Chapter Text
Indeed, Diomedes is going to miss all this care and company that is now his daily bread. Because there is no way in hell or heaven that he and Odysseus will stay together if Diomedes actually finds Penelope, is there?
Can there even be one?
Please, may there be one…
The bitterness is not so apparent during Odysseus and Diomedes’ Monday breakfast, no. It comes flooding him the moment Odysseus is out of the penthouse, behind the closed door, riding the lift, driving his car away and away from Diomedes.
It’s almost stupid at how much this distance now hurts him. Even Argos, who’s just as used to Odysseus’ schedule as Diomedes is, is not whining or pawing at the door right now. And while Diomedes is not doing that literally, he is doing that mentally. Metaphorically.
Whatever.
The point is that he is doing it. He is actively missing Odysseus, his owner, his Master, sat thinking at the dining table as he is. Glancing over at Argos who pads around to lap at the water in his bowl, then pick a toy, chew on it for a while only to land in his big, royal dog bed to doze the day away. Unbothered by Odysseus’ absence. Knowing that he’ll come back eventually. Knowing that he won’t be left alone.
He promised…
These thoughts are going to kill Diomedes if he keeps indulging in them as if they were the most delicious dessert served on earth. And they aren’t. They aren’t there to savour them. They’re there to either fend them off or silence them. Smother. Strangle.
So he bolts off of the chair, sending a loud creak across the space. Disturbing Argos’ peaceful slumber for a second or two. Evoking that disappointed, judging sigh from him that lifts the corners of Diomedes’ lips up the tiniest notch.
He has to do something about this. About himself.
He’s stood like an ill-assorted pillar in the middle of this vintage flat, an ancient piece of décor unable to match the old-school era of the spot. Too young, too modern for it. Dressed in soft cotton tracksuit, bottle-green, his favourite and thus the worst he could be wearing. So wrong, so out of place. Not made for this, redundant, disposable.
Diomedes shakes his head, a sharp inhale rushing through his airways. Waking him up, rousing him back into the reality that maybe isn’t as bad as he thinks it is (yet). Or into the reality that he can make better before it gets worse.
Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.
Therapy.
For your head, Diomedes, rattle Sthenelus’ words in Diomedes’ skull. An unpleasant ring, an unwelcome check-in. Definitely unfavourable.
But damn if it isn’t true.
Sthenelus has been right about it all along.
Together with Odysseus, in fact. Who’s been gently nudging Diomedes into proper therapy all this time too, repeating how he can only do so much regarding the nightmares that just won’t leave Diomedes alone. No matter how much either of them tries, no matter how many times Odysseus takes the horrors away for the night. He could cram them into a bucket, throw them into a well and stone them for a good measure and they’d still crawl their way back into Diomedes’ head.
Just as the memories of other misdeeds are doing now. Mostly those related to alcohol. And of this weird relationship that Diomedes has with it. Of how easy it is to convince him to let go and wet his lips, tongue and throat with the poison. Of how Odysseus had to administer Diomedes’ most hated method of punishment to swat the idea of mixing meds with alcohol out of his mind.
And, oh, what an irony — he is thinking about it now.
About drinking. About adding some meds to it. About making life seem a bit brighter at this very moment.
He will. If he doesn’t start moving. If he stays here, glued to this damn spot next to the table, in this state of temporality, the element of impermanence he is.
He rushes to the study. Stomping his way there to crash onto his swivel chair and turn on his beast of a PC. To occupy his mind, his hands, his body.
To stop thinking.
He checks the time. Odysseus left half an hour ego and Diomedes has already managed to experience a crisis.
He could call him. Diomedes could call Odysseus, or send him a message. Ask for help. Reassurance.
He really should. Just as he’d done before — whenever a nightmare struck him back at his place. He called Odysseus then, in the middle of the night. And it was all good. It all ended well.
But Diomedes… can’t bring himself to doing it now. The phone’s in their bedroom anyway.
Because he realises that in the worst case scenario, he won’t be able to rely on Odysseus anymore. He won’t be able to call him in the middle of the night or message him during the lectures. Because Odysseus will have something else to do, someone else to take care of and nurture back to a normal rhythm of life.
After all, Diomedes is more than capable of maintaining his own rhythm already.
Or so he thinks.
(Even though he clearly still needs Odysseus to keep him in check. To give him tasks to do. To be there for him whenever he needs to reach out. And he is there. The professor is still there. Diomedes simply refuses to reach for that which he’s reached for so many times before. Too afraid that it will be the last time or that he won’t be able to do it when everything’s said and done.)
