A/N: I don't usually leave author's notes on completed stories, but you should know a couple of things before reading, so here it is.

I am in the process of editing this story, and since I'm weird, I haven't edited the chapters in order. Most of them have been finished, and if you're reading this for the first time, you won't notice the difference except for one thing. The Greek god most people refer to as "Apollo" is called "Apollon" in this story, as "Apollon" is the proper Greek name (Apollo being the proper Roman one). If you want to argue with me about this, fine. Message me and I'll give you a lesson on the ancient and modern Greek alphabets, as well as present you with various references that prove that I am correct. But, getting to the point...when I first wrote this story, I called him Apollo, and thus there are still a couple of chapters I have yet to edit where Apollon is still "Apollo".

"Let me come over

I will tell you secrets nobody knows

I cannot overstate it

I will be overjoyed."

-Matchbox Twenty, Overjoyed

Chapter 1: The Story Begins

The orphanage where he had grown up was on his mail route; therefore, he drove past it six days a week. It was a place he tried not to look at. It brought back memories that he would much rather forget. It was also where he had first learned just how different he was.

He had always been stronger than the other children, as well as much smarter. He had been teased for his ability to learn faster than anyone else. By the time he was fourteen, his intelligence had exceeded that of his teachers.

Learning wasn't the only thing he was fast at. Despite being rather short, he had yet to encounter someone who could outrun him. Speed was something that came to him naturally. He loved to feel the wind rush through his hair as he ran, and to imagine his feet leaving the ground. It was exhilarating.

After he finished high school, he put his name on the waiting list to get a job with the postal service. It was several months before they called him with an offer, and even longer before he actually started work, but eventually he was given a route, a uniform, and a bag in which to carry his mail.

His route ran through one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. The houses reminded him of miniature castles. The neighborhood had been constructed back in the early twentieth century; therefore, the mailboxes were the old-fashioned kind built right next to the front door.

As he walked up to the first massive house, he thought of his tiny apartment with amusement. He'd probably get lost in one of these places. Well, maybe not; he had a very keen sense of direction.

Although it was early in the day, the sun was already hot and bright. He pulled the visor on his baseball cap further down in an attempt to shield his eyes and squinted at the number of the next house. Ornate gold numbers read 1465. He strode up the front walk, pulling out the proper bundle of mail as he did so. The pile of mail was as thick as a textbook. He casually glanced down at the stack, noticing that there was a subscription for Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine on top. The male on the cover was a handsome blond. His eyes were startlingly blue, making Angelo suspect that the model might wear colored contact lenses. He wore a button-up black shirt, which contrasted sharply with his mane of curly golden hair.

Angelo almost jumped out of his skin when the front door opened, and he realized that he had been standing there for several moments. He was even more shocked when he saw who had opened the door. It was the same man on the cover of the magazine, and he looked extremely bemused.

"Is there a reason you're standing on my front porch reading my mail?" he questioned in a melodic voice that could probably make famous singers cry.

Before Angelo had a chance to answer, the blond held out a well-manicured hand in a silent demand to be given his mail. Angelo complied, handing it over sheepishly.

"Who are you, anyway?" the man from the magazine asked, peering at the chagrined mailman as though he were an insect under a microscope.

"I'm the new mailman," he said, ridiculously, since the uniform he was wearing made that obvious. After a moment Angelo hesitantly asked, "What's your name?"

The man snorted and held out the magazine, tapping the cover. "You were staring at my picture for ten minutes and didn't bother to look at my name?"

Sure enough, in big block letters right next to the picture of the handsome blond were the words: Phoebus Lambrinos: The next Mark Vanderloo?

"Phoebus Lambrinos?" he questioned, trying not to smirk. "'Phoebus'? Like the captain from that Disney movie about the hunchback? Do your parents hate you or something?"

"Yes, exactly. I'm sure The Hunchback of Notre Dame is preciselywhat my parents had in mind when they named me." His words were practically dripping with sarcasm. "Now why don't you stop snickering at my name and tell me yours?"

Angelo smirked up at the tall blond. "My name's Angelo. Kind of boring and not at all Disney-inspired, but..."

"That's not a very popular name around here," Phoebus interrupted. "Are you sure your parents don't hate you?"

"I actually don't know my parents," Angelo said easily. "I grew up in an orphanage. The people there are the ones who named me."

"Is 'Angelo' the only name you've ever had, or did you have a different name when you arrived at the orphanage?" Phoebus questioned, the corners of his mouth turning up like he knew something he shouldn't.

