Messenger

Chapter Eight: Enough

The nausea that plagued him had subsided during his travels, but only enough for Areti to be able to walk from place to place. His dreams had gotten worse, filled with the all encompassing hope that Ambrus and Petros would somehow want him back, only for it to be ripped away the moment he awoke. They couldn't be classed as nightmares, but that was what they felt like whenever he was faced with the harsh light of morning.

He handed out letters like a puppet on a string, entirely unaware of who was speaking to him. They asked him questions and he knew his mouth moved to respond, but he heard none of the words that spilled from his lips. His distraction and exhaustion were getting to him, but at least his body knew how to keep moving.

Part of him wasn't even aware of where he was. He'd seen the gates of Pethra, seen the familiar halls and courtyards and faces, but never came to the proper conclusion that it was Pethra, where Petros was no doubt waiting for him, as they always did. He was still lingering on his dreams and the feeling of warm hands against his thighs, the awful terror of being used.

He was still lingering on that when he walked past Petros, not quite seeing them at first. A hand on his arm stopped him from turning the corner and he startled, lips parting in shock at the strength of the person holding him. Then he saw the familiar face and the nausea returned tenfold, overshadowing the joy he always felt.

"Petros," he croaked and grasped tightly to the strap on his bag with his free hand. "I'm sorry... I didn't see you there."

Petros frowned, but that was nothing new. They went to speak, but Areti pulled his hand away and dug through his bag before he could. Give the letter. Make an excuse about how busy he was. Leave. It should be simple. It had to be.

His hands shook when he handed over the letter, only minutely, but he cursed them nonetheless. Petros was still frowning, but it was impossible to tell what they were thinking. They didn't even open the letter, just stared at the thick parchment like there was something wrong with it.

In an instant, Areti knew what they wanted.

"Are you alright?" they asked. A confirmation, not actually seeking to reassure. Areti knew what answer was expected of him, and couldn't hold it back.

"Yes."

Petros's hand wrapped around his wrist again, not as tight as it was before, but far more insistent. It pulled, forcing him down a familiar hallway. It wasn't fast or rough or uncomfortably pushy, but gentle in the way that it believed it was reciprocated and that they needn't run towards their goals. The leisurely pace was fine. For Petros, perhaps, but it left too much time for Areti to think.

A door opened and closed and the silence that followed was thicker than the one they had just come from. That wasn't new. On any other day, the thickness would have been caused by anticipation. Perhaps for Petros, it still was. For Areti, it was thick with tension.

And yet, it was still so easy for him to fall into his role. The hand around his wrist tugged him forward again until they were chest to chest. He ignored the flash of memory, the one barely a week ago when he had told Ambrus about himself. Could Petros tell what lay under his chiton? No, that wasn't important. It was never important.

There was a gift he had to give. If he couldn't give them the letter and leave, then he could give them the gift and run. Run far. Run away from Pethra and Kallus and the army and the war... And be executed for it. He couldn't.

Then Petros grabbed him, gentle hands pressed against his sides, and he lost himself in the feeling of being wanted, being held, being loved. For only a moment. It was always only a moment. Sometimes, it felt like enough. He wanted so desperately for it to be enough, for him to not be some object for their amusement.