Stretched out in the grass, he let his fingers play along the various blades, plucking occasionally, and other times silently revelling in the feeling of cool, dewy life in his hand. Youthful lethargy had swept over him earlier in the morning, and he’d toppled onto earth from his chariot with a drowsed sigh, his chiton beating the wind during the fall. He rolled onto his stomach and let the sun engulf his exposed back, sending vast explosions of contented warmth to trickle all over his pale flesh and warm up his very core. To think, he though in a playfully vain way to himself, Apollo, a god!, enjoying the earthly pleasures of Mother Gaia that humans seemed to so adore. He planted a quiet kiss to the ground that lay beneath him as a sort of momentary sacrament to her, before he turned his head and rested his cheek against the cool grass, his curls falling about his face.

Of their own accord, his eyes began to flutter shut, the sleepiness so sapping his will, when a great burst of air rushing past his face made him take notice and lift his head up to see what was occurring, not willing to admit to himself that his heart was all aflutter from the startling awakening. His eyes searched the field a moment before they came to rest upon a youth running frantically, the brown-hued skin of his ivory youth picking up a gilt quality as he ran, sweat trickling down his smooth back and running unabashedly beneath his chiton, making the god sit up and watch with piqued interest as the youth tripped over his feet and crashed to his beautiful knees, before his friend came up behind him, spun him about like a doll until he was on his back upon the ground. The other boy, older-looking and larger, fell to straddling the boy about the waist, and held a sharpened stone to his throat.

“I, Heracles, do defeat and kill this reviled lion of Nemea!” He play-stabbed the boy several times.

“To Zeus!” The boy whispered in a sort of whimper, holding out a hand to the sky, before making a choking sound and letting it fall with a thump to the ground. Apollo smiled at the intimate performance, and reminded himself to thank Dionysos when next he saw him. The boys stayed like that for a moment when the lion opened an eye tentatively and then gave a muffled giggle. “You’re to be the Hydra now, & I’ll be Heracles.”

“Oh, I must get back home, though. My father told me this morning he needed me to return so that I may be further tutored in the ways of the court, you see.”

“Alexios, must you always do this?” He asked huffily, pushing the bigger boy off of him. “Your father does nothing of importance, anyway, my father told me once,” the boy clearly lied, turning with a frown away from Alexios.

“Hyacinth, you boar, you’re a liar,” he said before bringing his knuckles down upon the boy’s head with force enough for it to be heard a fair distance away, causing Hyacinth’s façade to melt away under a broken dam of tears. Alexios rushed away without a backwards glance at the now crying boy who clutched his head as though he feared it falling off.

Apollo rushed up with a hushed gasp and went to the boy, who was still weeping uncontrollably when he got to his side. He leaned down to the boy’s side, and when he looked to him nervously through his haze, Apollo, smiling sweetly, ran a hand up the length of the boy’s arm, over his shoulder, and into his thickly tangled hair, laying a feathering touch upon Hyacinth’s wound. He withdrew his hand and caught glimpse of the blood that lay delicately on his fingertips, and he brought them hesitantly to his lips. Hyacinth turned for a moment, giving free will to his healer, who ran his tongue along his fingers slowly, resting them upon his lips as he did so, a curious heat pulsing in his chest.

“Who are you?” Hyacinth asked, casting a look of childish innocence upon the god. His blue eyes had turned red round the edges, and his cheeks had become ruddy with tears, and the sheer exemplification of childlike beauty hit him in the stomach, knocking his breath away and he had to catch his words as they tried miserably to flee him.

“Never mind that. Who are you?”

“I’m Hyacinth Amyclas, prince of Sparta,” he said, a proud gleam coming into his eyes. It would seem that he had rehearsed this line by way of his father’s prodding, and he was very pleased with getting to use it.

“Impressive, young prince. I am Apollonios, of no grandiose title.”

“Your name is suiting,” Hyacinth said, his eyes flitting over Apollo quickly.

“As I am so often told,” he replied, raising his eyebrows and smiling widely. He let himself fall backward into a sitting position, and he watched the young boy’s mind race. “Have you an eispnelas?” He asked in a somewhat nervous manner, for it was easily recognisable that he appeared too young to act in such a way, but he hoped that the lovely boy by his side would pay heed this no matter.

“I had a teacher once very near to me, but he is distant now and prefers my brother, the old bastard,” he said, and his voice was so entrenched with teary bitterness that a flash of hideousness marred his otherwise lovely nature.

“Let us go. I can show you beautiful pieces of land that I know that you have never laid eyes upon, for not many have, but it would be a great travesty were you to die without knowing them. Come,” Apollo pressed, standing up and taking the boy’s hand in his own, pulling him to his feet without much effort or difficulty.

“I must go,” Hyacinth said, turning in the opposite direction but not letting go of Apollo’s loosely held hand. “I must go back to the palace. Father told me to leave with Alexios. Do you mind?” He asked, looking back at the young god for an answer. Their eyes met, blue against blue.

“I take no issue at all,” Apollo lied with a smile based more in pleasantries than fact. “Go as you must. But tomorrow will you return here?”

“If you will be here.”

They stood for a moment, gazing upon one another in silence, wind rushing past them, blowing their hair askew. Apollo pulled Hyacinth forward by the hand and pressed their lips together, and the wind seemed to cease against his ears as he ran his spare hand along the damp flesh of his back, a ferocious warmth spreading through his belly as licking at his chest when Hyacinth pulled back, and at him stared wide-eyed. Hyacinth flushed and turned his head away, before he returned with a shy smile.

“Go,” Apollo told him, his hand lingering upon Hyacinth’s back as he turned from him and ran off into the streets.

When the youth was out of sight, Apollo pressed himself once again against the grass, and rested a hand upon his stomach, his head lolled off to the side and his eyes shut. “I’m done,” he whispered, cursing the bastard Eros with all of his might as he drifted off in Gaia’s arms.