It’s enough for his anxiety-driven reverie right now.
He throws himself into the sea of Google search. In search of a therapist.
The action quickly becomes mechanical. It’s an easy job to compare the prices and the average queues to all the therapists Diomedes finds on the net. Be it online or on-site therapists. All of them expensive, none of them available as soon as he’d prefer.
He’ll have to wait a month and pay a sum for a private appointment or wait half a year (at least!) and pay nothing for the grace of the national healthcare system.
So he picks the former.
A month is not that bad.
A month without Ody—
Diomedes blinks at the screen. At the information that he’s just made an appointment, the bold black letters shining at him, their thickness soft and comforting. He blinks again. Wants to add it to the calendar app but damn the phone is in the bedroom. He’ll have to go there.
But he blinks. Wondering why he’s even accusing Odysseus of the worst thing that could happen while nothing’s even happened yet. Hell, Diomedes can’t even be sure how he’s going to get to that forest — after all, he hasn’t asked Sthenelus about it yet.
Then it dawns on him — it’s all so… impulsive. Decisions and contemplations of a nutcase of a man. All of them chaotic, uncoordinated, in disorder as they’ve always been. Never grounded, always up in the clouds, together with Diomedes’ head.
Or — grounded when Diomedes’ feet are on the ground. Only then. And only when he’s certain that Odysseus will be right there beside him. Ready to catch him if he falls. Anywhere, anytime.
When this stability stutters, the unwanted havoc begins to take over. It’s something that Diomedes thought he’d been done with but, apparently, he was wrong. Because here he is, utterly shaken by all the what ifs that can come true but don’t have to. There’s no way to tell.
He hates the feeling, actually. This sudden realisation of how much things can change if he succeeds tomorrow. If all the guesses he and Athena have made come to pass. If they become the reality.
“What a mess,” Diomedes whines to himself, small and quiet. His shoulders droop and so does his head until his forehead hits the desk. His desk in his and Odysseus’ study. There, where Odysseus arranged the space for him.
Just for him.
Diomedes hides his face in his elbows, releasing a long sigh. Focusing on his breath, his eyes closed.
Inhale — one, two, three, four. Hold — one, two, three, four. Exhale — one, two, three, four. Rinse and repeat.
A full-body flinch. A muted ping of his phone from the other room.
Diomedes groans. No rest for the wicked, it seems.
So, begrudgingly, he drags himself off of the chair and shuffles his feet to the bedroom. He’s certain that it’s some dumb ad or stupid scam.
And oh, what a surprise it is when the screen lights up and the notification beams right into his face.
With a delicate smile, he sits down on the bed, cradling the phone in his hands for a sappy second too long.
Odysseus: What are you up to, sweet thing?
Dreading the thought of losing—
Diomedes: Just made an appointment at a therapist’s
Odysseus sends an emoji. Two red exclamation marks. Diomedes has no idea where and how the old professor found the reaction. And how he’s managed to actually use it correctly.
Odysseus: I’m so proud of you, dear! Good job! Have you been planning to do it lately? Have I forgotten something?
Diomedes chuckles to the device.
Diomedes: Nope. It was a spontaneous decision. Now or never sorta thing
Odysseus: I’m still glad, Diomedes.
A brief pause. Then another message comes in.
Odysseus: Was there anything that sparked the idea so randomly? How are you feeling?
Biting down on his lower lip, Diomedes sees his thumbs tremble over the keyboard.
Diomedes: No. A bit off
One contradicts the other. Diomedes knows Odysseus loves contradictions. Diomedes’ contradictions.
And before Odysseus can answer, Diomedes’ fingers have already pleaded his case.
Diomedes: Can we play when you’re back? I’ll walk Argos, so you don’t have to
Odysseus: Of course. Thank you.
That’s enough to paint a smile on Diomedes’ face. The three dots, the indicators of Odysseus typing, only make the calming joy stay with and within Diomedes a bit longer.
Odysseus: It’s almost twelve, so I want you to make and eat two sandwiches. Make them colourful, send me picture. Make additional two. I’ll have them once I’m back. I’ll cook us proper lunch after the scene. Wait for me before the front door. I want to see you in your underwear and leather collar only. Understood?
Diomedes: Yes, Sir. When will you be back?
Odysseus: In less than two hours, puppy. Will you manage?
Diomedes: yessir
Odysseus: Good boy.
