Read Messenger :: For Himself

“Areti, I didn’t know you had something like that in you,” Ambrus said, joyful laughter filling the quiet space they had found between two tents. Areti’s face grew hot, blush spreading down his neck and up to the tips of his ears. “Petros gave you that?”

“Both of you have questioned the way I’ve kissed you. I don’t know if I should be offended,” Areti replied, smirking with a false confidence, despite the way his hands played with the edge of his chiton.

Ambrus’s laughter was near uproarious, so foreign but so beautiful to hear. “You have no reason to be offended,” he said, a sly smile on his face. “I simply didn’t expect Petros to kiss you so eagerly.”

“It’s not really me they’re kissing,” he replied and chose to ignore the little scoff Ambrus let out. Ignoring it allowed him to stamp down the little nugget of hope in his chest before it coud bloom and influence every decision he made. “They were surprised you were so gentle. Are you not usually?”

He had no right to ask such a question, but it was out of his mouth before he could stop it. There was a light in Ambrus’s eyes, an optimism that was so infectious Areti wished to never be away from it. How one man could make him feel so relaxed with only his presence, he would never know, but he would also never complain.

Unless, of course, he continued to put his foot in his mouth as a result.

His cheeks heated at the surprised burst of laughter Ambrus let out. Their hands were still resting on each other, Ambrus’s playing with the sleeve of Areti’s chiton. “Bold today, aren’t we?” he asked, but before Areti could protest, his hand shifted from the sleeve to the bare skin of his neck. “Well, I suppose I had better give Petros what they want, don’t you think?”

The resulting kiss lit a fire in Areti’s stomach that didn’t fade for days. He dreamed of it, longed to give it to Petros in the days that followed his departure from Kallus, and tried not to let it get the better of him.

One of his favourite gifts he had to deliver was the tender kiss to his forehead that Petros gave him one morning while they were working. Areti had given him the deep and desperate kiss Ambrus had sent him away with the night before, but it had affected Petros so much that they had sent him away for the night.

They didn’t speak to each other again until Areti was preparing to head off back to Kallus with a letter that had appeared on his doorstep during the night. They stopped him in the middle of a small courtyard, shoulders tense and eyes focused on anything that was Areti. Very little words were spoken, merely an apology and soft reassurance, then Petros was glancing around the empty courtyard he was guarding from nothing.

Calloused fingers brushed his hair away from his face. On Petros’s face was a look of intense concentration that only they could have while being so gentle. Unbidden, a smile tweaked at one corner of Areti’s lips and left him unprepared for the wave of emotion that soon followed.

The only other person to have pressed a kiss to his brow was his mother. The last time she had done that, he had still been in single digits. There was something inherently different about Petros doing it, while still being gentle and loving in almost the same way.

Their lips were dry from the summer heat slowly seeping over the country, their beard scratchy against Areti’s skin. He closed his eyes anyway, relishing in the closeness and the solidity of Petros’s hands against his waist. They lingered for the briefest moment, a sense of sadness within the movement that made Areti realise they were picturing Ambrus instead.

Of course they were. He needed to do better to remember that.

But it was still beautiful. Even if he had witnessed it instead of being an almost active participant, it still would have been beautiful.

“Are you feeling alright?” Areti asked when they pulled away, once again glancing over the courtyard in case anyone saw them.

It took them a moment to speak, as if they were unsure they should share the answer with him. “It’s hard, being separated like this,” they whispered and sighed, removing their hands from Areti’s waist. “You make it better though. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do, Petros. You’re my friend,” he said and patted them gently on the arm.

Their eyebrows furrowed, lips curling in something akin to amusement. “I’m not sure many friends would do what you do,” they said.

“Perhaps I’m not quite like most friends.”

“No,” Petros said, serious in a way that made it unclear if they understood the accidental double meaning of Areti’s words. “You most certainly are not.”

Areti lost count of the number of messages he’d passed between the couple, as well as the number of gifts he had given each of them. Aside from the two sketches he had done for them, only one physical gift passed between the trio. A broach, from Petros to Ambrus, one that had supposedly been in Petros’s possession for a long time.

