Page 3 of Midnight Pleasure

This stranger was putting a substantial wedge into his carefully constructed view of the world as he finally made out between muttered words amidst bandaging and cleaning. The name fitted. It was hard, full of impact, as the god of war would be. Something vulnerable about him tugged at Apollo's sympathies.

Ares was snoring softly. The ketamine Apollo had given him laid him out cold. It was necessary; was in too much pain and agitated while Apollo cleaned him up. The crash had to have been brutal; Apollo had seen injuries like this before—superficial but painful. The worst had been the gash on Ares's head, a cut that bled profusely, soaking his hair and running down his face in thick rivulets. Apollo skillfully stopped the bleeding and bandaged the head wound.

With a weird mix of emotions, Apollo turned his gaze to the man across from him. Ares woke something protective that he had not felt in years, an attraction he could hardly ignore.

He had fetched warm hand towels, soap, and water. Mud and dried blood caked to his feet. Apollo fell to a knee beside the bed, dipping the towel into the basin of warm water, so very slow and deliberate, as if he was afraid to wake Ares from his sleep.

As he tried to scrub the dirt and blood drying on them, Apollo couldn't help but note the comparison between the two and how Ares' finely moulded feet curled into long, graceful toes—a sign of ease, not hardship. Severe injuries in his service and the mountaineering environment made a mess of his feet. The man was clean and sharp, reminiscent of freshly hung laundry set to dry in the mountain sun. Ironically, such a fine man ended up in Foggy Basin, where luxury was forgotten.

Apollo's thoughts strayed as the grime and blood disappeared to reveal smooth, pale skin underneath. Who was this guy? What had brought him here? An indescribable tug drew him to Ares—like the irresistible pull of the tide, relentless and inevitable, drawing him closer with every passing second. Apollo had needed no one, always self-sufficient. That had been the foundation on which he'd based his life. Now, Ares's presence stirred things he thought he had buried long ago.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, returning to his work. His gaze, however, continued falling onto Ares's face. Even now, his sleep wasn't restful, as he showed a line of worry etched between his brows. Apollo wondered again about Ares's life before and the adversities that brought him to this sequestered corner of the world.

After Apollo was done with Ares' feet, he sat back to think about his next move. He really could not walk away and leave Ares in the state he was in. But looking at Ares, the memory of that weird sense of responsibility overtook him. This man was now in his hands, whether or not he liked it. And deep down, he knew he couldn't.

He got up and went over to the living room to stir the fire, making sure it would last a while longer and then adding another log. The flames crackled, sending out a stuttering light into the room. The hissing, warm sound made the space comfortable, like a cocoon—a pleasant contrast to the howling wind that whipped through the night outside. The people of Foggy Basin were used to this sort of weather. Tonight was no different. The furious storm outside closed them off from the world.

After his ministrations to the fire, Apollo figured Ares would need something hot to drink and eat when he came to. He walked over to the small nook kitchen and fixed one of his mother's old recipes, which she used to make on nights like this: Avgolemono soup—a Greek lemon chicken soup with a rich broth thickened with eggs and brightened with fresh lemon juice.

He worked his way through the steps: chopped garlic, celery, and onions, then sauteed them until fragrant and added homemade chicken stock and tender pieces of chicken. The soup simmered on one stove; he whisked eggs and lemon juice together in a bowl, filling the room with citrus. When the broth was ready, he gradually stirred in the egg mixture to avoid curling into soup. The smell of nostalgia—his mother's warm kitchen and gentle hands guiding him as a child—floated up. It was food that healed more than just bodies. He hoped it would comfort the stranger lying in his bed.

He could not help stealing a last glimpse of Ares as he turned to return to bed. There was definitely something about him—particularly in this vulnerable state—reaching out to Apollo: the fan of his blond lashes against his cheeks, the soft heave and pull of his chest, and even the hidden strength that really worked to draw Apollo in against his better judgment.