Diomedes’ back meets the soft mattress. He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment or two. Basking in the orders and in the praise. Anticipating all the things that will happen in less than two hours. Looking forward to them.
Even if, as hard as it is to admit it and have it bear down on him whole, it’s the last session they’re going to have.
The prospect makes Diomedes’ hands shake as he makes food and as he devours it, too (with due praise from the professor). Since the very start of the day, his thoughts have been running around in his head, bumping and crashing against the cranium, blind as bats. It’s noisy in there. It’s an uncontrolled chaos which will be put to an end in less than two hours. Yes, Diomedes is counting down the minutes, unable to let it go. Needing his release, right here, right now, in a way. The fact that it’s impossible is infuriating.
But he can get through it. A couple of inhales and exhales, then on to playing with Argos outside and he’s got three quarters killed already.
So, together with the food making, less than two hours soon turn into less than an hour. Which is enough of a cue for Diomedes to whip up more sandwiches and even get a tea mug ready for his owner. The teabag’s already in, Diomedes’ signature Earl Grey to make Odysseus smile at his pet’s sense of humour.
Happy that his foot isn’t causing any troubles, Diomedes quickly discards these thoughts, however merry they are. It’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.
(Diomedes would know. It’s just like with Argos and uttering the magical word “walk” near him. No more sleeping dogs in that case.)
Once the plate is filled with colourful sandwiches — just as Odysseus taught him, the art of stealing the colours of the spring included — Diomedes grabs a chair from the dining table and drags it to the spot a couple of steps before the front door. In the bathroom, he takes his clothes and everyday collar off and leaves them there, having folded them into a neat pile with the necklace placed on the top. Indeed, Odysseus is bound to smile at this, too.
Diomedes catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He considers looking for a longer while and he caves in a moment later. With a heavy sigh on his lips that helps his shoulders relax, he faces himself in the mirror. Hues stolen from the nature have crept into his own features, breathing this healthiness into them; no more blue paleness or empty stares that scream no will to live.
Granted, his body’s still marred with scars of the past, some more visible than others, yet they aren’t as jarring as they were earlier. There’s still that healed wound on his shoulder that he now hates a bit less — because it makes him who he is, because it’s what led him here, to his happy place by Odysseus’ side — and, among other smaller marks, there’s still that awful sign of the accident on his foot.
And that’s when he realises that it’s been quite a while since he saw the rebar poking out from it like from a bloody flesh-cake. That it doesn’t draw attention too much anymore, either his or other people’s. That the past injury isn’t as blatant as he thought it was. That it was just in his head. In his perception. In how he used to shape it.
Damn professor was right.
About who’s responsible for your self-image? Yes. Yes, he was.
Smart bastard.
Shaking his head and with a smile curling his lips, Diomedes steps out of the bathroom.
He’s just about to take a seat at the chair when, having thought about Odysseus a second ago, he remembers something from their very first session. Something that Odysseus said could be made into a plan for the future. Something they haven’t used during a scene yet.
A whip.
Electricity runs down Diomedes’ spine at the idea. The tingling reaches the pads of his fingers and grows in intensity with each step he takes towards the playroom. That’s where, there, in the kingdom of joint pain and pleasure that belongs to him and Odysseus both, he lays his hands on it. That’s where he traces the plain black leather with his fingers, gauging the length of the tool, assessing how much it will hurt and how quickly it will turn his brain into a feather-like mush that will be able to do no thinking at all.
Especially when he knows that this is exactly what he needs right now. After all the ponderings he’s already managed to commit himself to, with varying degrees of success in regards to his joy and fulfilment in life.
Yeah. A whip will help.
So he snatches it from where it’s hanging (remembering to grab his leather collar at the same time) and goes to the chair which he plops down on. Clearing his throat, he spreads his legs, smiling at the bit of modesty guaranteed by his briefs. He lays his hands on his thighs, palms up, and in these hands he spreads and holds the whip. It’s too long not to touch the ground but it doesn’t matter. The time that’s left until Odysseus’ inevitable return is of no matter, either.
Because this state of waiting and anticipation is enough to nudge Diomedes into that special headspace. A small piece of his brain’s already turned into cotton candy thanks to the weight of the toy against his palms. Thanks to the leather collar he’s wrapped around his neck. And thanks to the position he’s assumed, which he knows will put a bright smile onto his owner’s face once he’s back home.
It does. Or so Diomedes guesses.
He’s got his head lightly bowed and his gaze glued to the ground when the professor opens the door and steps through it. Once it’s locked, he puts his file on the floor and leaves his jacket on a rack.
