Tfw you thirst for god ass so much you fly up to the sun
For any newcomers, Paris looks like Richard Madden. Apologies if I got some details of Greek mythology and or culture wrong, since I learnt about it in a short timeframe.
Happy reading! This is like the longest thing I've ever written wow
Apollo- André/Paris
Icarus- Gilbert/Prussia
Daenerys- Germania
Delphi
Classical antiquity
They met one evening, when Icarus put out some offerings to Apollo in exchange for success in his father's inventions.
He double checked for the barley seeds, the lyre, the incense, and the laurel branches. Checking that everything was here, he sprinkled the seeds around the altar into a ring, the brown grain a contrast to the white marble. In the light of the moon and the evening, everything was dyed into a hue of blue or silver.
When he was satisfied with his placements, he set light of the incense, inhaling its calming smoke that twirled in the moonlight as it burnt. Icarus picked up the lyre and his fingers plucked a gentle melody on the lyre as the fumes lulled him into a sleepy, meditative state.
On the other side of the temple, a man wandered around the temple. It was Apollo in his human form, appreciating the small offerings the Delphinians had left him during the day. He picked up a fig, and bit into the sweet flesh as he sat at the edge of the temple.
More often than not, when it was his sister's turn to drive her chariot across the sky, he finds himself waltzing down onto the mortal realm to reap the success of humankind.
The temple was on a hill, allowing him to see the rest of Delphi in the valley below, the square windows illuminated with oil lamps while the night sky above cloaked the city with a blanket of stars.
He sighed. As the god of the arts, of science, he fell in love with the mortals' lives, like how a child could watch ants crawl and work all day. Watching them work, watching them play. Such a shame that they were so delicate and ephemeral, like butterflies. Even the most beautiful of souls, within seemingly hours, dropped dead.
Yet the world keeps on turning, and life continues. Over time, when he grew to accept mortals in groups rather than as individuals, it hurt less.
As he stood on the edge of his temple, he breathed in the warm breeze that always encompassed Greece as the cicadas chirruped. It was strangely peaceful here, compared to the commotions of Mount Olympus.
Embedded within the cicadas' chirps, he heard the plucking of an instrument. It was a lyre that was being played within the walls of the temple. A lyre? Curious, Apollo edged closer inside. When he walked to the other end, he saw the backside of a figure.
He had thought that the figure was a statue, given the alabaster white shade of his skin, dyed blue by the shade of the night. So when the stranger turned his head, the sun god found himself caught by surprise.
Icarus was playing the melody on the lyre when he felt the gaze of another behind him. True to his suspicions, when he turned his head around, there stood a stranger with widened eyes.
The sight of the stranger aroused suspicion within Icarus. He dressed plainly, and simply, but he carried himself in a proud, flawless way not even a King would.
"Good evening," he casually let out. The stranger breathed out a slight sigh of relief, as if he was relieved that he wasn't exposed. "You're Apollo, aren't you?"
At that, he tensed. So he was! Apollo huffed, and composed himself.
"What makes you think of that?" Icarus smirked.
"Even a king wouldn't hold himself as highly as you do." Apollo raised his eyebrows, as if he was surprised of how he had figured it out. The God sat down and picked up a laurel twig.
"Good observation." He chuckled. "But I could easily just be a narcissist by your judgements." Apollo twirled the laurel twig between his fingers, and looked over towards the other. He was a fair, pale man, with even his hair as white as seafoam. It was no wonder why he had originally thought him to be a statue. The only exception were his eyes, those scarlet eyes the colour of embers.
He was a young man, the angles of his cheekbones not yet sharpened, the stature of his form not yet fully developed.
Apollo had always imagined Apollo to be a bit more blonde and tall. He was a little more stout, a little more baby faced, but still pretty damn handsome. But that was fine, the real Apollo had turquoise eyes that shimmered an eclectic energy.
"And you're Icarus, Daedalus' son." To his amusement, Icarus raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Well, how did you know?"