Briefly, Apollo imagined Ares in his life, not only as a guest but as something more. Grisly and exhilarating, the thought swept from the buried pit of emotions. But he waved it off, recalling realities that now populated his life. He did not need companionship—not with someone like Ares, who had an undoubtedly tumultuous life waiting for him outside these mountains.

However much Apollo tried to convince himself that this was merely a passing emotion, he could not deny the fondness he had. It wasn't just physical; Ares was beautiful. Apollo stirred deeper in himself—something he had not experienced for ages: protection, caring, being needed. And that scared him above all else.

He finally turned away, willing his thoughts to more mundane things. We can decide Ares' fate tomorrow. For now, he merely tended to the young man's healing. Even as he worked his hands through the everyday tasks, Apollo could not shake the feeling that Ares's coming was not a coincidence. It was the promise of changing everything, should he welcome it.

That had been his final thought as he dozed in the warm chair by the fire. Yet, even as his eyelids drooped, his mind stayed with Ares, how fatefully their lives had crossed and what lay ahead.

As the night wore on, Apollo woke periodically, his eyes instinctively focused on the bed where Ares slept. The storm raged unabated outside, but it was calm, almost peaceful here. In that quiet rhythm of Ares's breathing lay comfort for Apollo, reattaching him after years of detachment. It was strange that he should unrealistically expect this feeling of peace with a stranger in his home—but he didn't question it.

The gale had passed over by dawn, and a heavy mist prevailed. Apollo stood up from his chair, stretching out the stiffness in his muscles, his eyes instantly reaching for Ares. The young man was asleep, but colour returned to his cheeks, a sign of recovery. Apollo felt the slightest relief, knowing that Ares would be all right.

He tiptoed, not to disturb the fragile peace of morning. Yet he couldn't help but be curious about what would ensue next as he continued his regular business. Would Ares wake up in a rage and want to escape as fast as he could? Or would he stay, at least for a while, until he figured out his next move? The latter idea both appealed to him and scared him at the same time. Not knowing how to handle the trouble Ares would bring into his life didn't allow Apollo to ignore the interest and lust the man had stirred in him.

As morning emerged slowly, sliding through the windows, Apollo scrubbed his hands in the sink. The water was icy, biting against his skin as he washed away the sweat and blood from the previous night. He found a glimmer of hope there, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to be alone forever.

The rustling from the bed made Apollo turn around, his heart racing. Ares was stirring; his eyes fluttered open, hazy from sleep. Their eyes locked in a brief hold of gazes. The world stopped a little. The unsaid silence between them spoke of understanding, an affirmation of how bizarre the circumstances that had brought them together were.

Apollo just couldn't help cracking a little smile. "Morning, welcome to Foggy Basin," he sputtered, carrying warmth into his voice that he hadn't intended.

Ares blinked twice, still bleary, but then a wry half-smile tilted his lips up. "Is that where I am? Sounds like a set-up for a cheesy horror movie."

"Not as ominous as it sounds. Although I do admit," he chuckled, "it has its moments, too."

Wincing, Ares shifted, and the pain in his head became known. "Well, if you were planning to lure me into some creepy backwoods scenario, you've already failed. The bed's too comfortable."

Apollo raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment. Though, honestly, you're lucky you found me at all. Only a few dared to come up here in this weather."

"Yeah, lucky," Ares muttered, rubbing his temple. "That's what the mechanic will say about my car."

"Car? You can forget about it. There was a mudslide. Your car is now a twisted hunk of hardware buried underneath feet of rock and dirt. It's fossilized now. I got you some clothes here that will fit you, my clothes are too big. These boots are size ten and half, plus I have a surplus of underwear and toiletries."

“Thank you for everything,” Ares shot him a look, half-annoyed, half-amused. "I'll have you know, it was a costly fossil fuel."

"Not anymore," Apollo said with a smirk. "It's more earth now. In a few million years, you can dig it up."

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