𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

61 ┃ 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰

━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

Time blurred after Hermes brought you back inside.

You weren't sure how long you stayed there. How many songs you played for Apollo, fingers moving across the strings like your body remembered even when your thoughts didn't.

He asked for melodies you didn't know the names of. Tunes that danced through your ribs and caught behind your teeth like breath. Sometimes he hummed along. Other times he just watched you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, like you were something holy. Or his. Maybe both.

The first time you returned from your little outing—still shaken from Zeus, still tethered to Hermes by the tilt of your smile—Apollo looked up from his seat, and his expression cracked just slightly. Just enough. Hermes caught it, finding endless joy in it.

"Oh dear," he said, fake-sweet. "Was I not supposed to bring her back?"

Dionysus only grinned and passed you a goblet behind Apollo's back. "Drink this," he whispered, winking. "It's not strong... probably."

You did; it was warm and sweet and made your lips tingle.

After that, it became a game. Hermes dragging you around to show you off to minor gods and gossiping nymphs, only to bring you back to Apollo like a stolen prize.

Dionysus plucking you from your corner with a new wine to try and a dramatic story to tell.

Apollo never said anything directly—but his silences got heavier. His hands lingered longer when he brushed hair from your face. His compliments got sharper, wrapped in gold and warning.

Hermes noticed. He always did.

"You're sulking, big brother," he said, floating aboveyou all with one leg crossed lazily over the other like it belonged to him. "Not very sun-god of you."

"I'm not sulking," Apollo said, absolutely sulking.

"You're glaring holes in the sides of our heads," Dionysus chimed in, barefoot seated on the edge of the table. "One might think you hate us."

That earned him a look that could've shattered marble. You giggled behind the rim of your drink.

Apollo scoffed a sharp little exhale through his nose, eyes narrowing as he shifted in his seat, golden laurel wreath tilting just slightly with the movement. He looked at Hermes first—then Dionysus—and the glare he gave could've singed wings and grapes alike.

"Why are you both still here?" he asked, his tone bright but bitten at the edges. "Father's hall has plenty of room... Or have you forgotten how to find your own seats?"