Greetings! The name is Time Lizzy, or Time as my friends call me. They/Them pronouns. I love to try new things, draw, sing, dance, garden, and I do some witchcraft in my free time. I'm a Hetalia role playing partner if you guys are interested.
The boy was
playing among the children when Apollo first saw him.
He couldn’t
have abandoned the sun chariot quicker; one moment the boy caught his eye, and
in the other, the god was already walking through the earth.
Beautiful was the first word that came to his mind. Kind was the next. The boy spun on his
heels, holding a young boy in the air. The other children laughed, screamed—
some even fought. The beautiful boy
would pretend to be hurt, pleading for mercy, and then, when the children wondered
about the best decision, he would take one of them, spin them around, make them
fly. Then they all would laugh. Apollo couldn’t get his eyes away from him. He thought
about approaching. He didn’t. He hid between the grass instead and watched
fondly, a smile adorning his lips, as the children pleaded, then laughed, then
jumped at him.
(He
pretended he didn’t feel Eros’ arrow through his chest, right on his heart.
Eros wasn’t going to get any satisfaction out of this.)
(Apollo
kept his eye on the boy, anyway.)
It took
only two days for him to abandon his chariot once again. The boy was hunting,
with attentive eyes — such pretty, violet eyes — and a bow in his hands, an
arrow prepared.
Apollo
thought he was being careful. But he wasn’t, apparently, because the boy turned
his body in his direction and said: “At least try to be quiet while you
chase me, I’m trying to hunt something.”
The god
rose, more confused than ashamed, and answered, “I’m a god.”
The boy
blinked. Then he smiled; a smile that made him look like a fox. “Yes, I
know. The golden glow kind of gave that away.”
“Are
you not…”
“You’re
not the first god to pursue me.” The boy laughed. Apollo thought it was
the most beautiful sound in the universe. He had an urge to compose a song
around his laughter alone, but even his own lyre couldn’t capture the raw
beauty.
“I’m
Apollo.”
“Hyacinthus.”
The boy answered (like the god’s name was nothing more than a name) and his
smile grew kinder. The sunlight hit his eyes in a way that made them look like
jewels. Apollo thought: I want him. “So…
Will you help me hunt?”
“Why
would I?”
“This
heart can’t be conquered by godhood alone.”
Hyacinthus
started walking. Apollo, always naïve, followed.
The third
time was fatal. The sun was shining brightly (a reflection of Apollo, for
sure), and his boy (his, his) was
moving under it. Apollo didn’t know if he was dancing, training, or stretching.
Didn’t really matter; Hyacinthus could bend as much as he pleased, with full
thighs and flexible arms and olive skin. He shouldn’t be a mortal. No; Apollo
could imagine ichor flowing through him, the earth trembling beneath him.
Hyacinthus should have been eternal. Never-ending. And yet, here a was; a
prince, the youngest son, the kindest, the most beautiful, and, well— mortal.
Fragile, vulnerable, weak.
Apollo knew
he shouldn’t fall for a mortal. But his heart was a masochistic little thing.
Hyacinthus
laughed when he saw him. Apollo smiled.
“Want
to play a game with me?”
Apollo said
yes. He didn’t even think about it.
(Eros’
arrow stung in his chest. But then Hyacinthus took his hand, his smile coy, and
the arrow became a part of him.)
Think Things 