to be casual about it.

"So you remember me." It wasn't a question.

"You won the race, how could I not?" My father never let me forget about it. "I wished your garland had crowned me," he concluded, his voice soft.

If Harry thought anything about what he said, he didn't comment on it. When Louis moved, the prince's eyes followed his movements and lingered on his exposed neck and collarbones. Louis was sure that the other boy couldn't help but think about how fragile he looked, wondering how someone like him could have killed a person. Sensing Louis' discomfort, Harry said nothing. "I don't like the fact that you have to wear such a simple tunic," he muttered, changing the topic of the conversation.

Louis looked back at him, one of his bony hands resting on his chest. "It's okay, I do not mind it that much," he lied, his lips pursed.

At that, Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't argue with him. "I'll ask my seamstress to make a new one for you," he said, completely ignoring Louis' lie. "What is your favorite color?"

Louis hesitated a bit before answering his question, nervously fiddling with his fingers. "My favorite tunic used to be violet. I also like indigo," he whispered.

Harry nodded, his eyes never leaving Louis' face. "I'm sure you'll look lovely in those colors." A pause, Louis held his breath. "Nephele," he pronounced the servant's name, "did you hear what he said?" A nod came from the woman. "Good. I want you to tell my seamstress to make two new tunics using Louis' measurements."

His eyes remained on the blue-eyed boy's face during the whole conversation with the woman. Louis couldn't understand why he was doing all that for him. Harry was a prince and he was, well...a nobody. There was no good reason for Harry to want his company, no catch in being his friend. Louis watched as the woman got up and exited the room with his tunic in her hands. He looked back at Harry. They were completely alone now.

"Thank you for this. You didn't have to," he said, a small smile forming on his lips and his fingers shyly brushing against the prince's arm. He said nothing when he noticed goosebumps forming all over his skin.

Harry shifted and cleared his throat. "You don't have to thank me," he simply answered. "We'll head to my father's audience chamber once Nephele comes back with your tunic. I don't want you to get all pruny."

"I can always get out first." He raised his brows.

Harry pursed his lips and shook his head, his right hand reaching out to play with a strand of Louis' hair, slowly rolling it around his finger. The younger boy's cheeks flushed, his pulse pounding in his ears. That was the second time Harry touched his hair, but the things he felt did not change.

"No. You'll get dressed first," he whispered softly. "I could tell I made you uncomfortable earlier. If it makes you feel better, I can assure you I did not look."

Louis' tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his brain turning to mush. He did not reply.

— —

They were still dripping when Harry stopped Louis at the entrance of Peleus' audience chamber, their tunics sticking to their skin and wet hair getting in front of their eyes.

"Wait here," he said as they entered the bronze-studded doors. The room was so silent Louis could hear Harry's breath even from afar. He licked his upper lip when a droplet of water fell from his hair and ran down his face, his eyes scanning the room to see where the king was.

Peleus was seated on a high-backed chair with lion-paw legs at the room's other end. An older man stood near him, both of their gazes seeming to focus on Louis rather than Harry. He shivered. He didn't know if it was because he was wet or rather because of their lingering gazes—they didn't seem happy to see him there, probably asking themselves why he was with the prince and why on earth they were soaking wet. Louis bit his tongue and looked away to take the room in, deciding to distract himself.

The walls were hung with deep-dyed tapestries and old weapons kept gleaming by servants. The furniture was limited in quantity, thus drawing a person's eyes to the floor, where a central, finely designed panel acted as the focus of the room. The grid of squares was colorful and Louis could recognise patterns and figures that he had already seen depicted in the frescoes.

The blue-eyed boy swallowed when the room started to feel hot and close, some of his hair strands starting to dry frizzy with humidity. The fire smoked thickly and Louis was starting to get lost in its crackling when a voice startled him and made him take a step back, the fresh air of the corridor hitting his wet back.

His eyes found Harry's feet when he started walking again, stopping right before his father but not kneeling. Never kneeling. "Father, I come to ask for your pardon," he murmured.

"Oh?" Peleus lifted an eyebrow. "Speak then."

From where Louis stood, his face looked cold and displeased. He was suddenly fearful. They had interrupted a meeting—Harry had not even knocked. Louis shuddered at the thought, remembering what his father would have done to him if he were ever so impertinent. Louis didn't know Harry well, but he thought it typical of him, to enter rooms with such assertiveness. He would not be punished. He walked and spoke as if he owned the world.

Louis thought he did.

"I have taken Louis from his drills."

At the mention of his own name, Louis' breath hitched, a hand flying to fiddle with his wet tunic as water dripped on the ground. His name sounded strange on the prince's lips—he almost did not recognise it. He almost liked it.

The king's brows drew together. "Who?"

"Menotiades," Harry said. Menoetius' son.

"Ah." Peleus' gaze followed the carpet back to where Louis stood, trying not to fidget but failing miserably. Tremors ran through his body; he did not know how to stop that from happening. He could feel all of their gazes on him, but for some reason, he could recognise the weight of Harry's, the way it burned his skin. His cheeks flushed under its intensity.

"Yes, the boy the arms-master wants to whip." Whip . Louis flinched at the word.

Harry seemed unaffected by what his father was saying, but Louis could see the way his hands twitched at his sides. "Yes," he murmured, "but it is not his fault. I forgot to say I wished him for a companion." Harry straightened his back and looked directly into the king's eyes. Therapon was the word he used. A brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths and love. In war, these men were his honor guard. In peace, his closest advisers. It was a place of highest esteem, another reason the boys swarmed Peleus' son, showing off: they hoped to be chosen.

Louis swallowed. He had been chosen.

Peleus' eyes narrowed. "Come here, Menotiades." He didn't sound angry, just curious.

The carpet was thick beneath his feet, a drastic change from the cold plaster of the floors. Its fibers tickled his naked feet but he said nothing. Louis knelt a little behind where Harry was standing, not knowing if he was allowed to stand as well. Probably not. He could feel the king's gaze on him; he put his hair behind his ears before letting his hands rest on top of his thighs.

For some reason, Louis thought Peleus was going to talk to him. However, that did not happen.

"For many years now, Harry, I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?" He pointed at Louis and the boy felt his cheeks and chest flush with shame. The question might have been his own: he had nothing to offer to such a prince. Why, then, had he made a charity case of him? Louis could not let Harry go to such lengths just to avoid being whipped. He didn't want to be selfish, but he couldn't find the courage to speak up and tell the truth.

Louis knew Peleus did not see the appeal of him, the question he actually wanted to ask going untold: Why do you care about him? The room waited for his answer.

"He is surprising." Louis' breath hitched. Harry's mouth hung open as if he wanted to say something more but decided against it.

Louis looked up, his lips parting in stupor. If Harry really thought so, then he was the only one. He himself felt quite ordinary. He felt his skin prickle, his nails carving half moons in his thighs.

"Surprising," Peleus echoed. He seemed incredulous. Louis found he could not blame him.

"Yes." Harry explained no further, although Louis hoped he would. He bit his cheeks, the taste of iron invading his mouth. He was aching to know what the prince actually thought about him— why he chose him to be his companion. He just hoped Harry wouldn't get tired of him after getting to know him better.

Peleus rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought. "The boy is in exile with a stain upon him. He will add no luster to your reputation. He killed someone that was not his enemy; do you understand that?"

"Yes, father. I do not care about all of that," Harry said. Not proudly nor pretentiously. Honestly. Peleus acknowledged this.

"Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a companion. What will you tell them?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I will tell them nothing." The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. "It is not for them to say what I will do, nor to judge me," he murmured at last. Louis found his pulse beating thickly in his veins as he quickly became short of breath. He could feel a small smile forming on his lips, his eyes glued to Harry's red mouth and the way it moved.

He was so focused on the prince that he missed the way the faintest touch of amusement bloomed at the corner of Peleus' mouth. He came back to reality when the king spoke his name for the second time since he got to Phthia. "Stand up, Menotiades." He did so, dizzily, his knees buckling and legs trembling. Harry reached out to help him in case he were to stumble and fall. He retracted his hand when he saw his help was not needed.

Louis never wished to fall more.

"I denounce your sentence. Harry, you will give your apology to Amphidamas, and Menotiades will give his as well"—he looked Louis straight in the eyes before he continued—"and you will not have to partake in battle training if you do not wish to do so."

Louis was barely able to contain the smile that threatened to form on his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners while his hands gripped the wet fabric of his tunic. How did he get so lucky? The only thought on his mind was that he did not deserve this at all.

"That is all." Peleus turned from them, back to his counselor, a dismissal.

When Louis turned back to Harry, the prince was already looking at him, his eyes sparkling with something he could not pinpoint.

Their feet glided against the paved floor and their sides brushed as they walked out of the room, a giddy smile forming on Louis' face now that he wasn't facing Peleus anymore. A couple of servants Louis had never seen before closed the doors behind their backs.

They stopped for a second, their breaths heaving as they looked at each other. Then, a smile crept on Harry's face, mirroring Louis'.

— —

After a while, Harry had to leave him alone to partake in activities Louis had nothing to do with. Still, Louis felt abandoned, like he had just been a time-killer. He knew it was selfish of him to think that—he should've been grateful for every second the prince dedicated to him. Harry owed him nothing, after all.

When lunchtime came around, Louis walked into the dining area and saw that the prince was already seated, wedged at their table amid the usual clatter of boys. Louis had half-expected him not to be, thinking that he had dreamed the morning they shared and not actually lived it.

But Harry was sitting at his table. His . Not another one.

As Louis sat, he met Harry's gaze, quickly, almost guiltily, then looked away. His face was flushing, he was sure. He could recognise the feeling. His hands felt heavy and awkward as they reached for the food. He was aware of every swallow, every expression on his own face. He didn't want to make a fool of himself, didn't want the prince to regret choosing him. That's why he stopped eating, even though the meal was very good that night: roasted fish dressed with lemon and herbs, fresh cheese and bread. He even eyed a couple of figs sitting on the table.

The boys were unconcerned by his presence, they didn't feel threatened anymore. His name used to be on everyone's lips, now he was invisible.

