He felt like he’d waited a million years for this moment. Before the war, before Kronos and the Titans, he’d believed that there was no chance of ever seeing Hyacinthus again.
He’d taken other lovers to try to fill the void, but none of them had come close to being what Hyacinthus had been to him. Most of those relationship had ended badly. They’d meant nothing to him, were just ways to pass the time and forget.
“I know. I know… Zephyros.” Zephyros was a dead man walking. Apollo could forgive. He could. He had forgiven his father for killing his favorite son. But this was different. This was a hatred that would live on and become stronger with time. It was almost a living thing, a red pulsing mass that existed inside of him, longing to get out.
“Not your fault.” His voice was breaking. He was going to cry, blinked hard to keep the tears at bay but failed.
In an instant, Apollo was taking Hyacinthus into his arms, one hand on his back, the other on his head, fingers brushing through his dark hair. “I missed you so much,” he choked.