"As a God of prophecies, I know everything that happens in the mortal and immortal realm." Icarus raised a brow before he huffed.
"Heh, yes, fair enough." Icarus stood up and walked to the edge of the hill, to which Apollo followed.
Icarus was light on his feet, and with his heel off of the floor, he looked as light as a feather in the silver moonlight. When he stopped at the edge of the temple and glanced back, and at the sight of him, stifled a laugh. Apollo realised that at this position, Icarus was a good inch taller than him.
"For a God, you are quite short," he teased, and he flexed to the top of his toes, easily towering over the other for another good inch more. The Sun God rolled his eyes as he glanced up, and tutted.
"Standing on your toes doesn't count." To his surprise, when he descended down from his toes, Icarus was still taller than him. Apollo huffed as he laughed back. "Fine, fair enough."
They sat down at the edge of the temple as they looked down at Delphi.
For the rest of the evening, they talked. He found the other to be enjoyable to talk to. Icarus was quite the wisecrack, and he found himself chuckling to his humour. Time didn't matter when he talked with Icarus.
For a second, Apollo looked up to the sky, but frowned when he saw his sister's moon descend down the horizon. He was surprised that time had passed so quickly. He swore that they had only been talking for mere minutes.
"I have to go now." He motioned forward towards the moon at the sight of Icarus' confusion, to which he nodded.
"Wow, have this whole evening speed fast so quickly? Too bad." Icarus stretched. "Well, I need to go help my father now. See you later, shortie," he said before he took off. Apollo's eyes followed him down the hill until he was gone. A small smile crept up on his lips as a warm feeling engulfed his self… he frowned.
It was love. Eros had nicked his heart again with his arrow. What a cruel, cruel trick. He looked down at the laurel twig that he still held between his fingers. Since Eros had cursed his love life, all of his lovers after Daphne had either rejected him, or worse, died because of him.
He frowned. They will meet again one day. Because of that curse, the next time they reunite will end in misery.
The least he could do was to not let the mortal boy too close into his heart. That was it. At least then the pain of what was to come would not be as strong.
"You too, twinkle toes."
Crete
10 years later
Was this crazy? Well, if collecting the feathers of sea birds and wax for building wings was not, then he didn't know what was.
Again, there was a razor thin line between madness and genius, a line his father gambled on too often. But they were the prisoners of King Minos, who controlled all the ships of the island of Crete. These wings may be their only chance of escape.
He shook the wings, the feathers fastened tight with wax and positioned to the places where the different types of feathers should be. The wings his father created were sturdy, that was for sure. The position of the feathers mimicked that of the wings of birds. They truly did look like the wings of a large bird.
His father was preoccupied with some last bit of calculations in the sand of the mountain, and after double checking, he wiped the sand clean.
"Icarus," he started. "You cannot fly too close to the tides, otherwise the sea spray will weigh you down and you will drown, and you cannot fly too close to the sun, otherwise your wings will melt and you will fall to your death. Understood?"
The mention of the sun made him remember the God he had seen years prior. From the prison, he saw the sun, the disc of light glowing in the sky. It was hard to imagine that as Apollo and his chariot whom he had met at the temple so many Summers ago.
"Understood?" His father repeated more sternly, snapping him out of his train of thought.
"Yes, understood."
"Good." His father talked of more about the mechanisms of the wings, but his own mind wandered elsewhere. How many years had it been since he had last seen him? He sighed. He missed him. He missed him a lot.
His focus attended to his father, who stood at the edge of the cliff. At an updrift, his father jumped, and was able to glide up.
Icarus inched forward and looked down to the sea, the waves crashing upon the rocks of the cliff below.
When an updrift arrived, he squeezed his eyes tight, and jumped.
The wind did the rest.
The smell of the salt, the feeling of wind! Was this what it was like to be a bird? To be oh so free. Flying was like swimming. Except that it was much faster, much more relaxed. If swimming was fighting against the waves, flying was being one with the wind.