"Louis." Harry did not slur his name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. It sounded almost pretty on his lips. Louis had never liked his name before.

Around them dinner was ending, the servants clearing the plates. Louis thought he had imagined it, but the prince called his name again. He looked up, and the boys quieted, watching with interest. Harry did not usually address them by name.

"Tonight you're to sleep in my room," he said.

That was something Louis would've never expected. He was so shocked he struggled to keep his mouth closed, his lips parting. He could hear the thoughts of the staring boys as if they said them. Why him? Peleus had spoken true: he had often encouraged Harry to choose his companions. But in all those years, Harry showed no special interest.

And now the prince wanted him out of all of them to sleep in his room. Louis did not understand. He did not know if that was a privilege of being the prince's companion. He just nodded, dumbfounded. The words were stuck in his throat, questions forming in his head.

He tried to ignore the whispers and the dirty looks, giving all of his attention to Harry instead. He was getting up. Did he want to leave Louis there to be eaten alive? He had dropped a bomb that was ready to explode —children already started to question him and do things to be noticed by the prince. As if arrogance could attract Harry.

Louis met his eyes, begging him for help.

As if he could read his mind, "Come. The servants will bring our food," murmured Harry. He maintained eye contact, waiting for Louis to follow him. Our food. Did that mean— had Harry not eaten yet either?

Was Harry...waiting for him?

Louis stumbled to his feet when he noticed he had been staring at Harry for too long, his legs trembling and his vision going black for a couple of seconds because of the sudden movement. He didn't wait for it to go away before joining Harry and hastily exiting the room in his company.

Louis had to trot a little to keep up with the prince, a couple of servants following them close behind. Louis could smell the fish they were carrying, his stomach grumbling and his teeth busy picking at the chapped skin of his lips. The corridor they were walking through was one of the common ones, one of those that led to the gardens.

"Wait!" Louis hesitated, his shorter limbs unable to keep up with Harry's pace. At that, the prince looked back at him, his steps slowing down to wait for him. Louis felt himself flush as he stumbled to get to where Harry was standing, his naked feet accidentally stomping over some flowers. "Sorry," he said.

"There's nothing you should be sorry for," replied Harry, his hand reaching out to catch him if he were to fall. Louis had begun to notice Harry did that a lot, and Louis was not adverse to it. In fact, everytime Harry's hand extended, it made Louis' stomach flutter for some reason. "I'm sorry for walking that fast, I just wanted to get you away from the other boys as quickly as possible," he explained.

The younger boy simply blinked up at Harry, confusion etched onto his features. "Why?" wondered Louis, his chest heaving. He could see the servants placing their food on some rocks out of the corner of his eye. Were they going to eat here?

Harry shrugged, almost sheepishly. A strand of hair fell in front of his eyes at the movement. "For the same reason you won't share their quarters anymore." He explained no further. That was typical of him. Maybe the only thing about him that Louis didn't like.

The younger boy bit at his cheek so as to not ask any more questions. He didn't want to seem annoying.

"Come," Harry said after a moment, "eat with me."

So he was waiting for him. But why? Louis thought his mind sounded a lot like a broken record: always asking the same question over and over again— why?

Why me, why do you care, why, why, why?

He kept his mouth shut, his feet moving on their own accord to get to the place the servants had prepared just for them. He hadn't even noticed them leaving.

Food had been placed on the surface of a flat rock, in the shade of olive trees. The sun projected their shadows right on top of it, its rays peeking through the leaves and lighting the back of Harry's head. As Louis sat down in the grass, he couldn't help but think Harry must've been related to Apollo himself. The sun made him glow; Louis couldn't keep his eyes off of him.

"I've never seen you eat here before," he said, breaking the silence that was interrupted only by the chirping of the birds and the crepitation of the grasshoppers.

Harry sat in front of him, leaning on a rock that was right behind him. He was already chewing on his food, his mouth busy. He couldn't reply; Louis felt stupid for disturbing him. He stuffed his mouth with bread.

"That is because I've never eaten here before," he simply replied, his eyebrows quirked and his eyes finding Louis as he bit on a piece of goat cheese.

Louis felt himself flush at his own poor attempt at small talk, deciding to keep stuffing his mouth until he was full and ready to go, so as to not disturb the prince by trying to speak again. What if Harry decided he was too loud to be his companion? He could not let that happen.

So he kept stuffing his mouth with fish until there was no more left, his gaze lingering on everything but the prince, whose eyes followed his every movement. Louis was fidgety, his legs moving nervously and his sticky fingers scratching his skin when it started to itch because of either an insect or a golden spikelet.

Harry cleared his throat, and Louis halted his movements all together. When the younger boy looked up, he noticed that the prince was offering him half of a fig, his hands stained with red juice. "You're my companion, you do not need to prove yourself," he murmured, his protruding hand slightly shaking.

Louis looked at the fruit in his hand for a couple more seconds before accepting it, looking the prince in the eyes. "Thank you," he hesitated, his red lip caught between his front teeth.

Harry nodded, going to take a bite of his own half. "I took you here because I remembered you don't particularly enjoy the other boys' company. Let me know if I was mistaken."

That made Louis' movements halt once again, the fig's skin tickling his lips. He couldn't believe Harry had remembered such an insignificant thing. Louis himself almost couldn't remember saying it—but Harry had not only remembered it, he had gone out of his way to make Louis feel more comfortable. Heat expanded in his chest, crawling up his neck and face, making him flush. Then, he slowly took a bite of his fig, looking at Harry's smug smile.

Harry knew he had pleased him.

"You were not," whispered Louis, remembering to answer a tad too late. "Thank you for this. You didn't have to," he added, sheepish.

"I think I did." Harry smiled at him. "We'll go to my room as soon as you finish eating." It was an affirmation. Louis nodded, subconsciously starting to eat faster.

The first thing Louis noticed about Harry's bedroom was his bed. Inlaid with silver and ivory, big and comfortable looking. Gods , he had missed that.

The room was big enough to be able to accommodate not only Harry's bed and furniture but also a cot, which Louis supposed was going to become his new bed. The younger boy could almost feel his toes curl at the sight of his new bedding—no more thin blankets or hay mattresses. Only comfort and silence .

The prince pursed his lips while taking his own room in. "I suppose the servants still haven't brought your belongings here," murmured Harry, inviting him to enter the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

Louis turned around to look at him, slowly shaking his head as he fisted at the material of his tunic, trying to keep his hands busy in some way. "I had nothing with me. Do not worry about it," he answered, shamefully ducking his head.

Saying it out loud made him realize just how unimportant he had become.

The prince looked at him for a couple of seconds, halting his own movements, probably not expecting him to say such a thing. He probably thought Louis would at least own something —even if he wasn't a prince anymore.

"Alright." Harry cleared his throat, deciding not to dwell on Louis' words. The younger boy was grateful for that. "You'll soon own two new tunics. Just say the word and I'll give you everything you desire," Harry said as he started undressing to supposedly put his battle gear on. Louis remained silent, nodding at him as a coy smile spread on his lips, his eyes never leaving Harry's lean figure.

"I'll now have to meet the arms-master but you can stay here if you wish to do so. I'll be back before dinner."

Louis nodded again. "You'll probably find me here," he whispered. "Thank you for everything. I really enjoyed it today," he concluded, hesitant, starting to fidget with his hands. Harry looked up at him and smiled while tying his sandals.

"No need to thank me," he said. "I'll see you later, then."

Louis let himself fall on the prince's bed as soon as he left the room.

— —

They ended up not seeing much of each other at dinner—Harry had to eat with his father instead of him and the other children. Louis felt disappointed at the fact that he had to endure eating with the other boys again, even though he managed to escape them only once before, that day at lunch.

It's not like he expected Harry to start ignoring his duties and all the people that were not him, but deep down that's what he hoped for. He felt selfish, but now that he had experienced how being treated differently felt, he did not want to be like the others anymore.

He was having trouble eating with the way his shoulders were squeezed between a chubby boy and a child that was a couple of years older than him, shoutings and questions filling his ears as his eyes remained cast down on the tablecloth. One...two...three...four, he busied himself counting breadcrumbs and small pieces of food so as not to have to answer the interrogations surrounding him. Most children were wondering why the prince had chosen him, and even though he couldn't blame them, the fact that some of them thought he had threatened him made him sick.

"I would never," he said, his voice weak like a breeze. They didn't hear him, or maybe pretended not to. For someone who wanted answers, they didn't seem to care about what he had to say. After trying to speak a couple of times, he decided to remain silent, a gaze burning his back and making his neck flush. He didn't dare look up, but he could recognise its intensity, the energy that those eyes gave off. Harry was looking at him, looking at the way the other children treated him, maybe even listening to the things they said. Or at least that's what Louis told himself was happening.

Five...six...seven, there were a lot of crumbs. That night's meal consisted of olives, cheese, and meat. Judging by the smell, it was lamb. Louis was tired of eating fish, but did not particularly enjoy the taste of meat. He popped an olive into his mouth, carefully avoiding munching on its pit. After swallowing, he gently spit the pit into his hand and dried it with the hem of his tunic, keeping it to play with while he waited for the permission to go back to Harry's room.

It still felt strange to think that he would not have to go back to sleep in that cramped room again. A small smile formed on his lips as he toyed with the olive stone, scraping it with his short nails. He could not help but feel excited—he'd finally have some privacy again! And he'd share his room with someone he cared about. Biting his lip, the boy found himself wondering if Harry would snore (hopefully not) or maybe if the prince would scold him if he were to toss and turn too much when nightmares made it difficult for him to fall back asleep.

The boy really hoped that wasn't the case.

Louis was so immersed in his thoughts that he did not even notice it at first when a hand gently pressed onto his back, caressing his hot skin over the thin fabric of his white tunic. The dark seed fell from his right hand onto the floor as his eyes found Harry's, his head leaning back to look at the prince. His lips parted and his eyes roamed to look at the other children, but almost nobody else was there. It was just him and the prince.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked, his hand leaving Louis' body to pick up what he had dropped. He let out a small laugh and raised his brows at the object, looking back at the younger boy before handing him his game back. "I do own marbles, you know?" He ruffled his own hair while pointing at Louis' hand. "Come. My seamstress told my personal servant that your tunics and new underclothes are ready."

