The Unlikeliest of Mates

Chapter 12

Basilio's POV:

Basilio POV:

Exhausted was an understatement as to how Basilio feels. Emotionally drained, confused, frustrated, angry, sad. There were too many emotions coursing through him to make sense of it all so he accepts them without question then moves onto the next course of thoughts.

He knew what he said but frankly he still couldn't shake the upset over the whole situation with Achilles. He had gotten therapy, tried his best to no let that situation rule over the rest of his life but to have to walk through the entire situation through Achilles' lenes was no easier. It was as though someone had reopened a partially healed wound, leaving him open and exposed.

It's painful.

It aches and opens up something almost akin to regret inside him.

He wishes he could turn back the clock and could have understood his friend's anguish sooner, could have prevented the tears and frustration and years of waiting in the dark, wondering what he had done wrong.

He sighs and nurses his drink, the burn of the alcohol keeping him mentally rooted as opposed to winding him up further. He decides internally to deal with the pent up anger some other way, well after Achilles is asleep.

He feels his phone buzz and its a text from his father, telling him he's bringing the dogs by for the two boys to raise and he feels a rise of relief and panic. He wants to see his dad, a familiar face of sense and reason, but fears that Achilles' and his relationship will reek of a weak bond and he doesn't want to seem as though he is not taking his duties as a mate, regardless of the circumstances at hand, rude and wrong.

He stands, finishing the rest of his drink, "My father is coming by with my dogs, two pittbulls. They're well trained and you don't have to worry about them but they're a non-negotiable, clear?"

"I'm not against dogs so it's no issue for me. I'm going to go lie down, let me know when they're close." he says, standing and making his way up those rickety stairs.

Basilio lets out a deep breath, collecting his wits, trying to stop down the impending panic. Taking the glass to the kitchen he begins to unpack the rest of the groceries, boxes, cans, and fresh produce all going in their respective spaces, even wiping down the counters and the sink.

The kitchen practically sparkles when he's done, his arms aching will a dull throb, sweat on his brow. 30 minutes had flown by quickly.

His phone dings, his dad telling him he's five minutes away. Putting a tea towel on his shoulder, he makes his way up to Achilles with bated breaths. The anxiety of talking to him was still emanated despite the almost hour of destressing. He couldn't even understand why he was so nervous. The conversation went well, not yelling, no bloodshed. His fears should have been completely dispelled and yet now it was like he was going to see a stranger and not a former friend. Helplessly interacting with Achilles terrifies him almost as much as thinking he hated him.

It feels like a death sentence the closer he gets to the door. He knocks,

"Achilles, my dad is almost here, come downstairs please."

He hears a groan and some shuffling in the room before the door opens, revealing a slightly rumpled, red rimmed eyed Achilles, his hair sticking up in different angles and a slight sheen of sweat on his face. Basilio could feel his face begin to heat up with shame and a weird warmth begins to wire his way into his gut. Achilles looks almost alluring, beddable even with the way his skin looked, and his eyes, puffy from tears. Although he could feel concern rise up in him, that familiar feeling of low-bearing arousal wells up as well.