He was cautious not to fly too high. But for a moment, he flew a little higher, bit by bit, but the wax didn't drip, and the feathers were still in position, despite the flapping currents.
A crazy idea popped up in his head. He looked down, the prison where they were but a mere pinprick already. Could he fly higher? It should be alright. He will be quick, just a quick dive upwards, a hello to Apollo, and back down again before the wings melt. Why not seize one of the blue moon chances to see him again? Besides, there was a reason why his father created the wings to be so sturdy. It should last!
It was colder up in the sky, much, much colder. Nevertheless, he persisted. Past the clouds, past the sky. The higher he went, the stronger the sun's rays were upon his face, causing him to squint.
At last, he arrived. The air up here was much, much fresher. Rejuvenating. But it was so, so much more quiet. His own heartbeat and laboured breathing was all he could hear in the space.
In contrast, there were many more stars visible, more that he was not able to see down on land. Had the marbled milky way always been this dazzling? A burnt pain on his skin distracted him. When he looked down at his hands, he saw that the surface of his skin was red and sensitive. Icarus' thumb brushed to the side of his palm, and he winced.
A feeling crept upon him that he was being watched. His breath hitched. Was it Apollo? He turned around.
And there he was, chariot and all.
Apollo was even more beautiful in his God form. On his temple rested a laurel crown. His skin was a glowing golden colour that illuminated the whole space. Only his turquoise eyes, those eyes that he had seen at the temple so many Summers ago, remained. He truly did look like a sun god.
He never truly thought he would see Icarus again. Icarus had grown into a fine man. His cheekbones and other angles properly defined, his frame broader, though still attaining its familiar shape. With shaking hands, Apollo touched his cheek as he looked into his scarlet eyes. The other flinched away from the heat, and Apollo frowned at the blistering red colour burning upon his fair white skin.
Apollo held out his palm to Icarus' face. "Here," he murmured. The other looked at him, confused. "I'm the God of healing as well, remember?" He nodded and leaned in closer at those words, before resting his cheek upon his palm and sighed in comfort as the press cleaned his red, sunburnt skin back to its marble white.
When he opened his eyes and made eye contact, Icarus grinned.
"Told you I'd see you again. Shortie," he teased. Apollo looked down, and almost burst out laughing.
"My, even when you're flying you're standing on your tip toes." Icarus chuckled.
"Old habits die hard!" He joked.
The sky where Apollo drove his chariot was a beautiful fusion of night and day. Above them were the sky with the myriad of stars, below them was the sea, was the axis of the Earth.
"Why did you come here?" Apollo asked.
"To see you again."
"Why?" To his surprise, Icarus didn't answer straight away. Instead, Icarus stroked Apollo's cheek as he gazed into his eyes. Icarus' eyes were such a beautiful scarlet red.
"I would rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without meeting you." A tender smile spread across Icarus' relaxed features. "If that's the case, then it's worth it."
Icarus pushed forward, making Apollo gasp.
All time stopped when their lips touched.
Water, tears ran down his cheeks' hot surface as Apollo's jaded heart cracked and set on fire. He had forgotten how tender the lips of a mortal was. He wanted to hold him closer. Pause this moment. Embrace him forever.
Too soon, hel let go.
Icarus looked back at the sun God. His eyes were relaxed into a soft, almost loving feature as the tears on his cheeks dripped. His features tensed into a look of alarm when he paced back.
Yellow wax had dripped down his pale shoulders as the feathers of his wings peeled off.
And he fell.
Falling…
Falling…
Falling…
The wind howled against his ear as the air pushed up against him, stripping away the rest of the wings until they were gone, and he dropped until the daytime sky suffocated the night time stars and his dear Apollo was nothing more than a spot of light.
The ocean slammed into his back with the sensation of falling down upon a rock hard ground, and he yelled at the pain. Neptune's waves engulfed him, and claimed him, while he kept on dropping into the cold, abyss. The last colour he saw before everything went dark was the brilliant turquoise colour of the sea.