Louis silently nodded, the hand holding the olive stone clenched in a fist so as to not lose it again. He stood up and stepped away from the messy table to walk with Harry, happily listening to what he had to say. Harry's voice was the only one that did not give him a headache.

He counted fifty-eight crumbs before he had to go.

If Harry noticed how his bedding was not tidy anymore while Louis' was still intact, he said nothing about it. The younger boy silently thanked him for that, closing the door behind their backs before walking towards his own cot, his eyes immediately finding the beautifully dyed fabrics of his new tunics. "Wow," he whispered, his fingers tracing the details of a gold clasp.

"I was right," murmured Harry, his voice coming from behind Louis. He turned to look at the prince, Harry's chest only a couple of inches away from his. Louis could feel the prince's breath on his face, his hair shifting with it.

"About what?" he said, his eyes finding Harry's. The prince smiled.

"You look lovely just standing near your new tunics. I wonder how you'll look when wearing them," he answered, his head tilting and his hands clasped behind his back. Then, he cleared his throat and took a step back. "Well, you'll show me tomorrow. Now it's time for you to sleep."

Louis swallowed and felt himself cool down a bit when the prince stepped away from him, his breath leaving his nose all at once. He hadn't noticed he had been holding it in. "What do you mean?" he questioned, letting himself sit down, his gaze never leaving Harry's face. "Are you not going to sleep?"

Harry shook his head. "My mother is waiting for me," he said quietly. "I'll be back in a while if you want to wait for me. But I think you should rest."

Louis nodded even though the prince was already climbing out of his window, his back turned towards him.

He had his answer: Harry saw his mother at night.

— —

Slowly, Louis grew used to it. He no longer startled when Harry spoke, no longer waited for rebuke. He stopped expecting to be sent away and learned that the prince actually liked it when he spoke—he did not have to worry about saying the wrong thing.

At night, he still dreamed of the dead boy. But when he woke, sweaty and terror-stricken, it was seeing that he was safe and cared for by someone like Harry that made his pulse slow down. In the dead silence of the night he could always hear the lick of the waves against the shore, the moonlight lighting the room so that he could see Harry's sleeping body, watch his easy breathing.

After some time, he found he could sleep again. Time after that, the nightmares lessened and finally dropped away.

Louis learned that Harry was not as serious as he seemed. He was not untouchable anymore, nor unreachable. Beneath his composure and stillness was another face, full of mischief and faceted like a gem, catching the light. He liked to play games against his own skill, catching things with his eyes closed, setting himself impossible leaps over beds and chairs. After a while, Louis started to do all of those things with him, not afraid of screwing up anymore. He had to keep reminding himself that his father was not there— he could not judge nor mistreat him. For the first time in a while, Louis felt safe.

At night, Harry began to tell him stories of his day before they drifted off to sleep. He began doing that after Louis told him about his nightmares, but Harry didn't stop when they did. At first Louis only listened, but after some time his tongue loosened. He began to tell his own stories; first of the palace and the other kids, and later small bits from before: the rituals he engaged in, the wooden horse he used to play with when he was a child, the lyre his mother used to play before he became completely indifferent to her. He tried not to talk about the bad things, but it was hard. Sometimes Harry held him in his arms when a particularly bad memory about his father resurfaced, his body shaken by tremors. Louis liked that Harry did not ask him to speak, only comforted him and played with his hair.

Soon their conversations spilled out of the night's confinement. Louis surprised himself with how much there was to say about everything. The beach and dinner and one boy or another. He stopped watching for ridicule, the scorpion's tail hidden in his words. Harry said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. They spent most of their time outside, sometimes playing, sometimes just enjoying each other's company.

Louis started to feel lonely whenever Harry had to leave him to go train or attend some sort of meeting with his father. But the prince always came back to him, and that was enough.

One afternoon, as Harry went to leave him for his private drills, he said: "Why don't you come with me?" His voice was a little strained. If Louis had not thought it impossible, he might have said he was nervous. Louis' breath hitched—he was taken aback. Harry never let anyone watch him train.

"Alright," he said, trying to conceal his excitement at the prospect of spending more time together.

It was the quiet hours of late afternoon on a fall day, the heat was not as bad anymore and Louis was glad he could breathe a bit better. They took the longest way, through the olive grove's twisting path, to the house where the arms were kept. He stood in the doorway as Harry selected his practice weapons: a spear and sword, slightly blunted at the tip. Louis reached for his own, maybe because he still wanted to prove himself worthy of being Harry's companion, then hesitated.

"Should I—?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't fight with others. Especially not with you , " he told him. Louis did not know what he meant by that.

He followed him outside to the packed sand circle. "Never?" He ignored the part about himself while asking, not feeling brave enough to let the question slip out of his mouth.

"Never."

Louis swallowed and trailed off as Harry took up a stance in the center, his spear in his hand, his sword at his waist. He decided not to ask anything else, knowing that Harry needed to concentrate. He did not want to be sent away.

The prince spoke again as if he could read his mind. "You can talk, you know," he murmured. "I assure you I will listen. And I am skilled enough not to risk aiming at the wrong target just because of your voice," he reassured him, a smirk on his lips.

Louis wrinkled his nose in a grimace and reached out to pinch him. "Stop it," he mumbled, causing Harry to chuckle, his eyes following Louis' movements instead of looking straight ahead. "You know I never doubted your skills."

"I know." Harry smiled at him. "Doesn't mean I can't make fun of you."

Louis rolled his eyes and huffed. "Just throw that spear, snail."

Louis liked to mock him: he knew Harry's miracle was his speed. Harry knew as well, and that's why he never took offense. His spear, as he began the first pass, moved faster than Louis' eye could follow. It whirled, flashing forward, reversed, then flashed behind. The shaft seemed to flow in his hands, the dark gray point flickered like a snake's tongue.

Louis could not move, stuck there, watching. He almost did not breathe. He did not actually know just how fast Harry was. The prince's face was calm and blank, not tense with effort. Louis wondered how.

His movements were precise as he leapt, scything his spear, even as his other hand snatched the sword from its sheath. He swung out with them both, then, he stopped, suddenly. From where he stood, Louis could hear his breath, only a little louder than usual, in the still afternoon air.

"Who trained you?" he found himself asking, his voice shaking a little. He did not know what else to say. He was surprised he even managed to speak in the first place.

"My father, a little," came Harry's answer.

A little. Louis felt almost frightened. "No one else?"

"No."

Louis struggled to believe that deities such as Ares and Athena had not trained him even just once. For some reason, he stepped forward, remembering what Harry had said earlier. "Train me, please," he found himself asking, his eyes darting from the prince's eyes to his mouth. Louis wanted to learn, he wanted to be worthy of his role as Harry's companion. He wanted to be the only person Harry would train with.

The prince made it look... beautiful, the sweating and the hitting. Not like the other children.

However, Harry made a sound almost like a laugh. "No. Of course not."

The younger boy swallowed, feeling uncertain. Why not? "Fight me, then." He was stubborn. He wanted to know why he said he did not want to fight nor train him in particular. What was that supposed to mean?

"I don't want to. Don't ask again, Louis." He knew he could usually shut him up just by saying his name, but not this time, Louis was determined.

Louis bit his cheek, taking a step forward. "Why not?" He put himself between the prince and the wooden target, forcing Harry to look at him. He felt weak at the fact that the prince had to look down.

"You don't have any weapons." He spoke as if Louis were a child. Louis frowned, narrowing his eyes at him.

"I'll get them," he said, his voice faint. He felt incredibly weak and small under the intensity of the prince's gaze.

Harry sighed and knelt to lay his weapons in the dirt, his hands going to his own hips. His eyes met Louis'. "You will not."

"But I want to learn. You cannot forbid me." He stepped forward, trying to sound convincing. He knew he had absolutely no right to tell Harry what he could and could not do. Still, he could not bear the thought of being unfit to be by the prince's side.

Harry's face twisted and, almost, Louis thought he saw anger. This pleased him. If nothing else, Harry would fight him then. But instead the prince walked away, his weapons abandoned in the dust.

"Come back!" Louis said, his voice wavering. Then louder: "Come back—are you afraid?"

That strange half-laugh again, his back still turned. "No, I am not afraid of you." He turned around to look at him. "I don't want to hurt you. Stop arguing and come with me." Louis hated how Harry made him sound like a child. He could not let it go.

His legs swallowed up the five steps between them, and he crashed into his back once he started walking again. Harry stumbled forward, falling, and Louis clung to him. They landed, and the younger boy heard the quick huff of Harry's breath as it was driven from him. But before Louis could speak, Harry was twisting around beneath him, Louis' wrists already seized by his larger hands. Louis struggled, not sure what he had meant to achieve. He held Harry's gaze. "Let me go!" He yanked his wrists against his grip.

"No." In a swift motion, he rolled Louis beneath himself and pinned him down, dust covering both of them.

"Oof—" coughed Louis, his head thumping on the ground. " Please get up," he pleaded. "You're heavy."

Harry raised his brows, his face mere inches away from the other boy's. "You should've thought this through. Sounds like it's your fault." He laughed and put all of his weight on Louis. "Apologize," he murmured.

Louis looked him in the eyes, his nose wrinkled. "Never." He stuck his tongue out. Harry was quick to grab it between his thumb and index finger before pulling it and letting it go with a chuckle, his other hand still holding Louis' wrists. The younger boy spluttered. "Your hands are dirty!" he exclaimed as he fought against the urge to spit on Harry's face, if only to prevent it dripping on his own.

"I can stay here all day. I don't know about you, though," said Harry, a smug smile stretching his lips. "Apologize." He rested his chin on top of Louis' sternum. "Or I won't let you come here with me again."

Louis didn't want to apologize.

He panted, holding Harry's gaze. However, the prospect of seeing the prince train again was too tempting not to give in. One day, he thought. Maybe one day Harry would actually train him as well. But until then, "I have never seen anyone fight the way you do. You make it look beautiful, this is why I wanted to learn," he confessed, his voice low as the fight left his body, his wrists going limp in Harry's hold.

