Chapter 3 Rough Beginnings

Ares awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, his head thick with the remnants of a fever dream. His whole body ached deeply, as if someone had hollowed him out and left him to dry in the sun. As he tried to shift, a sharp pang in his muscles made him groan, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the dull throbbing in his temples.

"Finally decided to join the people walking about?" The voice nearby drawled. It was deep, rough around the edges, and annoyingly familiar.

Ares's eyes snapped open, his vision swimming as he tried to focus on the figure leaning against the doorframe.

Damn. There he was. Apollo stood there, arms crossed over his chest, a dish towel slung over one shoulder like a domestic sentinel. His gaze was excellent, but something else was underneath it—something rather alarmingly like concern.

"What happened?" He rasped, his voice only a hoarse croak. He swallowed against the nauseating taste of stale air and medicine.

"You've been out of it for about ten days," Apollo answered, pushing away from the doorframe to take a step closer. "Pneumonia. Walloped you hard, too. Though, for a while there, I thought you might not make it. It was touch and go."

Ares's heart had skipped a beat, but not in fear; no, it was something purer, something closer to annoyance. Ten days? How had he lost ten days? And how had he relied on Apollo—that gruff, irritating sculptor—to care for him?

"Great," Ares sputtered, trying to sit up. His body seemed to have other ideas. The world tilted alarmingly, and he fell back onto the pillows again, breathing shallow. "Just great. Did you call for any help? Are you even a doctor? Fuck and fuck!" His voice trembled with a mixture of anger and confusion as he struggled to find the right words to express his overwhelming emotions.

As Apollo snorted, a subtle twitch of his lips followed, betraying the hint of a mischievous smile. He then said, "You're welcome, by the way."

For once, Ares aimed a glare that didn't burn. "I didn't ask for your help." In that moment, he failed to recognize the irony of his actions. Unaware that the person he was lashing out at was the very one who had selflessly saved his life.

"No, you didn't," Apollo agreed, his tone infuriatingly calm. "But someone had to keep you from kicking the bucket. You're not exactly in a position to be picky about who saves you."

"I'm grateful," he confessed.

Despite his efforts to project gratitude, his voice betrayed the vulnerability that lurked beneath his tough exterior. It quivered slightly, lacking the force he had hoped to convey. Ares realized that his response had not matched his intentions, leaving him frustrated and even more defensive.

"Could've fooled me," Apollo replied, arching an eyebrow.

Ares teeth ground together at a retort that balanced on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. He did not have the strength or clarity to enter another battle of words. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Every breath was a fight, strained against the feeling of constriction in his chest.

After a few seconds of complete silence, Apollo spoke again, but this time in a softer voice. "Look, I know this isn't what you want. But you're here, and you need to get better. That's pretty much it."

Ares opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. The truth of Apollo's words settled over him like a heavy blanket. He hated this—hated being helpless, hated depending on someone who clearly thought the worst of him. Like they all did . But what choice did he have? His old life was gone, ripped away by his father's twisted last wishes. All he had now was… this. Whatever ‘this' was.

"Fine," as Apollo's words lingered in the air, Ares fought to regain control over his emotions. He straightened his posture, attempting to reclaim his composure. A defiant glint flashed in his eyes, a silent promise that he would let no one define him.

"But don't expect me to be happy about it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Apollo remarked, his tone was sly and cutting with a bit gracious undertones.

Frustration and fatigue filled the following days. Ares fought to eke out some strength, but each step he took brought it back into perspective. The fever had laid him low, and the pneumonia didn't help, so everything from eating to getting clean clothes on seemed gigantic. He hated being weak and reliant on Apollo for everything, from food to clean clothes.

Apollo was a constant thorn in his side. The man seemed to have a knack for getting under Ares's skin with every sarcastic remark and infuriating smirk. The easygoing silence and unwavering composure Apollo radiated only intensified his inner turmoil. However, amidst the prickly atmosphere, there was an undercurrent of intimacy between them that unsettled him further.

Things finally reached a head that morning when Ares tried to get out of bed without help. He made it so far as getting his legs over the side, and he was halfway to his feet before his knees gave way.

Apollo was there before he could even work up the humiliation, yanking him back to his feet with an ease that only did more for Ares's resentment. Frustration grew within him, a simmering heat that spread through his veins. The tension in the room was palpable, like a tightly wound coil ready to spring.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" Apollo demanded, anger flashing in his eyes.

Ares could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his anger fueling the burning sensation that spread throughout his entire body. The words had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, a testament to his wounded pride.

"I was thinking I didn't need your damn help," Ares shot back, his pride stinging as much as his knees. He tried to pull away, but Apollo's grip was firm, keeping him upright whether he liked it.

"You're barely strong enough to stand, let alone walk alone," Apollo growled. "Why are you so damn stubborn?"