Apollo's eyes were a brilliant turquoise colour as well.
He was wrong. Since then, his heart was filled with sorrow.
No verse, no prose could describe the melancholia that brewed within his chest. He craved for that ecstasy of when they touched, that explosion of fireworks, that cracking of his jaded heart. The moment of euphoria that another had actually loved him back. It seemed that he had loved him back, and somehow that had made it worse.
When the Titan Helios became worshipped more and his own name and legacy started to mix up with the former, he gladly accepted his fate of oblivion. His story was now the story of Helios. Though his sister Artemis was more reluctant with Selene taking her place, he was happy to go, to have Helios take his place. A sun, though mighty, was never meant to shine forever. There was a time when stars die.
And he? He had had enough.
Though artists were drawn to the mystery of the moon, André was always fascinated with the sun.
The sun was a life source that replenishes the earth of energy, the centre of the solar system, a grand and mighty celestial body that the other planets bow down to and waltz around.
He could see the appeals of the moon, with its ever changing shadows and its air of tranquility, but something about the stability of the sun was comforting. The flowing of time from sunrise to sunset, the warm illumination of the rays on his body.
When he finished everything about the sun in the school library, the librarian offered him a book about Louis XIV, the sun king. Though history wasn't his forte, he read it regardless.
He couldn't remember much about that book now. One thing André remembered, however, was the passion for ballet that the king had. He'd dress up as a Sun God and perform, and his performances were so stunning, it bred gossip throughout Versailles that lasted for weeks. André never had the interest to learn much of ballet, but hearing this planted a seed of curiosity.
The local theatre held ballets which he never had much interest of. He recognised Swan Lake and The Nutcracker, though not too much the other ones. He checked for Le ballet de la nuit, a ballet that the so called Sun King danced in. To his disappointment, with tears of laughter they told him that it couldn't be performed as it was too long.
Instead, they suggested to him Apollo, a much, much shorter ballet that featured asun God. After he convinced his mother to cough up some cash, they went and saw it.
And it was beautiful.
Their costumes were not at all flashy like the ones of the Sun King, but instead blank, white coloured leotards. Though it was possibly for the best, as it drew attention to the dance itself.
The dancers danced a duet with the music, of hops, leaps, spins. Their dance was oh so fluid, like the music when it sighs, but powerful where the music was harsh. André couldn't remember anything else but how awed he was at their waltz. What a way to express oneself! To display the music so beautifully!
He remembered smiling, laughing out of joy the whole time, and he remembered huffing as his mother drove him home. The only disappointment of that evening was that the whole thing ended too quickly.
But still… the performance captivated, enchanted him. The memories called to him, whispered to him, oh how he would love to see it again!
To his despair, the tickets for the rest of the performance's duration was sold out. He branched out to other ballets, to music by Balachine, Stradvinsky and Tchaikovsky while he bugged his mother to fork out more cash, drive him, and accompany him there, much to her despair.
One night, his mother muttered that dance lessons would be cheaper than his regular visits to ballets. It planted a seed within his head. Watching the dancers dance was fascinating to watch, but to move as one with the music, to perform a myriad of emotions onstage… why not? And so he enrolled into a dance class. What was better than watching one dance was to dance himself. To flow as one with the music, to express his inner self. And he hadn't looked back since.
Ever since he could remember, Gilbert dreamt of what it would feel like to fly.
The wind blowing through his hair, the freedom to go wherever he liked, the ability to fly with birds. He envied the bird's ability of flight. It must be so free up there!
It was a silly little fantasy he had since he was young. A rather common one, he knew, but still. He used to pretend that he was a bird or a plane that soared over the earth.
When he was a kid, had a habit of hopping a little in his walks, feather light tip toes, both intentionally and not. His family murmurs, puzzled at why he still skips like a little kid. But Gilbert couldn't care less. He liked it! He liked the energy that pumped within him, despite what other people said.