The prince seemed surprised to see Louis become pliant in his hold. His fingers gently traced the skin of Louis' wrists as he prepared to let go of them. "You have not seen much," he settled on whispering back, apparently ignoring the fact that Louis hadn't apologized.

Louis swallowed nervously, but never averted his gaze from the prince's irises. "But I made you fight me, in the end."

Harry's eyes were unreadable. Over them both, the unripe olives rattled gently. Ultimately, he let go. They both sat up, their tunics dusty and stuck to their backs. Louis felt gross, but Harry did not seem to care.

"Well, what's my prize for defeating you?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

Louis remained silent.

— —

"Have you ever been stung by a bee?"

Harry curled his lips and looked at him from where he was sitting. "No, I don't think so," he said. "Have you?"

Louis shrugged. "A couple of times, when I was younger."

Harry hummed to let him know that he was listening, but his eyes fixed back on the pond in front of him. His wrist moved fast to throw a rock and let it skip on its surface. Louis counted eleven skips.

"I have a scar under my right foot because once I did not remove the stinger," concluded Louis. He did not know why he felt the need to say it. Maybe he just wanted Harry to know that he had a scar, too. That he was cool just like him. Even if Harry's scar had been caused by a spear and his by an insect. But that was beside the point.

The prince quirked his brows, rotating his torso to look at him. "We will have to make sure that won't happen again, then," he noted, his eyes following Louis' movements as he picked flowers to make a small bouquet. "Who is that for?" he asked, his eyes still searching for the scar on Louis' foot.

Louis pursed his lips and lifted his gaze to look at him. "Us," he replied. "I really want to teach you how to make a flower crown." He hesitated but kept going. "I used to do it all the time back in Opus. I also liked to build small gardens with flowers and rocks, and make potions with water and plants and dirt—" Louis shut his mouth when he noticed he was rambling. "Sorry." He cleared his throat and continued picking poppies and chrysanthemums. "I get too excited when talking about these kinds of things."

Harry threw another stone. This time it skipped eight times. The prince looked at him for a couple of seconds before abandoning the rocks he was holding in his hands to go sit with the other boy, starting to collect flowers with him. "And what was your favorite thing to do?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the red poppies. "The little gardens or the potions?" he continued after having received no answer, his eyes never lingering on the other boy so as to not fluster him.

At Harry's words, Louis halted his movements, a shy smile forming on his lips as his index finger lingered on a pink petal of an anemone. "Well"—he cleared his throat after picking the flower—"potions were my favorite thing to make. It was easy and it made me feel like a priest, even though I did not like to make sacrifices. I thought I'd become one, one day," he explained, the wind making his hair fall in front of his eyes. "Is there...is there something you liked to do, when you were younger?" He hesitated, his gaze landing on Harry and looking at the way he carefully handled the flowers so as to not ruin their petals. "You know, apart from training?" he asked.

"Uhh..." The prince pursed his lips, looking at the flowers he held in his hands as if he were interrogating them. "I had these small pottery figurines that I liked to play with. I made them fight, which now that I think about it, is not any different than me training." He stopped talking to think about other things he liked to do, a frown on his face. "I suppose I also played a lot with my hobby horse before I had to learn about my father's trade." He shrugged. "I'll have to say that potions and flower crowns sound more fun." He smiled when their gazes met. "My father would have thought of those as womanly activities, though." He winced and scratched a mosquito bite on his calf, smearing dirt on his skin.

Louis bit his cheek and got on his knees in the soft grass to crawl to the prince, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "I'll have to teach you some day," he suggested, his hands still busy tying the flowers' stems together. "Your father won't have to know about it," he reassured him and patted his hand, his fingers lingering on the prince's skin a couple of seconds too long. He did not know where he found the courage to do such a thing.

Dimples carved out Harry's cheeks, his nose wrinkling as he mimicked what Louis was doing with the flowers. "I'd really appreciate that. Thank you," he whispered and waited a couple of seconds before speaking again, as if he were thinking about what he could say next, his eyes lingering on an anemone, "louloudi."

At that, Louis felt his cheeks heat up, his eyes immediately finding Harry's. "I—what?" he whispered, his voice unsure, his hands halting. Was he talking about the flowers he had picked? Or...was that a nickname? Louis' heart started beating faster as hope made his chest flutter.

"Ah...I said, uh, flower." Harry cleared his throat.

"I heard you, Harry." Louis was flustered. "But why did you say that?" he whispered, bashfully ducking his head. Please, say it was for me.

Harry shrugged, his cheeks tinted pink, his eyes cast down on the stems he was tying together. "You know... louloudi, like Lou. It reminded me of you," he murmured, his hands clumsy as he tried to keep tying the flowers' stems together. "I like it. I'm going to call you that, I think. Louloudi."

Louis did not know what to say, his heart galloping in his chest. "I'm not a flower," he said, his voice strained. "I'm far from deserving such a nickname."

"You are pretty like one," mumbled Harry, immediately starting talking about something else after saying that, maybe hoping that Louis hadn't heard him.

Except that he had. And he could now hear nothing but those words, echoing in his mind and filling his ears until he could do nothing but start believing them.

"So...what is the next step?" Harry cleared his throat and picked up the mess that should've been his flower crown. Louis' eyes fell on it as his mouth still hung open; the heartbeat in his ears was the only thing he could hear besides the words the prince had spoken—Harry's voice was getting lost in it. He looked at the way the prince had tied the stems together and tried to reinforce the bond with some grass and leaves, but it was quite messy. Louis remembered how Harry's hands trembled when he was talking, maybe rushing what he was doing out of embarrassment.

Maybe he actually hadn't meant to confess that he found Louis pretty out loud.

Besides everything, it was a good first try. Once Louis found his voice again, "You just keep going until you are able to tie the ends together in a circle-like shape," he said, his gaze going back to Harry's face. "You are doing well." He cleared his throat. "I like the colors of the flowers you chose." Louis smiled, but it was weak. In his mind still echoed the words 'flower' and 'pretty'. For a moment, he forgot how to act normal.

Harry spoke, but Louis did not hear what he said. The younger boy blinked a couple of times while looking at him. "Sorry, I was distracted," he whispered. "What is it?" He bit his cheeks. Stupid.

The prince cleared his throat, his flower crown laying unfinished on his lap. "My mother told me she wants to meet you. She's curious—I have been talking to her about you," he confessed, the wind almost washing his voice out. "But I know her. She is not going to be nice to you, therefore I won't permit it," he said. "I just wanted to let you know."

Thankful for the change in conversation, Louis found himself nodding along, wondering why Thetis had expressed the desire to meet him. But he trusted Harry. He was not going to see her if the prince wished him not to. "Thank you for telling me," he whispered. "I hope she knows I have no ill intentions," he added, unsure.

Suddenly, Harry took one of Louis' hands in his, his touch electric. "I know that, and that is enough." He smiled at him encouragingly. Louis simply poked Harry's right dimple with his finger, the smile on his face mirroring the prince's. For a moment, neither of them spoke another word, their eyes silently observing each other. Louis was the first to avert his gaze.

"Let us finish making these before it starts to rain," he said, his eyes focusing on the dark clouds on the horizon. "Or else they will get ruined," he concluded. Harry nodded and picked up his crooked crown while eyeing Louis'.

"Yours looks so much better," he noted, frowning.

Louis laughed, his eyes finding Harry's. "I have been doing this since I was little. You will get better if you keep trying," he assured. "I'm making this for you, so you better make me a cute crown." He quirked his brows while Harry frowned.

"You should have told me sooner," he mumbled and let himself fall back on the ground, his backside hitting the grass. "I do not want to give you something ugly," he said, putting the flower crown on top of his chest as he stared up at the sky, gazing at the slowly-approaching clouds.

Louis shrugged, his eyes never leaving his own crown as he put his finishing touches to it. "I don't think yours is ugly," he said, slowly shaking his head. "I like it...it has character."

Harry huffed, groaning as he looked back at his abandoned flower crown. "That is exactly what you say when something is ugly."

Unable to stop a smile from creeping up his face, Louis chuckled, his shoulders shaking with it. "That is not—"

Suddenly, a voice came from somewhere behind the two boys, making the words die in Louis' throat and his head snap up. "Look! The princess is picking flowers," the voice snickered, causing the boy's hands to still and his head to turn in the direction from which the voice came.

His gaze immediately met the eyes of one of the children that lived in the palace. Apparently, they still hadn't let go of the stupid nickname they used to refer to Louis with. Swallowing, the boy blinked, not knowing what to do, nor what to say.

And so he remained still, his skin flushing under the heated gazes of his attackers, prickling with a sort of shame he thought would never come back.

It had been a while since the other boys did as much as talk to him, and so he had been foolish enough to think they wouldn't bother him anymore—he was Harry's companion now, and as such he felt invincible, untouchable. Apparently, as usually was the case, he was mistaken. Because, now, it was happening again.

However, somehow, it was worse than before; worse than when he was nothing but a lonely, scared, exiled boy. Because now Harry was here, and he could see and hear the way he was treated—the way he was disrespected.

Why on earth would the prince want to be associated with someone like him? Someone that was regarded as an object of ridicule, a laughing stock.

Would Harry be scorned as well? Because of...him?

However, despite what the deprecating thoughts that were making their way inside Louis' head said, Harry sat up, his face twisted with anger and his shoulders tensed up as he assessed the situation. But before he could say anything, the other boys spoke again: "Look at his face—" They snickered, slowly approaching Louis. The boy could see a hint of malice behind their eyes. "I bet he's wetting himself! All alone"—the boy grinned—"without the prince's protection."

They didn't seem to take notice of Harry's presence, the prince's body somewhat hidden behind some bushes. However, Harry was quick to get up and put himself between Louis and the approaching boys, his fists clenched at his sides. "Come again?" he hissed, his eyes hard as he regarded the two.

Having not expected for Harry to be there, the boys stopped in their tracks, color draining from their faces as their eyes got wide and their lips parted in horror. Louis watched as Harry towered over them, his face flushing at the thought that the prince was looking out for him.

At the thought that Harry was protecting him.