"Because I don't want to be here!" Ares's voice cracked, the admission tearing out of him before he could stop it like a deep wound finally ripped open, raw and bleeding. It was as if he pulled something vital inside himself—that words could leave one with such a stinging ache in the chest as if it wouldn't heal quickly. It was precisely that kind of pain, the sort that lingered, sharp and unrelenting, like salt rubbed into an already festering wound, that hollowed him out as he gasped for breath.

His vision blurred, tears threatening to spill over, but he fought them back with a fierce determination. "I don't want to be stuck in this… this nowhere town, living off your charity, playing along with whatever pity project you've decided I am!" The pain etched on his face, eternally etched into his soul, was a reflection of the torment he carried within.

Apollo's expression softened a fraction, but his voice remained firm. "You think I'm doing this out of pity?"

He reached out a hand, a silent offering of support, understanding the magnitude of the pain that consumed him.

But Ares, fueled by his stubbornness and refusal to show weakness, pushed Apollo's hand away.

"Why else would you bother?" Ares spat, his anger flaring to cover the raw ache in his chest. "You don't even like me."

Apollo sighed, his grip on Ares's arm loosening just an inch. "You're right. I don't much like you right now. But that doesn't mean I will let you waste away just because you're too proud to accept help."

The words hung in the air between them for a moment, and Ares didn't know what to say. Part of him trolled to lash out, to push Apollo away with all the fire and fury he'd ever used against anyone who approached him. Another part of him, though—a much smaller one, buried deeper—wondered if maybe, just maybe, Apollo wasn't as indifferent as he seemed.

Ares glowered at Apollo, irritation bubbling under his skin. "I'm not some kid you need to babysit."

Apollo smirked, seemingly uncaring at the expression on Ares's face. "Could've fooled me. You're acting like a stubborn five-year-old who doesn't want to go to bed.".

"Maybe I don't want to go to bed," Ares shot right back, defiantly folding his arms over his chest. "Maybe I'm tired of being cooped up in this place like an invalid."

Apollo sighed, crossing his own arms and leaning against the wall. "Look, you're still recovering. You need rest, whether you like it or not."

Ares narrowed his eyes. "I don't need you telling me what to do."

"Then stop acting like you do," came Apollo's retort. "Or better yet, stop acting like you're too good for a little help."

That had Ares seething, his pride flaring up like a stubborn flame. "I don't need help," he insisted in his usual sharp tone. "And I'm not going back to bed just because you say so."

"Oh, yeah?" Apollo lifted one eyebrow, amused and challenging.

Ares lifted his chin, the jaw jutting. Daring him, wanting... no, needed him. The rush of adrenaline surged through his veins, causing his hands to tremble and Ares' breath to quicken.

Their eyes locked, and the air sizzled, thick with the tense moment as before the storm about to break. Hints of a dark and dangerous glint were in the intensity of Apollo's look, and he hitched a breath. Then he slowly, deliberately, shook his head, pushing off the wall in smooth and controlled motions as a predator closing in on its kill.

"All right, you asked for it," Apollo murmured; this voice, low and edged with something, sent a shiver down Ares's spine.

Apollo came in with predatory grace, leaving no room for escape. Then, with a burst of controlled strength, Apollo lifted Ares over his shoulder as though he weighed nothing, so the sudden shift left him breathless and disoriented.

"Hey! What in the name of all the hells do you think you're doing?" Ares yelped, panic flaring as he instinctively grabbed at Apollo's back, his fingers curling into the fabric of Apollo's shirt for balance as the room spun around him.

"Just making sure you don't do anything stupid," he said in a tone that wasn't up for argument; Apollo had learned to carry himself with feral confidence in his stride. It was as if everything he did, from a simple movement to moving with Ares in tow, was done with a purpose. Each step was measured and deliberate as he carried Ares, as though he were entirely in control of the situation and Ares simultaneously. "You can go to bed like a sensible person, or I can carry you there. Your choice."

Ares wriggled and tried to get free, but Apollo's arms were insistent, holding him firmly—iron bands that bound Ares in place. "Let me down, you brute!"

"Not until you agree to rest, brat!" Apollo's voice was on the edge of dark amusement, sending another shiver down Ares's spine. "Honestly, I've dealt with toddlers who put up more of a fight than you."

The flush to his face encompassed both his embarrassment and his indignation: not only his pride but something else, something far worse, that stung from the ease with which Apollo had taken control. It exasperated him that Apollo treated Ares as some kind of welcome amusement, insinuating that all Ares's struggles were as nothing, a slight hindrance to his overwhelming domination.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Ares grumbled, hating how vulnerable he was, yet unable to deny the strange thrill that accompanied to be manhandled.

Apollo chuckled, a deep, resonant rumble vibrating through their bodies. "I can't say I'm not," Apollo replied, his tone rich with satisfaction. "You're a lot easier to deal with when you're not flapping your mouth about how much you don't need my help."