Seeing that he was full of energy, they enrolled him to a dance school. He thought of it as a game to keep himself entertained. Dance a bit, hop a bit there and there, and that will be it. He didn't care much about it, and only attended ballet because he thought that it was fun to do the jumps. Strangely enough, his teacher approved of his dancing, and used them as an example in front of the class. Whether if it was his leaps or his arches or whatever.
Gilbert continued to dance because it was only natural to continue what you were good at. Why not? No need to stop at what he was good at. Good exercise as well! And so it continued to be a hobby only until he was cast as the lead in a production of Don Quixote.
The number of spins, the leaps, dancing it gave him with a deep, euphoric feeling that left him simply speechless. He remembered panting after the after the first rehearsal, spent out because it was his first role in a production, and this role was particularly taxing, but he didn't feel tired at all. Instead, his veins were pumped full of euphoria.
To dance was like sprouting wings and taking flight.
Later that year when he performed, the limelight, the sensation of the stage cheering him, it left him craving more of that feeling. It made him feel good! He wanted to perform more! Perform in front of the entire world and indulge in this feeling!
And so he pursued his career of dance, flying on stage, bowing to the cheers, ever since then.
NYC
Present day
New York City was indeed an impressive place.
The feel was different from his native Paris. Being only around 500 years old, it lacked the Renaissance or Medieval styled charms. The city made it up with the many skyscrapers, the buzzing energy, and the urban metropolis of people from all over the world. He was sad to admit, it truly made Paris feel like such a sleepy town. It truly was the city of cities. New York City had an urban appeal he supposed, which he knew will grow onto him the longer he lived here.
The downside was that the metro system was shit.
André huffed as he refreshed the subway schedule his phone, and growled in frustration. His ride had been 15 minutes late!
He was squeezed against some guy in a chicken suit when the next batch of people crammed into the carriage. He huffed. Today was his first day of dancing at the New York City ballet company, and he didn't want to miss anything. Thankfully, he should only be around 5 minutes late, so not a lot of time was lost.
Across the carriage, a shock of white hair caught André's interests, standing out in contrast to the passengers' darker shades of hair. He shifted to get a better view. Did he know him?
When the stranger looked up, his insides jumped.
An excitement similar to when you see an old friend again.
On closer inspection, he realised that the man was albinistic, with his skin complementing the shade of his hair.
The man glanced up from his phone, to which André turned to the train's doors. His eyes were a scarlet red colour too, he noted.
A sense of déjà vu awoke. Had this happen before? His instinct told him that he was like an old friend, but he was certain that he didn't know anyone who even looked like him, especially with albinism being such a rare condition.
He glanced back at him, trying to figure out where he had seen him. What puzzled him was a warm, tingling sensation awoke, the same feeling of a crush. A strange cocktail of sadness, relief, and euphoria mixed within his chest. Why was he feeling this for some stranger?
Maybe he was a model he saw on a magazine once, he certainly handsome enough to be a model. Yes, that must be it.
As for what he was feeling… he didn't know. The whirlpool of emotions within him were starting to make him feel uncomfortable and nauseous. André huffed, clearing the heavy weight within him, and looked at his phone. There was a chance that he will only see the stranger this once. To his surprise, the thought of never seeing him again caused an aching melancholia within him.
Nevertheless, he focused on his social media feed, distracting himself. The sooner this ends, the better.
There was this man on the carriage who glanced at him at random times. Though to be honest, Gilbert probably glanced at him even more.
He racked his brain for any recognition, any at all. For some reason, Gilbert thought that he knew him. He saw him somewhere, he knew it. Who was that man? Instinct told him to walk to the other side of the trolley and greet him with a hearty slap on the back, like he was an old friend, despite being certain that they had never met before now.
Though a hearty slap on the back was the least of it. A strange concoction of joy and relief filled him, as if he had missed that stranger for a long time, and had finally seen him. Like… he was a long lost crush-
Gilbert ignored it, and tried to focus back to his phone. To his despair, he kept on finding himself glancing more and more.