His mind took him back to all of the times when his father, the figure in his life that should've protected him from all harm, was instead the person that hurt him the most. In Opus, he had been alone against his aggressor. Now, not anymore.

It suddenly came to him that he had finally found the person that would protect and shield him from the rest of the world.

Louis swallowed, hiding behind the prince's legs as Harry spoke to the kids. "Have you lost your voice? You seemed so sure of yourselves before," he seethed, taking a step forward and shoving the boys' chests. "How dare you pick on my companion, huh?" He raised his voice.

From where he still sat, Louis could see one of the boys cower and fall on the ground as he tried to get away from Harry. They looked... scared. Somehow, it pleased Louis to see them like this. Because now they knew they couldn't mess with him anymore. "N-no," one of them trembled as the other scrambled to get back to his feet. "We were just...joking."

Harry scoffed, slowly shaking his head. "What if I told my father about how you offended me? As a joke, of course," he said, his jaw set.

Both of the children were quick to shake their heads, nervously glancing around as if in search of a way to escape from there.

Harry nodded curtly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Very well," he mumbled. "Let everyone know that if you disrespect Louis, you disrespect me. I will not have this happen again. Have I made myself clear?" he growled, causing the kids to agree, quickly nodding their heads in response.

However, that didn't seem to be enough for the prince. In fact, he opened his mouth once again, moving quickly to grab one of the boys' wrists to stop him from running away. "Now apologize to him," he mumbled, his jaw set, his eyes hard as he regarded the children in front of him.

When neither of the two said anything, Harry resorted to raising his voice. "I said, apologize," he growled.

And so, finally, the frightened boys mumbled their apologies, looking at Louis with wide eyes and trembling limbs: "S-sorry, Louis." "Yeah—sorry!"

Then, they quickly ran away after the prince dismissed them, stumbling as they tried to get away from there as quickly as possible.

When Harry turned back towards him, Louis was staring at the prince with his lips parted and his face flushed, words getting tangled in his throat as he tried to come up with a way to express his gratitude. However, he didn't need to—he could see it in Harry's eyes. The prince already knew what he was trying to say.

"I couldn't watch as they said such things to you," he mumbled, slowly getting back in front of Louis. "They will never bother you again, now," he added, his big hand gently ruffling the younger boy's hair before he sat back down.

Louis swallowed, his skin prickling with the need to feel Harry's touch again. His hands trembled as he picked his flower crown back up, glancing around to make sure that they were actually alone now. "Thank you," he whispered at last, a coy smile forming on his lips as he presented the flower crown to the prince. "May I?" he found himself asking, his gaze shifting from Harry's face to his unruly curls.

Harry simply smiled, slowly nodding his head. "Please," he said, softly, every trace of anger completely gone from his voice now. It was amazing just how quickly he could switch from yelling at someone to tenderly talking to Louis.

The boy swallowed, breathing gently as he got closer to the prince, Harry's soft breaths hitting his skin as he placed the colorful crown on top of his head, the dark curls perfectly framing it. "There," he whispered after a second too long, goosebumps making their appearance all over his skin as he gazed into Harry's eyes, his heart beating so fast he was afraid the prince could hear it.

"There," whispered Harry back, an awestruck expression on his face.

They didn't leave once the first raindrops started to fall on the ground around them.

— —

A few years later, they experienced the toughest winter they'd ever lived through. Harry was almost sixteen, while Louis had just turned fifteen a couple of days before.

They hadn't been prepared for the snowstorm that hit Phthia—the gardens were completely coated in white, the thick blanket reminding everyone of Persephone's absence. Many of the children had never seen snow before. Louis himself had only ever seen a couple of flakes falling, back in his hometown.

Training had been stopped until further notice: the garden was rendered inaccessible and the palace's rooms were unsuitable for such activities. Louis wasn't bothered by that; after all, he didn't have to train anymore. He felt sorry for Harry, though. The prince used to train for hours at a time every single day, even when it was cold outside. It built stamina, character, he said.

With the gardens being off limits and the arms-master being sick, he had nobody to train with, now that he had agreed to do so. Louis had even tried to volunteer again after he saw him pacing around their room, shoulders tense from not taking all of his energy out on someone else. Harry had looked at him as if such an offer managed to deeply offend him, replying with the usual 'I will not fight with you, Louis' .

Louis felt his own heartbeat skyrocket at the sole thought that Harry preferred suffering like that rather than hurting him, even if accidentally. His face was hot to the touch when he rested it on his own knees, his body engulfed in the woolen cloak the prince had insisted he'd have. It still smelled like Harry and (even if Louis would have never admitted it) breathing his scent made him feel at peace and less cold. As if Harry was right there with him.

The prince was currently dining with the other children, like his father had asked him to. Peleus had accepted his decision to have Louis as his companion, but he didn't want the other children to feel left out. The blue-eyed boy tried hard not to be jealous, thinking about the other boys enjoying Harry's company and talking about only the gods knew what. His skin prickled with jealousy at the thought that the prince could smile at them the way he only smiled at him.

Running his cold hands through his hair, he had to remind himself of where he currently was. In Harry's— their —room. He was waiting for the prince to come back and finally have the evening for themselves. He knew he was privileged. And he didn't feel guilty about it. He was so obviously Harry's favorite, the fact that the prince dined with the other children that night didn't change a thing. Louis knew Harry would come back to him with food in his hands even though he had told him he was not hungry. He even knew the other boys were envious of him. And he liked that. Not only were they envious of his role as the prince's companion, they were envious of the way Harry cared about him and only him.

The fact that he had received a woolen cloak was still on everyone's lips. Wool was expensive, so much so that only royals could afford it. He was only a companion, he should've still been almost on the same level of the other foster children. But he wasn't. He had never been.

A small smile made its appearance on his lips as he looked outside the window, his nose probably red because of the cold wind. He wondered if he was always on Harry's mind just like he was on his.

The thing is, they had started to change. They were not children anymore. He hadn't noticed it at first, but now the fact that Harry grew up was undeniable. Louis had always thought he was beautiful, ever since he saw him at those games when he was six years old. The prince just had that something that caught his eye and never let it go.

It had become more difficult for him not to be around Harry, to try not to be as close to him as possible. The prince got even taller, so much that Louis had to tilt his head completely to be able to see his face. For some reason, it flustered him. That, and the fact that Harry had started to get broad; up until then, it was still clear that his body was a child's. Now, not so much. He was starting to become a man and Louis did not know how to deal with that.

He did not know how to deal with how his heart jumped in his throat every time the prince looked in his direction or touched him. Was it possible for hands to grow? Because the younger boy was absolutely sure that Harry's hands hadn't always been that big. They engulfed Louis', covered the expanse of his lower back, circled his arms with no problem.

He had caught himself staring for too long too many times to count, trying to notice every single detail, every little change in the prince's body, to try and memorize them. He noticed the way his jawline became more defined and how little hairs started to grow between his eyebrows or over his upper lip. When they laid down in the grass or in Harry's bed, he liked to count his freckles and join the small pimples on his face as if they were constellations, discovering his body just like the prince discovered his.

Louis was not blind. He had started to notice changes in his own body as well. He got taller, but not as tall. His body was still as lean as always, but his legs were always bigger than he'd like them to be. But he found it did not bother him that much. The blonde hairs that started to cover his legs did not bother him. Just like the redness on his face and the soft curves of his hips didn't. And that was because Harry liked them. He had never told him, but Louis knew. It was in the way he talked to him and in how he touched him and looked at him in a different way.

They were both unaware of what was happening to them.

Watching the snow fall, his mind drifted away from happy thoughts and warm feelings to thoughts about things that made him want to writhe with nausea. He mostly tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind, feigning that the issue didn't exist. But it did. And it made him sick to his stomach. It had been a while since other people had started getting to the palace. Slaves, to be precise. Female slaves. Louis was well aware of their role there. Heck, he had even been encouraged to choose one for himself. He thought that was barbaric. They were still young, but that didn't stop the other boys from doing what they wanted to those poor girls.

That bothered him, but it didn't bother him as much as the thought of Harry doing that. As far as he knew, he hadn't chosen any girl. One night, when Peleus encouraged him to look for a servant to sleep with, Harry had replied that he was too tired for that, proceeding to go back to his room with Louis. The younger boy was relieved, of course, but he didn't understand why. Harry could've had whoever he wanted, could've even made his father buy a new slave just because he didn't like the ones that were already there.

He didn't seem interested in them, but the thought that he could start to be anytime now made Louis grimace.

The girls were one of the reasons why he had decided not to attend dinner that night. He couldn't bear to see the way they looked at Harry, just like the other boys used to do. Choose me. Pick me. Take me. Everybody always seemed to want to steal Harry away from him.

This time, Louis wasn't confident Harry wouldn't choose one of them. Because, if for some reason he had managed to pique Harry's interest when they were children, the same thing definitely wouldn't happen now. What did he have over the soft volumes of the girls' bodies and the sweet sound of their giggles?

Nothing.

It was sometime later that he was awakened by noises outside of the door. He was still half asleep when he heard the distinctive timbre of Harry's voice, his unmistakable steps echoing in the corridor. A tiny smile formed on his lips, his back straightening up and his hands going to fix his ruffled hair as he stood up, the woolen blanket still engulfing his tired body.

Then, he heard another voice. It was high and airy—it didn't sound like one of the other boys'. Not at all. His breath caught in his throat, his hands stilling in his hair and his smile faltering. He could not hear words, only sounds. But he was certain that it was a girl's voice.

A strangled sound escaped his lips, his eyes watering at the possibility. However, after a moment, Harry opened the door and...he was alone. His heartbeat was the only thing Louis could hear, so strong in his ears that every other sound was muffled.

Harry went straight to bed. He had no food with him. It was as if he hadn't even noticed the younger boy was still awake.

Louis did not know for how long he stood there, simply looking at him. He could smell wine on him—his nose was used to its bitter smell from when his mother used to drink it.

That night, he laid in his own bed, an insistent thought haunting him like a ghost and keeping him awake. Please, don't let wine take him away from me. Not him.

— —

It was the day after that Louis decided to finally ask him.

