Who: Apollo and Hyakinthos Where: Hyakinthos’ apartment When: Monday night What: Reunion! Warnings:/Rating It’s Apollo and Hyakinthos, so there will be boy love, folks. And we’ll say R to be on the safe side.
Out of everything and everybody he had lost over time, Apollo missed Hyakinthos the most. There were so many faces belonging to so many lovers and their numbers extended so far that he could no longer remember all the names nor recall every face. He found them and he dropped them just as fast, never keeping them for long and not caring enough to want to change that habit. They were hazy thing, outlines in the shadows, all with specific features that didn’t matter and were no longer seen as they were, or had once been. The men and women who had been invited into his bed were scratched out images. They were warm bodies held close to keep him company and later cast aside when he no longer needed them.
Hyakinthos had never been counted among those flocks of blurred, faceless companions. Apollo had loved (and still did) him with an intensity that was unyielding and sturdy enough to stand the test of time. Few were favored enough to catch a glimpse of that kind of affection. Few were special enough to snare him and keep him, to not lose him to the rising of the dawn, when lovers left and did not return.
If he’d known that he was looking for him he would have stayed put. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t known, so he moved from place to place, restless and uncomfortable with his surroundings. He’d spent time in California and Texas, in Florida and New Orleans, in Alaska for a week that was too long and too cold. And to think that Hyakinthos had been there since the sixties, alive and walking around, warm to the touch, nowhere near the fleshless hands of death.
He could have spent decades with him. If he’d known.
Apollo didn’t think he had ever moved as fast as he moved while trying to get to the source of his affections. He didn’t feel the rush of the wind through his hair, didn’t feel the bike’s engine rumble on all sides, smooth and lively and new. Two red lights and he sped through both of them. Nobody noticed, probably didn’t care, didn’t blink an eye in his direction.
The bike was pulled in close to the curb and it sat there, its sounds dying, going silent under the starless sky. He pulled himself away, to the door, anticipating, not nervous but anxious enough. Apollo stopped, stared at it, breathed shallowly. He was in there, just beyond the door, like he used to be, like he remembered him.
His knuckle made contact with the solid surface, thumped against it once, fell back to his side.