What an odd question for a stranger to ask. "Actually, I did have a different name," Angelo replied, looking at him suspiciously. "It used to be Hermes."

There was a strange look on Phoebus's face that Angelo couldn't quite interpret, but it was there for only a split second before it was replaced by a smirk. "Looks like I'm not the only one with a strange name."

"It's not my name anymore," Angelo snapped, his light-hearted mood instantly evaporating. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have mail to deliver."

This time, both of the model's eyebrows rose. "I never asked you to stay. I have better things to do than chat with talkative mailmen, you know."

Angelo snorted in annoyance as he turned to leave, muttering something about stupid, audacious models under his breath. He missed the small smile that was playing on Phoebus's lips.

When Angelo got home, it was already late in the afternoon. He took a quick shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stuffed a frozen meal in the microwave. While it was cooking, he pulled out his laptop and opened his email account. He had one message from Alexander, his best friend from high school.

Anie, it read. We need to hang out sometime. You get a job yet? Call me. –Alex

Angelo rolled his eyes at the short message, but typed a reply nonetheless.

Just as he was getting ready to close the page, an instant message popped up in the corner of the screen.

Acestor7: Hello.

Angelo frowned at the message, wondering if it would be a good idea to answer. After a moment he shrugged and replied:

Dolios: Do I know you?

Acestor – whoever he was – didn't reply right away, so Angelo got up to retrieve his food from the microwave. He rummaged around for a fork, and then made his way back to the computer. There was a reply from Acestor.

Acestor7: No, but I saw your username and thought it was interesting. Do you know what it means?

Once again, Angelo frowned at the screen.

Dolios: Of course I know what it means.

In fact, Dolios was a nickname that his friend John had given him. John was focusing on Ancient Greek studies in college, and Dolios translated to 'the schemer'. Angelo had always been a trouble-maker in school.

Angelo forked a piece of ravioli and chewed while he waited on a response.

Acestor7: So are you a schemer?

Dolios: Why do you care?

But a reply never came. After an hour, Angelo gave up waiting and shut the laptop. He went to bed wondering about Acestor's odd question – and wondering who Acestor was.

When he arrived at 1465 the next day, Phoebus was working in the garden. The top half of the blond was invisible, hidden in a large lavender bush. His jeans were covered in grass and mud stains.

"Ahem," Angelo coughed.

Phoebus crawled backwards until his head appeared. His hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. Sweat beaded his forehead and mud was streaked across his cheeks. He smiled when he saw Angelo.

"Ah, my nosy mailman. Could you perhaps go ahead and put that in the mailbox? I'm a little busy."

"I'm not nosy. You are," Angelo grumbled with a scowl, but trudged up to the mailbox anyway. Then he turned and watched as Phoebus continued to prune the bush. "Couldn't you pay someone to do that?" he asked, not understanding why anyway would stick their head in foliage if they didn't absolutely have to, no matter how good it smelled.

"Yes, I could. But I like being in touch with nature," was the muffled response.

Angelo continued to stand there until Phoebus once again pulled his head out of the bush. This time he was wearing an amused smile. "Don't you have mail to deliver? Or are you enjoying looking at my butt?"

Angelo scowled even harder than before and began to walk away without replying.

"Wait!" Phoebus called after him. There was a laugh in his voice. "I haven't offered to take you out to dinner! It's only polite if you insist on checking me out..."

"I'm straight," Angelo snapped over his shoulder.

"If you say so," Phoebus muttered as he turned back to his bush.

The next day, Angelo skipped Phoebus's house, deciding to return to it at the end of his route. He had questions he wanted to ask the model and wanted plenty of time to do it.

But Phoebus wasn't alone when he answered the door. Another ridiculously handsome man was by his side. He had white-blond hair, eyes that were a cross between green and blue, and a haughty expression. "Can we help you?" the stranger asked, placing a hand on his hip as he eyed Angelo's uniform. "Do you really need to knock on the door to deliver the mail?"

Phoebus rolled his eyes. "Leave him alone, 'Seidon. He's a friend."

"Friends with the mailman? I didn't know you'd gone slumming," the stranger muttered, shoving past Phoebus and Angelo and stalking down the stairs.

"Just ignore him. Everyone else does." Phoebus advised. "Do you want to come in?"

Angelo shrugged, slipping past Phoebus into the foyer. It wasn't much cooler inside than it was outside, and the interior strongly resembled a greenhouse. There were plants everywhere. "I guess you really do like being in touch with nature," Angelo observed, crossing his arms as he stared around. Then he couldn't help but ask abruptly, "So who was that guy? Your boyfriend?"