He had to trot a little to keep up with Harry as they walked back to their room after dinner. Louis had spent the whole day thinking about the night before, wondering if his clouded mind had imagined everything. He knew Harry liked to have some wine lately and he had smelled it on him, so maybe that was why he forgot to bring him food. Not because he was busy.

They washed their faces in silence and he tried to resist, fearing the prince's reaction. But there was an ache in him, like a rotten tooth. He could not let it be any longer.

Words came out of his mouth like a waterfall. "That girl—do you like her?" That was not how he wanted to ask him. He bit at his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He wasn't even sure the prince had been with a girl.

Harry turned to face him from across the room, a frown on his face. "Who?" he asked, confusion written all over his face.

Louis' breath shook. He regretted asking—he felt stupid, and small. He had no right to ask such questions. Still, he forced his mouth to open. "One...one of the slaves," he breathed, his voice quivering.

At that, Harry seemed to be taken aback. He blinked. "Why? Do you?" He almost sounded accusing, his jaw clicking shut.

Louis was quick to shake his head, his skin prickling with shame. "No— no." He flushed, stumbling on his own words. "That is not what I meant." Louis had not felt so much uncertainty with Harry since the earliest days. "I mean, do you want—"

Suddenly, words died in his throat as Harry strode towards him, pushing him backwards onto his cot. Louis let out a squeal, his eyes widening as he felt Harry's breath against his lips. The prince had leaned over him. "H-Harry—"

"I'm sick of talking about her," he said. His eyes were sharp.

The heat rose up Louis' neck, wrapped fingers over his face. He could do nothing but look at Harry's hair as it fell around him, and he could smell nothing but him. His lips seemed to rest a hairsbreadth from his own—Louis' eyes flickered to them as his cloak slid off his left shoulder down to the bed, uncovering his arms and chest.

That seemed to affect the prince, his gaze briefly shifting to the parts of Louis' body that had been revealed. He exhaled sharply, his breath faltering.

Then, just like that the night before, Harry was gone. Up across the room, and pouring a cup of water, his face seemingly still, calm. However, Louis knew he was faking it. Harry's hands were shaking. The younger boy did not know if it was because of anger or rather something else.

When he opened his mouth to question him about it, the prince spoke. "Good night," he said. He went to bed, while Louis remained in that position long after Harry put the torches out.

They never spoke about the girl again.

— —

It was one of those days where Harry couldn't stay with him and keep him company, his duties as a prince keeping him occupied and away from Louis. The blue-eyed boy couldn't and didn't want to blame him for that. It was okay. He was used to him being away and to the hours he had to spend alone.

He had trained for those moments all of his childhood, playing alone in the gardens and talking to any object or being he deemed friendly enough—the flowers, the animals, an imaginary friend. It was no different now. With his eyes lingering on a caterpillar that had decided to make a path out of his arm, and his hands full of an unfinished flower crown, Louis felt at peace.

The fresh air caressed the skin of his face, keeping him company and ensuring that his hair would stay away from his eyes. He was in the gardens, his back against one of the palace's walls and his body enjoying the coolness of the shadows. People laughed and screamed and talked all around him; the other boys were playing some sort of ball game and the girls were singing a song that had Louis humming along. Sometimes, he felt bad for the things he thought about them, but he simply could not help it. He just wished they wouldn't show any interest in the prince, so that he could even consider trying to befriend them.

But their eyes followed Harry wherever he went, and their lashes fluttered whenever he spoke, and they played with their hair when he smiled. Jealousy consumed him. And he knew it was foolish to think such things, especially when he had no claim over Harry. They were companions, friends, boys . He knew he could not blame the prince if he'd ever been charmed by features Louis simply did not have. Looking up, his eyes lingered on silk-like hair fluttering in the air. He saw exposed shoulders and thin legs, pretty faces and soft curves.

He felt stupid for looking at them with a desire that was different from the other boys'. Because all that they wanted was to possess those bodies, while he just wished to be like them. Take the body they had and replace his own with it. He wanted their legs and their hands and their beautiful faces. Because then, maybe he'd have a chance at being noticed, at being seen in a new light. And he thought that, perhaps, Harry would like him more if he was less like him.

Dropping his gaze to the caterpillar that now walked on his left knee, he thought about how much it would've changed after having become a beautiful butterfly. And he wished with all his might that something like that would happen to him, too. He sighed. Maybe in a couple of years , he thought.

"If I were you, I'd add a splash of yellow in there." Suddenly, a voice came from his right. Louis' head snapped to the side, his eyes finding reddish knees. Blinking, his gaze lifted till he found a girl's eyes staring right back at him.

"What?" he asked, the words dying in his throat. Why was she talking to him? He hoped she was not trying to get him to like her. He almost grimaced at the thought.

"The flower crown," she said, raising her chin to point at his creation. Louis' eyes dropped to his own hands, remembering what he was doing before she had interrupted him. Right.

"Oh," he whispered, not knowing what else to say. "Yes, maybe," he concluded, clearing his throat. His crown could use some yellow flowers.

Seconds passed, Louis simply looked at his new friend (the caterpillar) and asked himself where all of that was going. He felt uncomfortable. His eyes darted to the side— yes, she was still there. Coughing and putting the flower crown on the ground, he noticed his hands were trembling a bit. Talking to strangers made him nervous, especially now that Harry was not there with him.

"Is there—is there something I can help you with?" he asked when he realized she was not going to talk any more, his voice unsure. His eyes found the girl's face again; she shrugged.

"I just saw you were sitting alone," she said, her eyes darting back to her friends every couple of seconds. She sounded amused, unimpressed. Louis heard the other girls giggle. He swallowed, looking at them out of the corner of his eye.

After a couple of seconds of awkward silence, she sighed and shook her head. "Actually, that's not true." She cleared her throat, nervously playing with her hands. "My friends dared me to come talk to you," she concluded, her voice low.

Louis simply blinked at her, not understanding the reason for such a dare. Was it to mock him or was it because she maybe had taken a liking to him? He liked neither option. When opening his mouth to question her about it, he got interrupted, his body jolting up. Suddenly, something red and blurry came into his vision, the object flying and landing directly into the girl's hands.

Was that an... apple?

Louis was even more confused than he was just a couple of seconds before. His head turned to his left, his gaze landing on a group of guys. They were laughing and shoving and pushing each other—fruits were resting in their hands and on the ground around them. The blue-eyed boy frowned, connecting the dots. The boy at the front, the only one lacking an apple—he had thrown it at the girl. He threw an apple .

Had he tried to hurt her?

Louis felt enraged even though he had not particularly liked the young woman. They had no right to throw things at the girls just because they were slaves or, well, not boys. At that moment, he saw himself in her. He needed to do something, anything, to make the situation better.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak, he got interrupted again. The girl was...giggling. Louis looked at her. Why was she happy? That boy had just tried to hurt her, had he not? And now her friends were congratulating her and giggling breathlessly. What? This time, when his eyes darted to the side to see if she was still there, the girl was gone. Louis blinked. She had scurried away without speaking a word, and the blue-eyed boy watched as she ran back to her friends, deciding that he had had enough. He wanted to get away from there.

His attention returned to the caterpillar; a frown formed on his face when noticing it was gone. Between the two, he was definitely only upset about the small insect leaving without saying goodbye. He sighed.

"Harry?" When Louis entered the andron, his eyes immediately found the prince's back, his body bent over a desk. He was busy scribbling something, or maybe reading a manuscript. From where he was standing, he could not tell.

The prince hummed in response, acknowledging Louis' presence, but never turning around to look at him. The blue-eyed boy frowned. He felt like screaming. "Can I ask you a question?" Louis' voice was unsure, his body lingering at the room's entrance. He nervously played with his hands, fearing he had disturbed him. He mentally kicked himself; he could have waited. A mystery regarding an apple was definitely less important than whatever the prince had to do at that moment.

Despite the thoughts that plagued his mind, Harry stopped moving, and the thud of clay tablets being set on the table echoed in the room. "Of course." The prince's gentle voice reached the younger boy's ears, his eyes finally finding his face. Louis watched as he dropped the glass rod he was using to write, his body turning in his direction, leaning against the table. "What is it?" he asked. Then, he spoke again: "Come here." His hands reached out as if he wanted to pull the younger boy towards himself, his bunny teeth biting his lower lip.

Louis stepped forward, his naked feet slapping against the cold plaster floors. "I—I'm sorry if this is stupid," he said, his voice unsure. "I can come back later if you're busy."

Looking at him, Harry shook his head, his fingers gently brushing against the younger boy's arm. "Tell me. I'm sure it is not stupid," he said, a smile on his face. "Nothing is when it comes out of your mouth. You're curious, and I find that to be a good quality." Louis did not expect him to say such things. Some days, Harry could be extremely sweet. Others, not so much.

For some reason, his mouth went dry and his hands and face started to tingle. That was not what he came here for, but he was not going to complain. "I—um." He swallowed, trying to find the words. What was it that he wanted to ask, again?

The apple. Right.

Trying not to focus on the way Harry caressed his skin, Louis struggled to talk, goosebumps forming all over his body. "Okay, so." He coughed, squirming. "I—I saw one of the boys do something today and I wanted to know what the reason for that was—if you happen to know." He stopped talking when he noticed he had started rambling, his tongue getting tangled on itself. He felt stupid. "He, um, threw an apple at one of the girls." Harry blinked at him, listening to what he had to say. "And...she was not angry at him. It's something I just don't understand. Was he trying to hurt her? Why did he use an apple? Why was she okay with it?" At that point, Louis sounded exasperated. Harry's hands circled both his wrists in an attempt to soothe him.

"And you're so nervous and invested because...?" he asked. His voice was gentle, his touch even gentler.

Louis sighed, trying to relax under his touch. "I don't know," he mumbled, shrugging. He didn't dwell too much on it before he spoke again, letting the words slip out of his mouth: "Maybe...maybe I just missed you today, and small things frustrate me," he confessed, not knowing what other reason there could have been.

At that, the prince smiled, dimples carving out his cheeks. "You missed me?"