The train stopped at his station, and he hopped off with his dance bag. The sooner he got away from that man, the better. Gilbert walked for a while before he realised that there was a pair of clicks following him. He turned his head around. To his surprise, it was the stranger following him to the dance studio.
His eyebrows rose up in surprise, and he looked downwards to the pavement.
André cursed when he found himself staring at the pavement and flushing. He wasn't like this! Actually, that was beside the point. How was he flushing at how that stranger looked at him? How-
"Hey. Quit it." André looked upwards and raised an eyebrow. The stranger was narrowing his eyes at him for some reason, boring a hole into his skull with his scarlet eyes. He stared back. Asshole.
"Quit what?" Gilbert huffed and stood his ground. The stranger mirrored his actions.
"Stop following…" His features relaxed when he looked down towards the dance bag that the stranger carried, a worn out thing with a fading Paris opera ballet logo printed. Was he a dancer like him? No wonder he followed him. "New York City ballet company?" The stranger nodded in response.
Gilbert raised an eyebrow, and huffed. Fair enough.
They shifted as they walked down the street, a tension building up between him and the other man. He wanted to ask if he did know him, yet his brain told him that no, he had never seen this guy before. Goddammit, maybe his brain decided to mash up a bunch of faces together or something. Gilbert shrugged it off, and tried to distance himself from the stranger. On cue, the stranger blurted out:
"Excuse me, do I know you?" Gilbert stopped and turned around, furrowing his eyebrows. So he recognised him as well! Jesus, this was weird. He shook his head.
"Did we meet somewhere?" he started. He swore that he had seen those brilliant turquoise eyes before. "Or…"
"Erhm, no, I don't think so," the other man replied.
"Really?" Gilbert turned away, and focused on the path before shrugging. "Huh. Oh well."
Eventually, the tension ebbed away, and then they were simply walking.
André glanced down. Even before the dance studio was in sight, his heel was ever so slightly off of the pavement. He grinned.
"Alright. Twinkle toes," he muttered. Weird nickname, but it sounded right and familiar. Gilbert stood against him on his tip toes, easily towering over him.
"Shortie," he teased. André huffed, before he stood on his toes as well.
"You're on demi pointe, that doesn't count…" André huffed and the other guy laughed when he was still at least a centimetre off. He continued to cackle as he hopped up the stairs into where André presumed was the studio. He tutted, though he didn't feel mad, but instead, in a manner similar to how a close friend did something annoying that he was used to. Adjusting the dance bag onto his shoulder, he followed him up the stairs.
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2…
Gilbert counted the beats within his head while the piano player in the background played a piece of warmup music. They stretched and warmed up at the barre, the sunlight of the morning illuminating the dust particles in the air. The dance studio had a smell of rosin, old buildings and dust that he grew to like over the course of his years here at the dance company.
He glanced towards the newcomer to the company, who stood beside a window, the morning sun creating a halo around him. His throat hitched. The newcomer looked even more radiant in the sun (no pun intended). Gilbert preferred to stay away from the sun and in the shade- he tended to get sunburnt.
Gilbert distracted himself by watching the dance instructor perform what they needed to dance for this season. From what he had already read from the spreadsheet, their first production was an original ballet adapted from some well known book. He huffed. He preferred those abstract dance pieces with no cohesive storyline, as opposed to a cohesive story. Well, now he had something else on his reading list.
Just before they commenced the steps, the instructor introduced someone. The newcomer. The instructor introduced him as André Lefurgey as the rest of the studio gazed at said person, who smiled and gave a little joking bow like as if he was Prince Charming or some shit. True to the logo on his dance bag, he was from the Paris Opera Ballet. After a few more sentences, the director clapped and they got to work.
"The warm up music was Debussy, by the way."
"Hm?" Gilbert looked beside him, and to his despair, the newcomer André was at the barre.