When Ambrus had asked why it was given to him, Areti hadn’t had an answer. Petros hadn’t told him. They had simply handed it off without a word. Not even the letter had said anything, but Ambrus hadn’t questioned it after that, grinning down at the polished metal in his hands.

That broach now lay mere inches from Areti’s face. It was pinned to the chiton Ambrus wore when he wasn’t on duty, so close to the collar that staring at it meant also staring at the dark skin of his neck and shoulder. However, Areti had never had a chance to stare at it so closely, and doing so was making his skin prickle.

“Have you never done something like this before?” Ambrus asked from above him. Areti could feel the vibration of his voice against his cheek. “You needn’t be so stiff.”

“Only with my siblings when we were very young and, for obvious reasons, it was nothing like this,” he answered, laughing at his own innocent honesty.

Ambrus hummed and tightened his grip, shuffling around on the uncomfortable pallet until they were both flat against it. They didn’t have much privacy, only the darkness of the tent and the sound of snores around them, but Ambrus had requested that Areti find somewhere more comfortable to sleep than the spare tents on the outskirts of the camp.

What he wasn’t entirely sure of was how he was supposed to relay the gift. A kiss or tender touch to the cheek was easy, simple, in comparison to the way Ambrus was holding him against his chest, hands moving in warm circles around his arms and back. Areti held him back, an arm slung over his waist and his cheek pressed against the toned chest he didn’t think he would ever have a reason to be so close to. It was so much worse without all the armour, feeling the strength of him so closely.

He forced himself to relax, to follow the advice Ambrus had given him before he’d pulled him closer. He’d stared at Areti, concern in his eyes, and told him to find somewhere far more comfortable and get a good night’s rest. Apparently, there were shadows under his eyes, but that could be said of everyone he saw. Areti shouldn’t be an exception.

“There you go,” Ambrus whispered, his voice edged with sleep.

While he might be ready to drift off for the night, Areti’s mind was abuzz with confusion. “I don’t know how to expect me to give this to Petros,” he said.

“Who said this was the gift?” Ambrus asked but when Areti tried to sit up and question it further, he was shoved back down. A hand running through his hair all but silenced him and he allowed himself to melt into the feeling. If Ambrus wasn’t likely to let him go until morning, then he had no choice but to go along with it.

And what a hard choice it was.

In the dead of night, despite being surrounded by the sounds of sleeping soldiers, it was surprisingly easy to forget himself, forget his role in the world. For the twenty minutes it took him to fall asleep, he was nothing more than a man lying flush against another, seeking heat and comfort. He wasn’t a messenger, he wasn’t a far flung descendent of Hermes, he wasn’t stuck in the middle of a war.

He was only Areti.

Petros wasn’t comfortable with the gift, that much Areti could tell simply by looking at them. That came as a surprise, one that should have been pleasant, but with the circumstances, was far from it. Months ago, he had barely been able to read their minute expressions. He had gotten better, able to read the closed off look Petros was giving him.

“You know you’re able to deny the gifts, right?” Areti asked. He didn’t dare reach out for him, despite how much he wanted to, unsure of the reaction it would gain. “You’ve told me yourself that I can decline any time I feel I need to. Surely, you’re aware that the agreement also applies to you and Ambrus.”

“How long did he hold you?” Petros asked, decidedly not answering Areti’s question.

“Until the sun rose and I had to leave to return here,” he said. Return to you, was left unsaid, far too much for the truth of their affairs. “I won’t hold you for so long. I think my arms would grow tired.”

His half-hearted attempt at a joke did not gain any laughter and for the first time in weeks, Areti grew anxious about the choices he had made. For the most part, he ignored the doubt and worry that lingered at the back of his mind, but it was hard to do so when Petros looked so unsure.

Perhaps stupidly, he believed it best to remove himself from the situation, give his friend time to work through his thoughts. Petros already had their letter. Gifts weren’t always necessary and Ambrus would understand if his partner was uncomfortable. Though, he should have already known before he gave anything to Areti.

He could excuse some things, given their time apart, but from what he knew of them, they had been together since long before the war in both a romantic and platonic capacity. Ambrus should know Petros’s limits.