Phoebus let out a bark of laughter. "Boyfriend? Hardly. He's my uncle. We don't get along very well."

"Oh."

Phoebus stared at him for several seconds, and in that moment, Angelo forgot why he had stopped by in the first place. Phoebus's gaze was like an x-ray. Angelo felt like the blond was reading his mind.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Phoebus finally asked. That was when Angelo noticed that the model had a light accent. If he had to guess, he would say it was either Russian or Greek. But that was beside the point.

"Who are you?" Angelo demanded, finally regaining his senses.

Phoebus raised both of his eyebrows. "I thought we already covered this subject."

"Somehow you ended up on the cover of GQ, but I've never heard of you before in my entire life."

Phoebus shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm a model. There are thousands of models in the world; can you honestly tell me that you've heard of them all?"

Angelo changed tactics. "You can't be more than twenty-five, but you talk like you're from a different century. I've never heard someone so young use such proper grammar."

"You use proper grammar," Phoebus pointed out before adding, "I don't understand what you're trying to accuse me of."

Angelo wasn't sure what he was trying to accuse him of either. Suddenly, he felt flustered and foolish. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Phoebus flashed a brilliant smile. "No worries. Can I offer you a drink?"

"Lemonade would be nice, if you have it. Oh!" He dug into his bag, pulling out the last bundle of mail and handing it to Phoebus. "I almost forgot."

"Thank you."

Phoebus disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Angelo to look around. There were tons of pictures on the walls, all of them containing strikingly beautiful people. The people in his family must have some really good genes, Angelo thought.

"Angelo!" Phoebus's voice called. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Sure!" Angelo yelled back. Then, thinking that it would be rude not to offer his help, Angelo slipped into the kitchen.

Phoebus was pulling a box of crackers out of the pantry.

"Can I help with anything?" Angelo asked.

"You can cut up the cheese, if you want." He pointed to a cutting board, where a block of cheddar and a knife had already been laid out.

Angelo began slicing cheese, and for a moment they were both silent. Then…

"So tell me something," Angelo said. "I know models make pretty good money, but you seem awfully young to have already earned enough to be living in a place like this."

"I'm not just a model," Phoebus answered as he poured lemonade. "I've sold several paintings, done singing and acting jobs –"

"Ow!" Angelo shouted, jumping backwards and sending the knife clattering to the ground. Phoebus whirled around in alarm. The knife had cut into Angelo's hand. Splatters of blood flecked the kitchen floor.

Phoebus darted to his side; the younger man was moaning in pain. "Let me see it!" the blond ordered, trying to pry away the hand that was clutching at the wound. Angelo reluctantly complied. "You're going to need stitches," Phoebus declared, taking Angelo by the arm and pulling him out of the kitchen.

The walls of the room that Phoebus led him to had shelves that were filled with various healing supplies. Phoebus ordered Angelo to sit down and then handed him a towel with directions to press it against the cut. Angelo did so, watching with watery eyes as the blonde rummaged around. Moments later he returned with alcohol, a needle, a bowl, gauze, bandages, and a box that read Vicryl.

Angelo stared at him. "What are you, some kind of doctor?"

Phoebus smiled slightly. "Maybe in another life. The blood flow should have slowed down. Take the towel away," he said gently.

Angelo did so, and the blond mopped up the leftover blood with the gauze, which he then threw into a nearby trash bin. "This is going to hurt," he warned as he unscrewed the cap of the alcohol bottle. He positioned Angelo's hand above the bowl before pouring the alcohol onto the wound. Angelo hissed in pain. "I'm sorry," Phoebus apologized. When that was over, he began the process of stitching the wound shut. The edges of the wound had gone numb, blissfully preventing Angelo from feeling the needle puncture his skin.

When he was done, he unscrewed the lid of an unlabeled jar and scooped out a dime-sized amount of the creamy substance.

"What's that?" Angelo asked warily.

"Something that will help. I made it myself."

So Angelo offered him his hand, and Phoebus rubbed the cream over the wound. Instantly, Angelo felt a cool, tingling sensation. The pain melted from his hand. He blinked in surprise and looked up at Phoebus, meeting the gentle blue eyes. The contact lasted only for a split second before Phoebus stood up to discard the used supplies.

