Title: Just Once
Summary: Apollo finds himself being, perhaps, the only god in Olympus that notices when Hephaestus has stopped coming around. Something has gone very wrong.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to myth and legend and I make no money from this.
Dedication: To TheMitmitfor writing that one fic between the blacksmith and the infinitely appealing sun boy. It was a nice change from just reading about Aphrodite being a bitch.

-:-
"You're not the first to be deceived by my rugged good looks and boyish charm."
-ER.

There is something to be said about being the only god within Olympus that is in constant pain because of something his "father" did to him.

Hephaestus had long grown used to having aching pain running up his legs and back and arms, but sometimes it became too much to bare and he would go away for a while to his chambers deep under his volcanic mountain. Aphrodite didn't even notice when he wasn't in their bed, she was just glad to have it to herself—or not, considering the company she liked to keep with blonde haired, anger prone sons of Zeus and Hera. She didn't notice him being gone for whole weeks on end unless she needed a new girdle or something made for her. None of the gods noticed, too busy with themselves to be bothered with the scar ridden, crippled blacksmith.

He returns soon enough, anyway. The orders he always gets from everyone are often piled up on his work table—scrolls and small pieces of papyrus riddled with requests for jewelry, armor, some sort of trap for something or other—and he gets them done as quickly as he ever has. They often complain about how long they had to wait for what they asked for (especially Aphrodite and Zeus) but he is often too tired to care.

After a specific incident, however, someone actually wondered where he had gone off to.

It had taken exactly fourteen days, but Aphrodite and Ares had finally stopped talking about the incident with the golden net. It had been an awesome occasion for gossip among the other gods—Eris and Dionysus had laughed for almost as long as Ares had raved about the whole thing—however, so they wouldn't live it down for at least a year or more. Aphrodite could live with this, and Ares would have to if he wanted anything from Hephaestus ever again.

Apollo, for one, was extraordinarily happy about this. He had been the one to inform Hephaestus on the two blondes' activities after all, so he could be happy that the blacksmith had gotten something out of the ordeal. He got some revenge on his wife being a two-timing tramp and on his brother for being second party to something that humiliated Hephaestus and broke his heart at the same time.

Playing with some flute he had gotten from one of the satyrs down on earth, Apollo made his way through the labyrinthine mountain that Hephaestus used to hone his craft. It led up to a volcano and the blonde god could smell something that wasn't quite like fire, but musky and thick, like smoke. He supposed that it would have to be an acquired taste to actually like living in such a place, but Apollo couldn't see how Hephaestus could stand it.

Then again, he supposed that anything was better for someone like Hephaestus than being stuck up on Mount Olympus, being bothered by everyone, everyday about what they wanted, rather than seeking out his company just for himself. And it didn't help that they already mocked him every chance they got when he actually did come up, despite how sweet and helpful his was.

This was why Apollo was going down to see him himself. He liked spending time with the dark haired god. True he wasn't the prettiest thing to look at—the scars running up and down the entire length of his body like tiger stripes caused from hitting so many rocks when Zeus tossed him down from Olympus and Hera did nothing left him looking a bit like some kind of tree, but with a soot black sweep of hair that was actually rather attractive, when it wasn't covering his dark, sad eyes—but after the time Apollo spent with him, the older god could appreciate how strong he was, despite everything he had been through and found it appealing, in a way.

"Hephaestus," Apollo called out, voice strong and attractive and so unlike the blacksmith's, who sounded like he was always trying to talk through smoke and couldn't breathe because of the strain it put on his slightly shredded vocal chords, "My friend, I have come to see how you've been doing! How is Aphrodite; is she still crowing about what you…"

His voice died when he came to the end of the tunnel that led into the work room.

There was a sort of long and dark noise bouncing off the walls in an echo. The whole place looked deserted and desolate, with the fire meant for the weapons to be melted in put out and cold, with no signs of being lit in days. Small black beetles were skittering around on the floor and eating scraps of papyrus that the other gods had left, the pile being twice the size that it usually was whenever Apollo came down and some had been too big and fallen off of the work table.

Hephaestus had left his walking stick—long and black and gnarled like the root of a tree, it stood a little taller than Hephaestus at seven feet to the blacksmith's five and a half so he could lean completely against it at times of flaring pain in his legs—upon the floor. It had fallen from standing against the wall that led into the one hallway Apollo had never traveled, like a compass pointing to treasure.

Apollo almost ran back the way he came when a rather horrible and frightening moan rang out from the one hall; the dark emanating from it was reminiscent of Hades' shadow when he came up from the underworld for meetings and swallowed up other shadows like water into a river. Apollo got chills just thinking about it.

Hesitantly, as another moan rang from the hall, the blonde bent down and picked up the walking stick and started—very slowly, and afraid—down towards the noise.

This was ludicrous. He should not have been heading down farther into the earth, he was the god of the sun for Zeus' sake! If anything, he should turn back and perhaps get another god to help him with this—maybe Hermes as he could get away very quickly and warn Apollo if it was unsafe to continue on—foolish idea.

But, then, he wouldn't know who was crying so profoundly.

His grip on the stick increased quite a bit an finally, Apollo could see the end of the tunnel: A large, simple looking door that was slightly cracked open seemed to glare ominously at Apollo and another cry rang out, this one wrenching and loud, like the sounds of torture.

Slowly, Apollo pressed the end of the walking stick against the door and it opened (blessedly) silently.

What was inside nearly made him sick and he found himself unable to think or act on anything that went through his head.

The room was large, even by the standards of Zeus, all tall ceilings (however contoured to the likeness of a cavern they may be) and various objects here and there. Though, unlike Zeus or any of the other gods' thematic chambers, this place smelled of copper and sweat that Apollo had learned long ago to link to the suffering of others, generally in sickness.