"Debussy's music. The girl with the flaxen hair, in fact. Loved that when I was a kid."
"Uh-huh." Gilbert nodded, and focused back on the dance instructor. "I like Beethoven better," he whispered back.
"Beethoven?"
"Yep, it's-"
"Gilbert, pay attention," the dance instructor commanded.
He nodded, and faced the front. "Yes sir," he replied.
A part of André thought that it was a shame. He swore that the other (Gilbert, was it?) Smiled a little. It was nice seeing him smile for some reason. André huffed, and faced the dance instructor as well.
The rest of the dance session went by swiftly quickly without a hitch.
After he came out of the changing rooms, Gilbert saw André go down the stairs. He swung his dance bag onto his shoulder and raced down the stairs.
"Hey!" He called out. André, who was halfway to opening the door, turned his head around. "You're erhm André, aren't you?"
"Uh-huh." He paced back up the stairs, closer to him, the taps of his shoe echoing in the narrow stairway. "And you're, erhm…"
"Gilbert."
"Gilbert!" He looked to the side and frowned, as if he was trying to remember something. Gilbert inhaled.
"Okay. Uh, no, seriously, do I know you?" He blurted out. André raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I swear, every part of my brain is yelling that I know you, but no, I'm pretty sure that I've never seen you before. I have no idea how badly I got amnesia'd to forget you, but…" He nodded. "Yeah. I feel it too, for some weird reason."
André nodded, and took a step up the stairs. To his surprise, a warm feeling flooded his chest, the same ones back on the carriage.
"You said that you thought you'd recognise me?" André muttered.
"Yeah?"
"Did… did you feel something more than recognition on the carriage?" His heart hammered against his chest. Did he? If he didn't… well, shit, he supposed. Gilbert took a step down the stairs.
"I, I guess? But as an old friend sort of way."
"Oh." That was it. Somehow, that made him sad. "I… I… Well, I felt even more than that for some reason."
Without knowing, a magnetic force pulled them in closer.
Closer.
It was familiar, it was natural. They were so close, he could feel Gilbert's warm breath upon his lips. He saw pupils in his red eyes dilates under those snowy eyelashes.
Without a second thought, he inched forward and kissed him.
The sudden movement surprised Gilbert a little, but he found himself relaxing into the act. It felt good. Familiar.
He wanted to capture this moment forever.
André fluttered his eyes open. A pang of horror struck him when he realised what he was kissing him. He pushed himself away out of reflexes. Gilbert staggered back and blinked, confused, but his eyes grew wide when he realised the same thing.
"Fucking hell, I-I don't know where that came from," André confessed. Stupid reflexes. What the fuck, what the fuck was he thinking, he barely even knew him!
"That…" For the first time, Gilbert was actually whispering. "Er… what…" An awkward smile stretched out a little before he huffed and glanced to the side, as if he was trying to ease the tension. "Let's… let's just go." There was the hint of an uncertainty in his voice, but no hints of disgust or regret at all, to both his relief and his restlessness. Was that it?
"Is that all?"
Gilbert crossed his arms as he leaned against the stair's railings. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took deep breaths in an attempt to clear his thoughts. It shocked him that hey, he didn't mind that at all. Hell, he probably would have wanted that to continue for a bit longer, but now he was just confused as fuck. For once, he found himself to be speechless.
"That's all. Yeah."
A different kind of tension pulsed as they walk back to the train station. He saw André scratch the back of his neck, wanting to say something, but he stayed quiet. His eyebrows were tensed into a frown, as if he was in deep thought. He couldn't blame him.
While they walked towards the subway, he reevaluated what had had happened. Though he reflected, the more he uncovered, the more was left unknown. It was difficult to put into words. On one hand, for some reason, he was fine with that moment, but his common sense asked him: why? Why did he not mind that kiss? He would've just socked the jaw of any asshole who tried first. That, and with the feeling of familiarity… god, his head was becoming dizzier the more he thought.