When he returned, Phoebus pressed the roll of bandages into his unwounded hand. "Wrap that up when you get home, but take it off before you go to bed," he directed. "Make sure you put antiseptic on it every day."

Angelo took this to mean that it was time to go. He stood up and let Phoebus guide him to the front door. Their good-bye was brief, but Angelo couldn't help but feel a sense of loss as he left.

Acestor was waiting for him when he got home. He got on the computer after taking a long, hot shower, and almost immediately an instant message popped up.

Acestor7: I was waiting for you.

Angelo frowned slightly at the screen.

Dolios: I'm starting to feel like I'm being stalked.

There was silence for a few moments, during which Angelo ran a comb through his damp hair (otherwise the tangles would be unbearable. He detested having curly hair).

Acestor7: How was your day?

Apparently Acestor was going to ignore the last comment. Angelo shrugged and answered the question.

Dolios: I hurt myself.

Another pause.

Acestor7: Are you alright?

Dolios: Yeah. A model on my mail route stitched me up.

And then he was gone. Angelo growled in frustration, pulling at his hair. He went to bed soon afterwards, but was unable to fall asleep. He lay awake thinking of people he knew who might be the mysterious Acestor, but was still clueless when the first rays of sunshine came through his bedroom window.

It was Sunday, his only day off. Morning had come and gone by the time he decided to leave the warmth of his bed. He trudged into his bathroom, pulled his toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet, and began the process of cleaning his teeth. When he was done, he stared at his reflection for several seconds.

His green eyes were large – too large, in his opinion. A mass of curly black hair framed a delicate-looking face. He frowned at himself, creating the appearance of a pouty teenager. He was short, and rather slender. Although he had the lean, muscled body of a sprinter, he didn't look like someone who would be stronger than the average person.

He sighed at his reflection and left the bathroom. He searched around for something to wear, making a mental note to do laundry later that day. He finally settled on a wrinkled green t-shirt and a pair of black jeans.

Upon entering his tiny living room, he spotted a book that he had been meaning to finish. It seemed like the perfect day to curl up on the couch and read. He tracked down his reading glasses, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and then plopped down on the couch with a happy sigh.

He had barely finished reading two pages when his doorbell rang. Startled and unable to think of anyone who would be visiting him, he jumped up and opened the door.

Of all the people he might have expected to be on the other side, Phoebus would have been the last on the list. But there he was: Blond, blue-eyed, and blindingly handsome.

Neither of them spoke for a second – Angelo was staring at the newcomer stupidly, and Phoebus was watching him with something akin to amusement. Finally, Phoebus spoke the first words. "Are you going to invite me in, Angelo?"

"You can call me Anie," was Angelo's response. Then, realizing that didn't answer the question, he added, "Sure. Come in."

The model looked out of place in Angelo's messy apartment. Phoebus smiled as he looked around. "It looks like a teenager lives here," he said teasingly. "How old are you, Anie?"

"Eighteen," Angelo replied absentmindedly. He was busy clearing a spot for Phoebus to sit.

When he looked back at his visitor, he noticed that his hair, which had been curly the previous day, was now straight. It was longer than Angelo had originally thought.

A smirk formed on the younger man's lips. "Did you straighten your hair?" he asked in mock disbelief. "Kind of girly, don't you think?"

"I didn't straighten it myself," Phoebus replied, settling down into an armchair. "I just got back from a photo-shoot."

Angelo chose not to respond to that. Instead he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to check on your cut." He pointed at Angelo's hand to emphasize his words.

Angelo glanced down at his hand – and then gasped. The cut was completely gone. The only sign that it had ever been there was a faint scar. He looked up to meet Phoebus's eyes, and saw that the blond didn't look at all surprised. In fact, there was a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he'd been expecting this to happen.

"How – how did this happen?" Angelo demanded.

Phoebus shrugged, trying to hide a smile. "I guess you're a fast healer."

For probably the first time in his entire life, Angelo was rendered speechless. The room was silent until Phoebus, pointing at Angelo's face, said, "I didn't know you wear glasses."

Angelo could feel his cheeks turning red. He had forgotten to take off his glasses before answering the door. He hurriedly pulled them off his face and stuck them in his pocket. "Only when I read," he mumbled.

Phoebus grinned, revealing a mouth full of – go figure – perfect teeth. "I think you look good with glasses. It makes you look like an adorable, nerdy type of guy."

Angelo scowled, crossing his arms defensively and jutting out his chin. "I'm not a nerd. I was the fastest on the track team back at school. I could run the four-hundred in fifty seconds flat."