Rags covered in blood lay upon the ground uncaringly and upon the large bed in the room, surrounded by buckets of water and blocks of ice the size of war hammers that could crush an enemy skull in half, bits of medical herbs strewn everywhere, was Hephaestus.

He looked horrible.

Apollo approached the bed with quiet padding of his feet on the stone floor and found that he had dropped the stick in his hands from the shock of the sight of the little god.

Hephaestus was writhing around in the center of a large nest of covers, the scars along his legs actually looking as though they had been ripped open and bled profusely upon the sheets, leaving ugly red stains everywhere that Hephaestus wiggled. He was hugging himself and crying out obscenities once and a while, biting at his lips and cutting them open as well so it looked as though he were a mad dog dying in the street rather than a god known for his quiet demeanor and kindness towards everyone.

The blonde god took a seat on the end of the bed, almost jumping up and away the moment he touched down. The bed was absolutely sopping wet with what he could imagine to be the remnants of ice Hephaestus had no doubt used earlier to try and sooth the pain he was in by numbing it.

Sitting down and damning the damp setting into his clothes, Apollo thought better than to actually touch the small god—and he was small, so much so that Apollo wanted to hug him to his chest like a child and change him into something that was not like he was now; strange that he saw now what the other gods saw when they called the blacksmith a dwarf, despite him being a little taller than that—and instead made to say something to gain his attention.

"Hephaestus?"

The answer he got was unexpected as this whole experience was so far—sharp and a bit terrifying.

"What do you want? Get out! Get out—oh it hurts—leave!"

Truthfully, Apollo might well have left if he was like any of the other gods—let the runt suffer by himself if he wanted to, it was no skin off of his hide—but the blonde shook such thoughts away and looked sorrowfully down at the dark haired man.

"I just came down to see you," he said, cautious, "I didn't think you'd be like this or I would have come down sooner. What's wrong?"

Hephaestus was wracked by another strong surge of pain and arched his back into the air, burying his head into the bed, arms crossed below his chest to continue hugging himself. Still, he managed an answer.

"What's wrong? Hah! I'll tell—oh, lords—you what's wrong! My wife—damnit, not again—is a whore who has no morals, even when she—gah—get's caught in the act with my so-called brother in front of everyone to see, I'm the most—ugh, fuck, fuck, stupid arm—unlucky god in the cosmos and to top it off—ow, ow—this flared up thirteen days ago! If you don't mind now, I'd like to be left alone—FUCK!"

After changing position with each exclamation, in the end, Hephaestus just let his limbs fall any which way and stopped moving, eyes completely dulled with pain and depression.

"You've been like this for thirteen days?"

The brunette did not answer physically or verbally. There was no need.

Apollo's brow pinched together, his eyes taking on a misted look as he brought his hand up against his mouth to capture the wracked sigh that escaped him. To think that one of his fellow gods had been in so much pain—damn unbearable if it had ever happened to anyone else—and he hadn't known. True, Hephaestus hadn't told anyone, but did he really have to? They were all family, they should have seen the signs.

But then…he knew none of them would really care, would they?

The golden god looked around, for something to put his hand to, to help his little friend, anything. He couldn't just sit and do nothing as Hephaestus cried out again, almost imperseivable drops of salty tears falling from his eyes and right knee twisting awkwardly in the wrong direction.

By some blessed miracle, Apollo's sights set upon, in the very farthest corner of the room, a large, porcelain tub. It wasn't much, but it was clean, with no water in it and Apollo knee a trick for joint pain that would work wonders with what he had now.

Without hesitating, Apollo got up from the bed and started hoisting ever bucket of water he could find from around the room into the tub. Amazingly, within just five minutes, the whole thing was full—true it was with only room temperature water that wasn't quite warm and not quite cold, but it would do.

Without words, he carefully removed Hephaestus from the bed and held him in his strong arms like a bride as he moved him to the tub. Some of the brunette's blood got on the sun god's clothing, but it didn't matter. There was only one small problem with this.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm…trying to help you."

Slowly, Apollo stepped into the tub himself, Hephaestus held to his chest so that if the blonde slipped, he himself would take more of the force. But he didn't slip; he lowered the both of them into the water until he was on his back, touching the marble and feet floating just above the water's edge, and Hephaestus was on top of him, hands fisted in the white linen of his clothing and eyes clenched so tightly it must have hurt.

They stayed like that for a little while, neither saying anything; but then, the little blacksmith let go of his death grip on the now bloodied clothes and sighed into the crook of Apollo's neck, breath sending a comfortable message through the blonde that, yes, he had been right in his assumption that this would work.

Very quickly, all the rigid tension left Hephaestus—legs floated on the water and entangled with Apollo's like reeds, back straightened a little and allowed his stomach to press against the other's and upper arms stopped bleeding after a while—and he looked as best he could at the god under him. He didn't look like he was entirely happy with this situation, but like he was trying to figure out what to say next, but without words. Nobody ever helped him like this before, not ever and it broke Apollo's heart just thinking about it.

"Is this alright?" Apollo asked, tentatively touching Hephaestus at each joint he could reach and checking for any remaining rigidness, a sign of pain, or the like, "Are you feeling a little better?"

Hephaestus nodded. He didn't have anything to say, so confused with this whole thing that he was, words would not process in his brain and come to thank the golden favorite of Zeus.

Instead, Hephaestus lightly pressed a kiss to the side of the other god's face (between the mouth and line of the chin) and snuck his head back into the crook of the lean chest, legs curling under him like a kitten and making himself more comfortable with the other.

It wasn't much, Apollo could admit that; not much to start really contributing to this small friendship, but….it was a start.