He stood from the bed, happy to wait until morning for whatever Petros wanted to give him. A hand on his wrist stopped him, tight against muscle and bone. “Where are you going?” Petros asked in a voice that could have been considered growl-like. It would have frozen anyone else in place, but all Areti did was raise an eyebrow.

“I’m giving you space. You look upset, Petros, and I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable,” he answered, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice.

He mustn't have done a good enough job, because the hand on his wrist pulled and he tumbled onto the bed with a surprised yelp. He was graceful enough to land on his knees, a blessing from his godly great grandfather, but it did not stop the flush of his cheeks becoming evermore obvious.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Petros said, forced, choked.

“It certainly seems like it’s the opposite,” Areti replied. He didn’t move to leave again, stuck in place and waiting for whatever permission was given to him.

Unceremoniously, he was shoved down onto the bed, facing up at the cracked stone ceiling. “Let’s just get this over with,” Petros grumbled and before Areti could say another word, their head lay against his chest.

Ever so slowly, Areti lifted his hands, using one to run through their hair the way Ambrus had, and the other to simply hold them in place. Both of them were stiff, awkward, Areti worried that he was forcing himself upon Petros. There should not have been so much argument for a gift.

Then Petros sighed and with it, their body seemed to deflate. They melted against Areti the same way he had against Ambrus and he knew the truth of it. This was not something Petros allowed themself often. It was too close, too open and raw, and Petros was someone who kept everything shut tight within themselves.

He understood why Ambrus wanted to give them this.

That fact made it even harder to distance himself from it all, not that he had been doing a good job of it in the first place. When he was with them, he forgot himself, forgot what he was supposed to be doing, and took whatever affection he could get. The weeks between Pethra and Kallus gave him more than enough time to regret his decisions, to promise to himself to do better. But when he was with them, he never truly did.

And then, sometimes, like that current moment, he would remember that what he was doing was not for him. It was for Petros, or Ambrus. Regret would seep through him, heavy like a boulder, and he would force himself to remember that he was not wanted in the way he dreamed of, but in a way that one would want a sword or an envelope or a tool. To be used.

Yet, with every meeting with Petros and Ambrus, he forgot himself again. Like it was a habit he couldn’t break no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps forgetting himself was an inaccurate term. It was more like he made himself the focus instead, which was inherently selfish in the grand scheme of things.

His feelings, which were only growing steadily worse, were hard to ignore when he was faced with so much affection from both Ambrus and Petros. Anyone else would have found it strange to fall for both members of a devoted couple, but Areti didn’t mind it. At least, he didn’t when he wasn’t occupied with doubt-filled and nearly self-destructive thoughts.

Perhaps it was strange, but as he stood outside Ambrus’s tent once again, listening to the man’s laughter flit through the thin gap in the entrance, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Areti needed to do better than he was. Petros and Ambrus trusted him with their gifts and their messages, expecting him to not take advantage of what he was being given. But he couldn’t. Even if the gifts weren’t for him, his body craved the attention, to the point where it hurt.

Once Ambrus and Petros were reunited, it would be over and he would have space to get over his feelings. If that ever happened. Until then, he would keep doing what he needed to, in order to make the both of them happy. His feelings be damned. It didn’t matter how much it hurt that they would touch him so under the guise of it being for someone else. But he never said anything, did he?

And he never would.

He could deal with it for the moment, take what he was given and nothing more. How often had he had this discussion with himself over the months he’d been doing this for them? More times than he could count and it never worked. He would do better this time, and remember the truth he had known from the very start.

Neither of them wanted him. He was nothing more than a messenger, a conduit for them to use to pretend he was someone else. He shouldn’t be as alright with that as he was, despite the heartache. Perhaps it was the war driving him to such lengths for physical affection, perhaps it was his own stupid decisions.

Areti shook his head. He had lingered too long outside the tent, warriors had been staring at him as they passed for the last few minutes. With a deep breath, he shoved the tent flap aside and strode into the space with a letter in hand and a passionate kiss from a week ago waiting on his lips.

Then Ambrus saw him and his eyes lit up, and Areti immediately forgot everything he’d told himself. Again.