Smug bastard. Louis grumbled, taking a step back. "No." Yes. "That is not the point. Just answer me," he mumbled, his gaze dropping to his own feet, his toes almost touching Harry's. He was starting to feel cold.

Harry looked at him, not believing a single word he said but nodding anyway. "Alright." He sighed. "But only because you asked so nicely."

Louis narrowed his eyes at him, unimpressed.

Harry chuckled, reaching out to pull the younger boy towards himself again. "I'm just mocking you," he whispered, looking him in the eyes. Louis bit his cheek, nodding; he knew.

A couple of seconds passed.

"Mhh...I think it has to do with a myth about Erys. The one that involves the Apple of Discord."

Louis blinked. He had gotten lost in Harry's eyes. "What?"

Harry smiled, poking his side. "You're the one who asked, listen to me." He raised his brows, amused.

The younger boy cleared his throat, feigning indifference. "Yeah—uh, you said something about an apple?"

"Yes."

"That definitely does not explain why the girl was happy about being a target for apple-throwing."

Harry hummed, agreeing with him. "I suppose not." He gripped the edge of the desk; Louis' gaze dropped to his hands. "It happened at my parent's wedding. Or at least that is what I was told."

Oh. "Can I know?" whispered Louis.

The prince nodded at him, the look on his face making him understand that it wasn't a big deal. Louis still felt special.

"So—as you may or may not know, the goddess Erys was not invited to the party—which is not surprising, to be honest," observed Harry, momentarily losing his train of thought. He shook his head. "She got angry, and she showed up anyway just to throw a golden apple on the floor. Apparently my mother's friends went crazy over it and everyone wanted to have it—"

Louis frowned, leaning towards the prince. "And why is that?"

Biting his lip in thought, Harry hummed. "It had an inscription—Kalliste , I think."

"For the most beautiful one, " whispered Louis, slowly nodding. "I understand why the goddesses argued over this."

Harry hummed again, a strand of hair falling in front of his eyes. Louis' gaze focused on it. He wanted to play with it. "A certain Paris solved the dispute by choosing Aphrodite as the most beautiful goddess, so now apples are sacred to her. And I believe that throwing an apple at someone is like a declaration of love. And if you catch it, you're accepting the person's love."

Oh. "Oh." Louis bit his lower lip, starting to think that that thing the boy did was actually kind of...cute. And luckily the girl had caught the apple instead of getting hit by it. "That explains everything. Thank you," he murmured, his shoulders relaxing.

"Anytime." The smile that the prince gave him lit up the room. Louis buried his finger in his left dimple.

"Now, I want to know what you were doing. What is so important to keep you away from me?" he said innocently, using that as an excuse to get closer to the desk, pretending to look at the manuscript. There, after locating Harry's glass rod amongst the clay tablets, Louis picked it up and started running. Away from the desk and away from the prince. He craved his attention.

"Hey!" Harry's voice echoed in the andron, his laugh accompanying it.

They spent the rest of the day together.

— —

It was late summer, over two years after Louis' exile had begun, that at last he told Harry of how he had killed the boy. They were in the branches of the courtyard oak, hidden by the patchwork leaves. It was easier there somehow, off the ground, with the solid trunk at his back.

Harry listened silently, and when Louis had finished, he spoke: "May I ask you a question?"

Louis nodded, somehow fearing the prince would hate him now. What did he want to ask him? About his guilt? About his nightmares? However, nothing like that left Harry's lips.

Instead, "Why...why did you not say that you were defending yourself?" he asked.

It was like him to ask this, the thing Louis had not thought of before. He found himself swallowing the lump in his throat, his lashes brushing against his cheeks as he blinked quickly. "I—" He breathed. "I don't know," he realized.

He didn't know. At that moment, he knew nothing but the shake in his hands and the frantic beat in his ears.

"Or you could have lied. Maybe saying that you found him already...dead." Harry spoke the last word carefully, as if saying it out loud would trigger the younger boy. His eyes were gentle, his brows knitted.

Louis stared at him, stunned by the simplicity of it. He could have lied. Then, another revelation followed: if he had lied, he would still be a prince. It was not murder that had exiled him, it was his lack of cunning. He understood, now, the disgust in his father's eyes. His moron son, confessing it all. Louis recalled the way his father's jaw had hardened as he spoke, the way his yellow teeth bared and a vein in his neck throbbed.

When he spoke again, his voice was faint, his chest and neck stained red with shame. He said nothing of it, and Harry didn't, either. "But I wouldn't have met you," he settled on answering, shaking.

For a while, Harry remained silent, the wind ruffling his hair and his skin glistening in the sun.

"Am I"—Harry stopped for a second, probably to gather his thoughts—"more important than...having a title, to you?" he whispered, not looking at him, his hands busy playing with a leaf.

For the first time ever, Louis found himself actually thinking about it, about how his life had changed for the better. There was a time where he'd have laughed at Harry's question, rolling his eyes at the prince's arrogance. He liked having a title, he liked having a family name and being rich. His kingdom was vast and longed for, but at what price? What he used to have was an empty life, filled with disappointment, hatred, fake smiles, and even faker care.

Before Phthia, nobody cared about him of their own free will.

Now, he had Harry.

This time it was him who decided not to reply, thinking that the prince wouldn't be ready to hear the answer to his own question.

Harry seemed to understand anyway.

— —

You came and I was longing for you,

you cooled a heart that burned with desire.

— Sappho

It was on days like that when Louis let himself completely forget about what had happened in his life before Phthia. With his sun-kissed skin and the wheat tickling his thighs, the only thing on his mind was Harry—his voice, his eyes, his smile. The one that the prince reserved only for him.

He was looking at Harry from afar, his hands on his hips and his breath heavy after running for so long, attempting to play Episkyros with only two players. Harry was laying on the ground, his chest heaving and wheat ears falling around his head like a crown.

It was summer, one of the first fine days. They were near the beach after lunch, having run away before Peleus could force Harry to learn about trade or taxes. The sun was high in the sky, and the air was warm around them. At some point, Louis had joined the prince, sitting right next to him, their backs flush to a sloping piece of driftwood and small spikelets decorating both of their hair. Beside him, Harry shifted, and his foot fell open against his. It was cool, soft from a winter indoors. Harry was humming something, a piece of a song he had played earlier.

Louis turned to look at him, and he found himself unable to hum along. Harry was looking at his own hands, carelessly toying with the ball they had played with. That day, his face was smooth, without the blotches and spots that had begun to afflict both him and the other boys. His skin was just a little red in some places. His features looked as if they had been drawn with a firm hand; nothing awry or sloppy, nothing too large—all precise, cut with the sharpest of knives. And yet—the effect itself was not sharp, it was beautiful.

Harry turned towards him and found the younger boy staring right at him. "What?" he asked, his brows quirked.

Louis swallowed, averting his gaze. "Nothing."

He could smell him. The oils that he used on his skin, the salt of sweat, the hyacinths they had walked through crushed against his legs. Beneath it all was his own smell, the one Louis went to sleep with, the one he woke up to. He could not describe it. It was sweet, but not just. It was strong but not too strong. Something like sandalwood, but that still was not right. Sometimes, after they cuddled, his own skin smelled like it.

Suddenly, Louis' pulse jumped, for no reason he could name. He felt his skin prickle, and he raised his gaze again, immediately finding the prince's. Harry had looked at him a thousand times, but there was something different in this gaze, an intensity he did not know. His mouth was dry, and he could hear the sound of his own throat as he swallowed.

Harry watched him. It seemed that he was waiting. What are you waiting for, Harry?

It was a while now that Louis had felt strange around him. Stranger than before. For a reason he could not name, Louis shifted towards him. He did not know what he was going to do—his body moved of its own accord.

He could not stop himself before he leaned forward, his hands trembled and his breath shook. Then, as if he had slipped and fallen, his lips landed clumsily on Harry's. He could taste the prince's mouth—hot and sweet with honey from dessert. His stomach trembled, and a warm drop of pleasure spread beneath his skin. More.

The strength of his desire, the speed with which it flowered, caused him to flinch and startle back from his companion, shocked. He had a moment, only a moment, to see Harry's face framed in the afternoon light, his lips slightly parted, still half-forming a kiss, his eyes wide with surprise.

Louis was horrified, his mouth dropping open as his hand flew in front of it, wishing he could take the kiss back. What have I done? He did not have time to apologize. Before he knew, Harry had already stood up and stepped backwards, as if fire had burned him. His face had closed over, impenetrable and distant, freezing the explanations in Louis' mouth. Then, the prince turned and raced up the sand and away. Away from the moment, away from the beach, and away from Louis.

Louis' side was cold with his absence. His skin felt tight, and his face, he knew, was red and raw as a burn.

Dear gods, he thought, let him not hate me.

— —

Louis remained there long after Harry fled, his eyes still wandering in the direction in which the prince ran, the sand sticking to his sweaty limbs. His skin still prickled with shame, the cool wind drying the tears on his feverish face. He hadn't meant to cry. But then again, he would've never thought that Harry, his Harry , could've ever been repulsed by him. Was a kiss more sickening than the thought of Louis killing someone? Harry never had a problem with that, never had a problem with anything that concerned Louis.

But why did he run away? The prince never left anything unfinished.

Louis cried, but it was not caused by overwhelming sadness, no, he realized he was scared. Scared of having to face loneliness again, scared of being hated by the only person that mattered to him. He did not know how he'd be able to look Harry in the eyes again after what happened that afternoon. He was trying his best to avoid having to go back to their room, even if he was just postponing the inevitable. Harry would certainly come look for him if he didn't come back before nighttime, and Louis did not want that. But his body told him that he needed to wait, to stay there just a little longer, to stay until he knew he couldn't anymore.

He needed to breathe and try to muster enough courage to apologize to the only person that managed to make him feel alive.

But until then, he remained there—with his throat in lumps, his tongue tangled on itself and his heart filled with regret.

