There had never been anything to forgive. It seemed an easy enough concept to grasp, and Akheron was never anything close to unintelligent. Why, then, didn't he understand this? Because it wasn't about her. Apologies were rarely about anyone other than the person that was doing the apologizing. Just one reason more why Styx rarely apologized for fucking anything. But she gave him what he seemed to want: "I forgive you."
And it was not so bitter, not so frustrating, to give it to him when his mouth was against her neck. She shut her eyes and let her head drop to the side. Felt good. How badly did it hurt him to do it? Did he suffer for it? Did she drive him to do it, regardless of his form? The thought had appeal. The thought had her smiling.
She was standing on Phobos' steps.
That smile died a swift and painful death. She rolled neatly away from Akheron and ended up on her feet, heels clicking sharply as she walked to the only window in the room - that great spread of glass overlooking her river. There was no one outside.... but it was not others that she was looking for. She was looking for distance between herself and her brother.
Because it shouldn't be this natural, it shouldn't be this easy, she shouldn't fall into him without a struggle. She remembered what he'd told her - words that would have surprised anyone of her family - and she remembered how she'd wept to realize he would die. Neither one of them had imagined Zeus himself sparing Akheron - for that is truly what happened. Neither of them had expected to be in the other's company past the ending of Akheron's war. What did all of this mean? Of course she loved her brother. Unquestionably. But it was not the same, not the way Akheron had meant it. And he'd said other things. Things about not sharing her. But he must have known that she was still with Phobos, as if the war would have changed that. She was not so mutable in her affections.
The tip of her booted toe hit against the wall lightly. She shushed the window curtains closed - a silky vertical river in black and red - then turned around and stalked back to Akheron. Styx wanted the truth. She meant to have it.
Fluid, long steps, first across the floor and then across his ruined body. She set her boots on either side of his hips and looked down at him with speculation. Something was changed. He'd done it, it was his fault - this shift - and the worst part was that it didn't feel all bad. The worst part was that, for the first time since Aphrodite stabbed her, she felt... She felt... She felt her eyes squinting keenly at the face of her brother beneath her. Slowly, her thighs lowered her over him. She leaned forward, hands coming down on either side of his head, mouth a breath away from his, and she stared into the paleness in his eyes. What did he think he was doing? And what did he want? How could he say he wouldn't share her, then so easily kiss... And for the second time, he'd been gentle. He was no gentle god. Then what...
She didn't touch him except for that slight contact of her leather-covered feet against his hips. Only there. And she didn't find the answers she needed. It was too much to ask him to understand her the way Moros had, the way Phobos did. For all his closeness now, he'd never been in her mind the way Moros had. Perhaps she meant to change that. Perhaps. She squinted harder at him, her mouth twisting downward. "What would you have of me?"