Author's note (3 Aug): Edits to the convo between Blaise and Hector, and some background to "Empire of Chains".

Four more drinks in, and Blaise is arguing heatedly with Hector about the best scene in the twenty-two volume manga series Neon City Chronicles.

‘No, no, no, Tatsu dies—how the fuck could that be the best scene? Are you mental, you berk?’ He shakes his head vigorously, glaring at the alpha. ‘Do you have a kink for tragedy or something?’

‘But his death isn’t the main point.’ Hector’s tone is insistent. ‘You know it’s really a metaphor for the end of Kiyoko’s childhood, the catalyst to awaken her powers as the God of Hell.’ He flings a hand aside, gesturing to Exhibit A, here I’ll prove my point: ‘Characters like Tatsu always have to die—look at Spider-man and Uncle Ben, Batman and his parents, or—or Hercules and his family.’

‘It always comes back to Greek mythology with you, doesn’t it?’ Blaise cannot help but laugh, taking another swig of his drink.

They have moved on to the cans of beer found at the back of the fridge—tastes like piss, but his blood is warm in his veins, and he is slumped loose-limbed against the table, and the alpha is laughing bright and golden—he would very much like to keep this going.

‘I reckon you’ll think that’s my thing at this rate.’ Hector raps his knuckles against the wooden mask. ‘It was absolutely obscene for actors in Ancient Greece to perform without masks. To use their own faces was depraved and disrespectful to the material and to Dionysus. What I wouldn’t give for us to go back to those times.’

Blaise rolls his eyes, resting his head against his arm on the table top. ‘You’re not allowed to say that.’

‘No?’ The alpha cocks his head to the side.

‘No,’ he agrees. ‘Blokes like you with looks like yours—Dionysus and Apollo would be so upset if you hide your mug behind an ugly old mask, wouldn’t they?’

The beer can crumples in Hector’s fist, the muscles cording on his arm, the alpha’s scent sharpening, a bonfire throwing up white-hot sparks. Behind the mask of the old man screaming, dark eyes are bright and piercing.

What are the stories ancients tell most often about their gods? Cautionary tales.

‘So, you know me.’ The tone is flat.

‘Were your movies so terrible?’ Blaise asks, bewildered. ‘I don’t give a shit who you are, mate. I’m assuming you have to be a good-looking bloke, yeah? To be an actor. Look at everyone at this party. And—for fuck’s sake, the way Marie Antionette was flirting with you.’

He makes a face. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, giving a compliment to someone who is well aware of how fit he is.

‘Ah.’ The other man exhales an insincere laugh. ‘A daring assumption then. I could disappoint.’

Blaise chances a gaze upwards beneath his lashes, but the alpha is gulping his beer, eyes hidden. The party is still swirling around them with soft, blurred edges. People have been ducking in and out of the kitchen to grab more drinks, to thump Hector on the back, Hector, there you are, cries of delight, but he brushes them off to turn back to Blaise.

‘You know it won’t be hard for me to find out who you are—it seems like people here already know. Thalia would, wouldn’t she?’ Blaise points out. ‘So, what is it about your movies, eh?’ A thought strikes him. ‘What kind of movies are they?’

‘Oh, you wish.’ There is a grin in Hector’s voice. ‘I want to be able to nerd out over Neon City Chronicles and Empire of Chains without being judged for who I am. Could we leave it as that tonight?’

‘Is your name really Hector?’

‘… Yes.’

Blaise snorts, waving a hand dismissively. ‘All right, keep your secret identity. There’s nothing wrong with loving what you love, you know. Hell, I wear it on my fucking skin, don’t I?’

‘It’s not like I’m ashamed of being a nerd,’ Hector interjects. ‘But I don’t know if you would want to chat about Neon City and Empire of Chains, if you know who I am. You would …’ He seems to be choosing his words carefully. ‘You would have some preconceived notions about me. And I … your tattoos are amazing, aren’t they?’

‘Meaning I’m the first fan you’ve met who is mad enough about Empire to get a tattoo like this?’ Blaise smirks.

The prat is a slippery one: no one can resist the chance to gush over the art on their skin.

‘Well, Nireus’s slave number wouldn’t be my first choice for an Empire-inspired tattoo, mate.’

‘What would you get a tattoo of then?’

Hector takes a long draught of his beer. ‘Would it be too literal if I get chains? Around my wrists. That’s the crux of the story, isn’t it? They are trapped, whether they are emperor or slave.’

Blaise frowns. ‘Well, yes, I can see that, but I would rather think Nireus got free in the end. I mean, he got what he wanted, didn’t he? He got to be emperor.’