Phoebus stood up, continuing to smile. It was at that moment that Angelo realized just how tall the blonde was. He was easily 6'2" to Angelo's 5'8".

"You big tree," Angelo muttered under his breath. He snickered inwardly when Phoebus's golden eyebrows rose at that statement. But the blond didn't respond to the jab. Instead he stated, "There is no shortage of intelligent athletes. If you're so fast, why aren't you in the Olympics?"

"Actually, my coach told me that the Olympics were a possibility," Angelo admitted. "But things happened and – well, obviously I'm not in the Olympics."

"Obviously," Phoebus agreed, sweeping his hair away from his face. That was when Angelo realized something: He had never told Phoebus where he lived.

"How did you know my address?" he asked suspiciously, crossing his arms.

"You're listed in the phonebook."

"But I never told you my last name."

It was obvious to Angelo that his visitor was enjoying this game, and, if he was going to be honest with himself, so was he. It wasn't often he encountered someone with a tongue as quick as his.

"It wasn't hard to call the postal service and inquire about your last name."

"You went to all that trouble just to stop by and check on my hand?"

Phoebus shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I enjoy your company. I don't meet many people as clever as you. Your intelligence makes for good conversation."

Angelo frowned. "Good conversation?"

It wasn't the first time someone had commented on his intelligence – In fact, he had been in the top five of his graduating class, despite his insistence that he was not in any way, shape, or form, a nerd. But he couldn't think of any "good conversation" that he and Phoebus had had.

"You always have a response to everything," Phoebus explained. "Which, by the way, is more than I can say for the majority of people I know." Then he furrowed his eyebrows. "Now that I think about it, you're unusually smart for an eighteen-year-old."

This was a sore spot for Angelo, who scowled and turned away. He had always hated being smarter than most everyone else. When he was younger, he had just wanted to blend in. Unfortunately, the combination of his intelligence and athletic abilities had made him stick out like a sore thumb.

Phoebus didn't take the hint (or chose to ignore it) and continued to press the subject. "What are you doing working as a mailman when you could be in college? You would make a good lawyer."

Angelo clenched his fists. "I don't want to be a lawyer," he snapped.

"But you're throwing your life away," Phoebus said. And, if Angelo didn't know better, the audacious model was taunting him.

Angelo whirled around, coming face-to-face with the smirking man. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?" he growled. "Stop messing around with me."

But Phoebus wasn't about to give up. "But think of all that you could accomplish! The whole world could know your name –"

"Alright, that's it," Angelo snarled, lunging at the model. Both men went toppling to the floor. Angelo straddled the model's waist and grabbed fistfuls of his obviously expensive shirt. "Listen up, pretty-boy," he spat. "If you don't stop telling me what to do with my life, I'm going to go in there –" he pointed in the general direction of his bathroom, "—grab my razor, and shave off every strand of your pretty blonde hair. Understoo –"

But he had made a mistake in moving his dominant hand off Phoebus. The blond, taking advantage of Angelo's momentary weakness, flipped them over. Now he was the one in the dominant position. He grinned triumphantly. "I knew you had a spark in you! You know what?" He looked down at the red-faced Angelo with a raised eyebrow. "It's kind of a turn-on when you shove me around like that."

"Argh!" Angelo cried out in disgust, shoving the taller man off of him and scrambling to his feet. Phoebus, who had burst out laughing, also pushed himself up. Angelo marched over to the door, threw it open, and pointed outside. "Get out!" he ordered.

"Alright," Phoebus conceded, walking outside with that maddening grin still on his face. "Can I come see you tomo –"

Angelo slammed the door shut before the blond could finish his question. He thought he could hear Phoebus chuckling on the other side of the door.

With a weary sigh, he leaned against the door and slid down until he was sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest. If anyone ever asked, he would absolutely deny the fluttery feeling he had felt in his stomach at the way Phoebus had continued to smile at him and the way the model had said his name – With his accent, it had sounded like Ah-nee.

"Stop being stupid," Angelo muttered to himself, climbing to his feet. He resolved to take a cold shower and then make a phone call to Alex, the friend who never failed to make him feel better.

But even as he slipped out of his clothes and turned on the shower, he couldn't shake the feeling that his life was about to change drastically.

Phoebus: From Ancient Greek Φοῖβος, meaning bright, pure, and radiant.

Lambrinos: Derived from Greek word λάμψη (lampsi), meaning "brightness" or λαμπρός (lampros), meaning "brilliant" or "glorious".