There goes a quiet, yet rich chuckle. The sound’s sultry and satisfied. And satisfying.
Odysseus’ brown suede loafers enter Diomedes’ view. Then come the off-white pants Odysseus has put on today to match them with a light, olive green shirt. The belt and the wristwatch complete the perfectly smart-casual look that has Diomedes part his lips to take an inhale in all of his awe.
“Hello, puppy,” caresses the dark voice from above as a hand cups Diomedes’ jaw to lift his chin up and have him connect his gaze with his owner.
Only then does Diomedes notice that Odysseus has rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The younger man’s stomach caves in on itself, sending the first waves of pressure under his navel.
“Welcome home, Sir,” Diomedes greets back slowly, smiling, squinting his hazels at the professor in sheer affection.
“I see you’ve picked a toy for today,” the other man observes and takes the whip from Diomedes’ hands. “I know you’ve walked Argos but have you prepared a meal for me?”
A tender stroke of Odysseus’ thumb over Diomedes’ jaw.
“Yes, Sir,” he answers readily. “It’s in the kitchen. A mug’s waiting for you there, too.”
“Such a good boy… And good boys like you deserve some playtime, am I right?”
“Yes, Sir, you’re right,” Diomedes’ words morph into a hum as Odysseus moves closer to him, so that he can rest his forehead against the professor’s front. Diomedes then releases a contented sigh, feeling Odysseus hand leave his jaw and rake through his hair until two fingers slide underneath the collar. To check the give.
“Did you make sure it isn’t too tight yourself, pet?”
“Yes, Sir,” rolls like a mantra off of Diomedes’ tongue. He can feel his form deflate and relax when it’s covered by this safe and freeing veil of submission.
“Good job, dear. My smart little pet,” muses Odysseus, holding Diomedes’ nape with both hands now. “You look beautiful like this. Ready, waiting, loyal. The best puppy boy in the entire world. And who does he belong to?”
“You, Sir, only you.”
“That’s my boy, yes. Now, go to the playroom and wait for me on the bed, in the same position as you assumed before I came, while I’ll go and have a quick meal and tend to a couple of emails in the meantime.”
Without much thinking, Diomedes blurts out, “let me be your footrest, Sir. Or your table.”
Odysseus’ breath catches in his chest. His fingers tug on Diomedes’ locks a little. But Diomedes, forever fearless Diomedes, shifts and gazes up at the older man. Doing all he can to look as sweet and convincing as he can muster.
He even reaches with his hands to lay them on the professor’s hips and hold him by his waist eventually. No pressure, no vice-like grips, no. Just some grounding that Diomedes knows he’s allowed.
“Do you truly want that, pup?” Odysseus needs to assure, a slight frown between his eyebrows that adds and deepens the seriousness and maturity that Odysseus’ glasses already provide him with. “Will it not be too much?” he pries on, carding his digits through Diomedes’ blonde strands some more.
“No, Sir.” A confident shake of the younger man’s head. “I’ve tried mitts lately, so I’m ready to go for this, too. Are you?” He quirks an eyebrow up, tilting his face to the side, evoking a soft smile on the professor’s face.
A gentle nod. “Yes. Yes, I am, puppy. Green.”
Diomedes’ beams.
His mirth doesn’t leave him even for a second when he lays cushions on the carpet in front of the sofa, while Odysseus is busy brewing tea in the kitchen. Diomedes’ hands shake again but this time it’s out of excitement. Because it’s running free through his veins, lighting his nerves on fire as he gets into position — on his hands and knees, shins propped on the soft cushions to avoid foot strain.
It’s not difficult to find a comfortable spot. It’s a matter of one shift or the other until he’s all set and prepared for his owner to join him.
In no time, that’s exactly what happens.
The shoes thump against the hardwood in a mute manner and the teaspoon clinks in the mug. A fresh, vigorous shiver dances across Diomedes’ upper back as the professor approaches him and… puts the plate and the mug on the coffee table nearby.
A disappointed little whimper makes its way out of Diomedes’ throat.
“I wouldn’t put a mug of hot tea on your back, puppy, come on,” Odysseus scolds lightly, a teasing remark on his part more than anything else. “You’ll get my laptop instead. And you’re going to tell me if it starts getting too warm, understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Diomedes says, letting out a more optimistic exhale, staring at Odysseus’ shoes again.
“Good boy. Now, don’t move, keep your head down and stay quiet. But feel free to use your safe words at any time or inform me about any undesired pain or discomfort you might experience. Got it?”
