🈥꯭㎢꯭🏹 ❛❛TELEMACHUS:

SINCE Telemachus left for Sparta, his mind had been on nothing but vacation. Although political duties weighed on his shoulders, being in his twenties, he needed something outside of Ithaca. The first time he saw you, so delicate under the olive tree outside the great hall, his heart stopped. When you smiled at him, it seemed he forgot how to breathe; his whole being faded away, begging you to come closer. He had spoken to you awkwardly, asking about the Spartan climate and whether it was as changeable as he believed; one way or another, he made you laugh several times—he was a bit clumsy when it came to a beautiful face.

Now, both seated on the Spartan sea dock, the stars above their heads like a crown. Your closeness made him blush; he admired the beauty the moonlight brought to you. — You really are beautiful. It slipped from his lips like water when you try to hold it in your hands. Immediately, as a reflex, I brought his right hand to his mouth, covering it in shock at what he said. The red color of his ears spread across his cheeks and down his neck; he wouldn't even look at me, he was too embarrassed.

— Who said something? ... I didn't say anything! He ran his hand through his hair, wishing the earth would open a hole beneath his feet and swallow him. Perhaps a wave could crash against the pier and carry him out to sea, all the way to Ithaca, and he would never see you again after saying such a stupid thing.

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