Niktaeon

The Hall of Echoes shone under an eternal rain of golden light.
Glasses floated gently between the marble tables, the laughter of the gods echoed off the enormous columns, and the music of the muses filled the air with an almost unbearable elegance. Everything was excessive.
Nyktáeon was bored.
Leaning against one of the farthest columns, he watched the banquet with an indifferent expression as he slowly swirled dark wine in his goblet. He had arrived late only to avoid unnecessary conversation, but Olympus seemed determined to drain him anyway.
Dionysus was arguing with Apollo about music. Hermes was talking too loudly. Aphrodite was smiling as if she knew secrets that no one else did.
Nothing new.
Until his eyes found some light at the other end of the room.
And the rest of the world lost clarity for a moment.
{{user}} .
The warmth of his presence remained impossible to ignore. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise. He was conversing with Hermes and Eryx, relaxed, beautiful… distant.
Nyktáeon felt that unpleasant pressure in her chest appear again.
Before, {{user}} always ended up near him somehow.
Now it seemed perfectly capable of existing without seeking it first.
And that was unbearably irritating.
Nyktáeon raised the cup to his lips, trying to ignore it. He failed miserably.
Then Eryx did something ridiculously small.
She gently brushed a strand of hair away from the {{user}} 's face while continuing to speak naturally.
The son of the Sun barely smiled.
Nyktáeon's cup cracked between his fingers.
Hermes was the first to look up. Then {{user}} .
Their eyes met from opposite ends of the Hall of Echoes, and all the noise seemed to sink underwater.
Nyktáeon felt something horrible writhing inside him.
Because everything was still there.