“Got it, Sir.”
“Colour?”
“Green.”
“Splendid.”
Diomedes is already in that hazy state of mind. He’s not yet floating but it feels like skipping from one rock to another, along the stream, one by one until he finds that special spring that’ll lead him where he wants to be.
He’ll get there soon enough. He always does. And now that he is able to kneel? Being on all fours sends him into his favourite headspace as quickly as nothing else in the world.
All of a sudden, blankly staring at the fluffy carpet underneath, Diomedes feels weight atop his back. It’s not heavy but it causes him to shiver nonetheless. Swiftly, though, he composes himself and limits the trembling to this inner quivering that’s rattling his lungs against the bars of bone. The love in his heart, in his chest, becomes this frenzied flurry of fun and fulfilment that he can’t get enough of.
To come down, Diomedes lets out a long exhale. He digs his fingers into the carpet, a semblance of more stability.
He stills.
He hears an approving hum, hears the spoon ring in the mug again, hears the shuffling and then the bite; fresh, crunchy vegetables getting crushed as Odysseus takes his time with the dish. All the while, he’s using his free hand — left or right, Diomedes hears him shift, too — to type away whatever needs typing on his computer.
To Diomedes, the professor seems unaffected by the fact that his pet’s serving him as a table. Or a desk.
Good.
Because three months ago, Odysseus was hesitant to engage in a session that included this kind of objectification. Today, though, he is glad to give it a shot. A fond echo of Diomedes agreeing to the mitts Odysseus suggested few days ago. A fair deal. A fair exchange.
Of trust. Of respect. Of love.
This weird and wicked love that they share.
The love that Diomedes hopes… will remain.
“Colour,” sets off the command in Diomedes’ head, before his closed eyes. It brings him back to the reality for a brief moment, making him realise that a rather concerning sound may have just slipped past his lips.
“Green, Sir,” he provides quickly and gets praised for using his words.
Because he’s a good boy. And like a good boy, he gladly withstands being Odysseus’ desk. The smile that doesn’t come off his face is enough of a reassurance for the older man. It must be. For he asks for a colour only one more time during this part of the play.
The instant the weight is lifted off of his body, Diomedes flinches back into greater consciousness.
He’s been floating. Gliding through the static world in his head, light like a feather in his own body that’s been doing its job, that’s been useful once again, that he’s learnt to love, too, because it’s still reliable, because he’s still able(d).
It takes a second or two for Diomedes’ form to catch up with all its limbs, though. It’s a funny feeling, this tingling that’s not really the tingling of numbness; it’s more of a reset, the current back in the system, flowing through it as it normally does. The static spills all over him, disperses. It’s nice. He smiles. And with that eternal smirk, he’s guided by his collar until his eyes meet his owner’s ones.
Odysseus is holding the leather as if he were holding a puppy by its scruff. The realisation makes Diomedes’ heart sing.
It also makes his hips sway from side to side, yet, sadly, there’s no tail that he could wag today. The motion earns him a kiss on the lips. A long and wet one. Small pulls and nibbles included. Together with that commanding, “open,” that he can never resist.
The tongues meet. Hot, passionate, wetter than the lips.
Diomedes allows the older man to lead him. To move him as he pleases for easier access, for greater compliancy.
Diomedes revels in this. In all of this.
He feels no shame anymore. He feels proud of his devotion to another man.
He’s confident in his submission to his Master.
“Ody, Sir…” he whimpers, chasing the mouth that’s left his and that he can’t reach again. His nose scrunched up, he huffs a defiant huff. “More, please,” he says, words all sticky, unwilling to leave his lungs. “Green, Sir.”
“Give yourself a moment, pup, hm?” Odysseus offers, letting go of Diomedes’ collar, which the younger man perceives as a clear invitation to nuzzle into his owner’s chest. To rub his forehead against the base and the side of the professor’s neck, absorbing the addictive cologne. “My sweet boy, I’ll bring you some water, check up on you and then we’ll move on.”
“Mhm, yessir.”
“Good, good little pet, let’s get you seated now. How’s your foot, pretty thing?” asks the professor, rubbing Diomedes’ back. “Tell me.”
“Uh, hurts… but just a little,” Diomedes replies, reluctantly admitting to the pain that awoke the moment he stopped kneeling. Ironically enough.
“So a break is due, isn’t it?”
“It is, Sir, yeah… Thank you.”
“No need to thank me, pup.”
A chaste kiss is pressed to the top of Diomedes’ head.