A while later, Gilbert realised that they had reached the subway. André separated to go to another platform. Something about seeing André leaving stirred something within him. He didn't want him to leave just yet. He wanted to be with him. He squeezed his eyes shut and summoned up all the nerve within him. Screw it!
"Hey!" André turned around, and nervousness rose up within Gilbert.
"Yeah. Actually, you know what? Fuck it, let's just go out," Gilbert blurted out. "Just this once. See how things go, y'know."
André turned around, and raised an eyebrow. "Go out? E-even though we barely knew each other for 24 hours? Even, well, even after that?"
Gilbert sat down onto a seat, and he huffed.
"Look, we both admit it, we both felt like we have known each other for a long time. I know this is weird, but… I…" I love you? No no, too risky. "I… I like you as well? Fine fine, we've only just met, but it's weird to explain. I have no idea how the hell we've got amnesia'd so bad that we've forgotten literally anything about each other, but…" Gilbert looked up and down André, before he huffed. "fuck it. Let's just go out." André raised his eyebrows.
"Really? Because if you're only saying that because of the kiss, then…"
"Nope. If it ends badly, then, well, we could just stop dating, stop talking to each other, move to another company, move across the country, I dunno." André could tell that Gilbert was trying to sound confident and casual, though from how he glanced to the side, he was nervous. He was right, if their date didn't go well, they could just pretend that this whole thing never happened. What could go wrong?
"Go out, you say?" He chuckled, lightening the atmosphere. "I prefer the term une rendez-vous." Gilbert looked up and raised an eyebrow. Realising the lightened atmosphere, he grinned.
"Sap," he joked, and André laughed. "Alright! Une 'rendez-vous' then!"
"Hm. But it feels more like a retrouvailles, no?"
"A retrouvailles?"
"To meet up with someone you haven't seen in a long time. I have no idea how bad I've been amnesia'd to forget you, but… yes. Une retrouvailles with you, my friend." He was almost tempted to call him something like beloved or dear, but it was still too early for any pet names. Nevertheless, a wide, mischievous grin stretched across Gilbert's face.
"Friend with benefits, it seems, with that kiss earlier!" Gilbert joked as he leaned in, to which André huffed.
"It was an accident!" Gilbert cackled at his reaction, before making eye contact again.
"Would you mind another one on purpose then?" He joked before he winked. André crossed his arms, and grinned.
"So much for the fact that we've only just met, huh, twinkle toes?"
"Like I said, we could've amnesia'd, shortie," he joked.
"Well I have to be hit pretty hard in the head to forget a smile as shit eating as that." Gilbert stretched out a grin as a result, and André rolled his eyes. "Aright, where to then?"
"Huh? Oh, the date Wow, fuck, I er actually haven't thought of this far, heh."
"Well, I saw this café down the road, it just opened recently. Interested?"
"A café? Sure! I was thinking something more on the lines of to the movies or something, but uh sure, I'm hungry as hell anyway. So, the directions?"
After André recollected the directions to the café, they joked as they walked there, and the rest of the day was a smooth sailing.
André had to admit, he hadn't had a date go this well since, well, forever. As he talked to Gilbert, his white hair illuminating a silver colour in the sunlight, his slight grin still present... he was glad that they recognised each other.
"Well, I have to admit, it's good to meet you again," Gilbert casually let out as he finished his coffee. André was about to correct him, but then reasoned with himself that this date felt more like catching up with an old friend rather than getting to know a stranger. He'll let it slide. "Shortie," Gilbert quickly added with a snicker. A smile spread across André's face as well at the nickname.
Even from this one date alone, he could tell that whatever awkwardness there was today will turn into those funny stories you tell to friends and family. That, and they will be with each other for a long time.
"You too, twinkle toes. You too."
The two never realised their past as Apollo nor Icarus. But perhaps it was for the better- there had been too many tragedies in their past lives already. For once, they lived on as ordinary people, satisfied.
The end.