His brain was ordering him to do something, anything. Instead, he could do nothing but sob, wetting his splotchy cheeks as the tears ran like waterfalls. While his eyes burned from exhaustion and his long lashes all clumped together with tears, the only thing he could think about was that Harry had once told him how he liked them. He found himself rubbing at his reddened face to make it all go away, sand grains getting all over his skin and scratching it, mixing with the dry residue of seasalt that coated his body. He felt itchy, uncomfortable in his own skin. However, he knew it wouldn't go away with a simple bath—he couldn't scrub his feelings away and drown them in water or scented oils.

He wished he could.

And he still did not know what got to him, could not understand why his body reacted in such a way. He had found himself admiring Harry many times in the past, but the urge to get closer to him had never been so strong. He knew he was not envious of him. He had known for a while now, but refused to believe that the reason for his longing might be something other than admiration.

Sometimes, he'd think Harry felt the same way towards him. For when he laughed, he could feel the prince's gaze lingering on him. For when he played like a child or made flower crowns, Harry would do it with him. For when he crumbled down and shared memories from his past, the older boy was always there to get him back into one piece. There was still hope in his heart that Harry had run away just because he was scared, just because he was nervous. Not because of Louis or what he had done.

With a heavy heart and the wind ruffling his hair, he knew he had to get up. While the sun prepared to kiss the gentle waters of the sea, Louis' shadow became elongated and sharp right before his eyes. While looking at the slow descent of the sun, he couldn't help but think of himself as that star, burning with desire for something he could not have. In his mind, he was the sun, while Harry was the sea. Were they meant to never actually meet in the middle?

Louis hoped that was not the case.

Stepping in the sand with heavy legs and an exhausted body did not seem to him like the biggest challenge he'd have to face that day. Louis was walking slowly while looking at his shadow, the last of the sun rays chasing him to redden his nape and exposed shoulders. He was carrying the ball under his arm, the dead grass now itching his legs and feet, his body taking him in the direction of the palace on its own. He knew that if he stopped walking, he'd never go back to his and Harry's room.

From where he stood, in the distance, he could see some of the other foster boys finish with their training, while others were just talking whilst heading towards the dining room. They had never bothered him again, not after that time in the gardens, but Louis still disliked them. He could never go back to living with them if the prince decided he did not want to be his friend anymore. He lowered his gaze.

With a lump in his throat, he just kept walking, his free hand occasionally scratching a mosquito bite or chasing bees away. When he finally got close enough to the palace, he let go of the ball he was holding to climb the stairs and enter the building he now called home, probably getting sand grains all over the floor. He could not wait to bathe, so that's what he decided to do. Harry could wait a while longer.

Later that night, Louis finally found himself in front of his room's closed door, the light from the flaming torches filtering out of the bottom of it, almost reaching his toes. He was holding his breath while listening for the smallest sound to come out of the room, not knowing if Harry had come back from dinner yet. He did not even know if he went.

With his heart in his throat, the blue-eyed boy slowly opened the door, his eyes immediately finding Harry's back, his arms leaning on the windowsill and his eyes probably gazing at the stars. That's something they liked to do together. Louis let the door close behind his own back, his eyes never leaving the prince.

"I was waiting for you," Harry whispered, his back tense. Louis felt his breath hitch at the possibility that he was the cause for the prince's stance. He felt uncertain, his hand still resting on the door, ready to flee. Yet again, he found himself hoping that Harry was just nervous.

Louis took a step towards him, frantically trying to find the words to answer, not knowing why he was so scared. It was strange to him to think that Harry was waiting for him to come back. He thought he wouldn't want to see him. "Harry—"

"I'm leaving." The prince spoke over him. That was unusual, not Harry-like. He was one of those people that when you spoke, looked at you as if you were the most precious thing on earth, listening with interest and nodding along. Louis felt himself freeze at the words that left his mouth, wondering when and why he had decided he'd leave him and if the kiss was the reason for such a decision.

"I—what?" He felt himself choke up, all the air leaving his lungs. "Where are you going?" Why are you leaving?

"Mount Pelion," he whispered, his back still turned towards Louis, his right leg moving nervously. The younger boy's eyes fell on it. "Chiron expects me there tomorrow."

Louis could not believe that was happening. "Y-You can't leave the palace." You can't leave me. "Who's Chiron?" Against his will, he found his chest burning up with jealousy. He wanted to scream at himself that that was definitely not the priority at that moment, and that he had absolutely no right to feel jealous.

"He is to be my mentor." Harry cleared his throat, his hair flowing in the wind. Louis needed to stop looking at him. "You are not to come with me."

Louis spluttered, his eyes widening in surprise, his heartbeat skyrocketing. "How did you—"

"I know you too well, Louis." He still refused to look at him.

The blue-eyed boy fidgeted in place, tears forming in his eyes and burning his throat, making it difficult for him to speak, to breathe. "Is it because of... me?" His voice cracked.

Silence.

"Are you leaving because of me, Harry?" He repeated himself after having received no answer, his voice less unsure and more panicked, his knees trembling and his right arm reaching out for him. He felt as if his whole world was crumbling down, the walls surrounding them seeming to trap him in there and press on his lungs. He felt out of breath, just like when he'd stop running because his spleen hurt. In that moment, what hurt was his heart.

"No," Harry murmured without hesitation, his eyes finally finding Louis'. "You make me want to stay," he confessed, his jaw tense and his body turned in his direction. "It hurts me to know you think so low of my affection for you."

At that, Louis' bottom lip trembled. "I don't, Harry, you know that is not what I meant." His voice wavered. He wanted to get closer to him, but did not know if he could. He felt like a frightened fawn in front of his hunter. Harry did not reply. "Why are you leaving all of a sudden?" whispered Louis, closing his eyes for a moment. He felt the prick of hot tears against his eyelids. He blinked, trying to stop the tears from falling.

When Harry looked him in the eyes, he seemed pained at the thought of having to leave. Then why , Louis found himself thinking, why are you doing this to me, to us?

A cough. "My mother saw us," he whispered. Once Louis realized what he was talking about, he felt his own face heat up in shame, his gaze dropping to the ground while he bit his cheeks so hard the taste of iron invaded his mouth. "For some reason, she does not like you," continued Harry. "She has ordered me to leave."

Despite the situation they found themselves in, Louis could not help but think about the way Harry acted after the kiss. Did he run away because he knew his mother was there? The younger boy's heartbeat sped up at the possibility that the prince could reciprocate his feelings: what if...? But he needed to concentrate.

All of a sudden, Louis dropped to his knees the way he had when he asked for Peleus' forgiveness. Harry's eyes followed the movement and his jaw tensed at the way he hit the floor. He seemed worried that Louis had hurt himself. "Please don't leave me here." It was a request, Louis' voice barely audible. He hoped the prince had heard him, the lump in his throat preventing him from speaking any more without starting to cry again. He could not let that happen.

"Louis." He seemed tired, his voice laced with something much like beseechment. "You know I cannot take you with me," he whispered, his voice cracking and his hands trembling. Now it was Louis that refused to look at him, his gaze set on a crack in the pavement.

Harry waited a couple of seconds before speaking again. "Louloudi," he pleaded, "look at me."

Louis' heart jumped in his mouth, just like every other time Harry called him that. It wasn't a habit of his, therefore it felt special, meaningful, when he did. It was something just for the two of them, something that still managed to make his cheeks burn even after years. Even so, he couldn't find the courage to do what was asked of him.

Harry sighed. "Please, Louis. I don't want to leave you like this."

Louis shrugged, his lips trembling and his hands holding onto his calves to ground himself. "I'm not asking for much," he mumbled. Despite his efforts, a single tear ran down his face.

In a matter of seconds, Harry was on his knees as well, his left hand to Louis' right cheek, his right on top of Louis' heart. Harry never kneeled. Now, he did. "Hey, look at me," he whispered, his calloused hand lifting Louis' face just enough for their eyes to meet. Harry smiled weakly at him, their noses brushing against one another. The younger boy's heart was beating in his ears, his face flaming hot. He hoped the prince wouldn't notice even if he was touching him, feeling his heart beneath the palm of his hand.

It took Louis a couple of seconds to notice that Harry had managed to calm him down with just a touch of his hand. He didn't know what to make of it.

After a moment of silence, "I wanted to help you, but your heart is racing," whispered the prince. Louis closed his eyes in shame. He was mortified. How could his body betray him in such a way? "And I'm positive you hurt your knees. I think we should go sit on my bed instead."

At that, Louis could do nothing but nod, the lump in his throat preventing him from saying anything more. With tears burning his eyes and bitterness invading his mouth, the boy let himself be led to Harry's bed, his legs threatening to give out under the weight of his body.

As they sat down, Louis tried his best not to start crying again, his blurry gaze focusing on the way the moonlight adorned Harry's face, framing his curls and highlighting his beautiful features. It almost hurt to look at him.

It hurt more to know that soon he wouldn't be able to look at him— for gods knew how long.

Louis swallowed, waiting for the prince to talk. Harry breathed gently, simply gazing at the boy sitting next to him on the bed. Louis longed to know what he was thinking about.

"You know I'd stay if I could," Harry settled on whispering, causing a sound to come out of Louis' lips, a little whimpery and lost. "But I won't be too far away," he added, his voice sounding strained, his brows knitted. Harry swallowed, taking the boy's hand in his and using it to point out of the window. "Do you see that?" After squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Louis nodded, his lips quivering. "I'll be there, under your same stars," said Harry at last, his jaw twitching as his gaze shifted back to Louis, their eyes meeting again. "We'll still be able to stargaze together."

At that, Louis felt the prick of hot tears against his eyelids, a sob leaving his lips against his will as he shook his head. "But i-it won't be the same," he managed to croak out, his voice breaking on the last syllable. How could he ever bring himself to look out of the window and gaze at the stars until Apollo drove his Sun Chariot in the sky, ultimately putting out the dark and chasing the constellations away? How could he ever do that without Harry by his side?

He couldn't. He simply couldn't

Louis swallowed, searching for the prince's gaze when he said nothing more.

At last, "I need you to trust me, Lou," whispered Harry, smiling weakly at him. "Everything will be alright."

The younger boy bit his cheeks so hard he tasted blood. He trusted Harry; he trusted nobody but him. That is why he found himself nodding, the skin of his hand prickling in the places where it still made contact with the prince's.

Everything would be alright.