‘But being emperor is no different from being a slave. He would have been bound to the throne the way Cephalus was. He’s only changing his chains for a new set.’ Hector holds up his wrists together. ‘Hence, a tattoo of chains. What do you think, would an artist be willing to do it for me?’

Blaise is laying half on the table, his thoughts moving warm and slow. Empire of Chains was published online, the story unfolding over a series of 134 episodes over two years: a terrible toxic romance between Cephalus, the emperor of Macedonia, descendent of Alexander the Great, and the slave Nireus, who looks exactly like him.

Both characters make stupid, selfish mistakes with horrifying consequences—the massacre of thousands; the murder of a good courtier—but the writer Sibyl renders them with such sympathy, such love and humanity that readers weep to see them fall. Like Achilles and Patroclus in Gigantomakhia, their tale does not end well.

Still, he would argue that being an emperor is certainly far different from being a slave. How is an emperor like a slave?

He cannot look away from Hector’s bare wrists, the smooth unblemished skin of his forearms. The alpha jerks back with a bitten-off gasp, and Blaise jolts up in his seat, pulling his hand back, curling his tingling fingertips into his palm, his heartbeat abruptly thudding loud in his ears.

‘Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have … Your skin is lovely—your skin would be lovely to tattoo—it’s so smooth—chains would look so good on you. No, I mean, sorry, I should have asked your permission.’

Blaise is blabbering, his thoughts now a ragged mess in his head: what was that? What was the frisson of heat that shot through his arm from the merest brush of his fingertips against Hector’s naked skin? What was that? He suppresses his shudder.

‘It’s—it’s fine, I’m not—it’s okay, mate.’ But Hector sounds flustered for the first time tonight. ‘Looks like I could consider it then, a tattoo. What about you? Why the slave number? Why such a prominent spot?’

Blaise bites his bottom lip. Disagree as he might with Hector on the definition of trapped, his reason for getting a tattoo of chains is rather … poetic. Why the slave number? Because he is omega like Nireus, because he wants to be the omega who clawed his bloody way to the top, ruthless and unapologetic.

That is what power means: for the world to bend to one’s reality.

But he is not about to tell some alpha stranger he is omega, when alcohol is making him stupid and lazy.

‘I’ve had the other facial tattoos for a while,’ he says instead. ‘I started out with this,’ —he jabs the North Star beneath his right eye— ‘and once you’ve had one facial tattoo, there’s no reason not to get more, you know? My arms and legs are already covered, so people are going to stare anyway. Besides, most people wouldn’t know what the numbers are meant to represent. Helps me spot fellow fans.’

He grins at Hector, whose hands are now wrapped around his beer can, the aluminium crinkled.

‘Aren’t you worried that you might be embarrassed one day, to be seen as part of the fandom?’ The alpha’s voice is solemn. ‘We still don’t know who the writer is—they could be an awful person.’

Blaise scoffs. ‘What, like She Who Must Not Be Named, the one who wrote books about a boy wizard? Doesn’t matter, it’s not about them anymore, because the fandom has collectively created their own understanding and appreciation of the books.

‘Isn’t that what they say about art? You write or draw what you want, but another person’s understanding, interpretation of that work of art is entirely out of your control.’

He points an accusing finger at the alpha. ‘You’re an actor. Don’t you do that yourself? You get the script and interpret the role the way you see it.’

Hector lifts a shoulder, reaches out for another sweating beer can. ‘Fair enough. It’s like …’ He pauses, head tilted. ‘It’s like being given the opportunity to tell the story in a way that’s meaningful for us. It’s interacting with the art, isn’t it?’

‘Wow,’ Blaise stares, wide-eyed. ‘You make things sound so—so meaningful, so poetic.’

The alpha laughs, throwing his head back, revealing the column of his bare neck. Blaise watches greedily the muscles moving beneath the golden skin. He licks his lips and tastes caramelising apples, the alpha’s scent heady as mead, like remembering in a dream.

‘I try,’ Hector says drily. ‘But I can’t compare to your art, can I? Everything you’ve drawn is simply wonderful. I could stare at them all day—I do stare at them all day.’

‘My art?’ Blaise furrows his brows, puzzled. ‘How would you know what I’ve drawn, mate? I haven’t shown you any of them—oh!’

The pieces on his own skin are the work of other artists, when he first fell in love with decorating his body, before he thought he could be a tattooist too, but the uninitiated might assume the artwork is his. He shakes his head: ‘No, these aren’t—’

‘Blaise, there you are!’ Thalia is abruptly there, warm arms wrapped around him, giggling in his ear. Her scent is the summer breeze by the lake, with the heavy bitter tinge of alcohol. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you fucking prick. Where have you been?’