Ares ground his teeth, feeling a mix of anger and safety that churned in his gut, a humiliating combination. He was astonished by how effortlessly Apollo had seized control of the situation, dismissing his protests as if they were mere child's play. Something deeper than his screaming pride whispered that maybe he didn't mind being caught, as a bittersweet sense of surrender filled his thoughts.

"You know, you're a real pain in the ass," Ares muttered. Apollo took him down the hall with every step, like a jolt to his body, his voice laced with grudging admiration. Ares complained, "You know, you're a real pain in the ass."

"Funny, I was just going to say the same thing about you," Apollo responded, still laced with that annoyingly calm amusement.

The closer they got to the bedroom, the greater the feeling this was more than just a battle of wills. Apollo's control and dominance was a challenge—a gauntlet thrown—that had Ares both infuriated and inexplicably, against all logic, drawn to the man who seemed to turn his world upside down in such a short time.

As they reached the bedroom, Apollo's strength transformed into a delicate touch as he gently placed Ares onto the inviting bed. Instantly, Ares tried to get up, refused to bend, but Apollo's hand was firm on his chest, all but holding him down, and damned if it didn't have a surprising blend of strength and tenderness.

"Stay put," Apollo said, his voice firm but calm.

Ares glared up at him, a spark of defiance still burning in his eyes. "You can't just order me around."

Apollo's lips quirked into a teasing smile as he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a murmur. "I can, and I will. And if you don't behave, I'm not above using some rope to ensure you stay in bed.

The words nearly stuttered Ares's breath, his heart missing a beat while he searched Apollo's eyes for any sign of a jest. But there was only a steady gaze, confident and laced with a hint of playful mischief. A shiver slithered down his spine for a second as the threat, or promise, hung between them, with equal parts frustration and something far too confusing.

He gulped convulsively to rein in his poise, but with Apollo so close, the weight of his hand on his chest and the playful glint in his eyes, it was nearly impossible. Ares wasn't used to feeling out of control. So vulnerable. The usual barriers he had, the walls he'd built to keep people out, evaporated under Apollo's steady presence.

"Is that how you treat all your guests?" Ares shot back, trying to dispel the tension in the air with sarcasm. "Threaten them with rope if they don't listen?"

There was a new twinkle in Apollo's eyes, a mischievous one, and his smile grew more, the very beginning of dimples deepening. "Only the ones too stupid to know better. And right now, you're at the top of that list."

Ares wanted to snap back, to tell Apollo where he could shove his rope, but the truth was, he didn't have the energy for another round of banter. His body was beyond exhausted, sinking back into the soft bed, far more tempting than he wanted to admit. Still, his pride wouldn't let him give in so easily.

"You don't have to treat me like a child," Ares muttered, avoiding Apollo's piercing look. "I'm not some sort of helpless—"

"You're ill, Ares," Apollo interjected, firm but soft. "And you're immortal but not invincible. Right now, you need rest more than you need to prove something."

He was brutally honest, not cruel. And it was that honesty that disarmed him, that made it so hard to cling to his anger. He looked back at Apollo and tried to read his face for some measure of what he was thinking and feeling—a show of pity? None of that, just concern and a patience Ares wasn't sure he deserved.

It took a moment, but Ares finally grumbled an agreement, the word more of a sigh than anything.

Apollo chuckled, low and warm. "I wouldn't dream of it. Now close your eyes and let sleep take you. I'll be right here if you need anything."

Ares didn't know how to react to that—the quiet kindness in Apollo's actions and how he seemed to know exactly when to push and pull back. With that, Apollo straightened up a bit, pulling the blankets over Ares and tucking him in with an almost intimate care. The thing threw him off and made him unsure of his footing in this man, who seemed so different from anyone he had ever known.

Apollo turned to leave, and a sudden, inexplicable pull overcame him to stop him. He didn't want to be alone or left to his thoughts and the swirling emotions that threatened to overcome him. But the words caught in his throat, and before he could gather enough courage to speak, the door paused Apollo.

"Sleep well, Ares," he murmured, never turning around. Then he was gone, leaving Ares to the silence and the strange, restless feeling that had settled in his chest.

Ares stared up at the ceiling, the thoughts racing through his mind as his body begged for rest. The effort to push against that was great, yet he couldn't help but replay the scene in his mind: the feel of Apollo's hands on him, the way his heart had pounded in response to the man's teasing words. It was maddening how he seemed to get under his skin and evoked feelings in Ares he wasn't ready to come face-to-face with.

Ares closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep with an angry sigh. Even as exhaustion tugged him down, he knew this was far from over. Whatever was brewing between him and Apollo—tension, attraction, or something altogether different—would prove impossible to ignore. Whether liked it or not, he sensed Apollo was just getting started with his challenge to Ares.

As sleep finally claimed him, one thought lingered in the back of his mind: maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a bad thing.

The day arrived when Ares was to begin working. Standing in Apollo's studio, he was unfamiliar with intimate creative spaces. The place was a right mess—shavings of wood everywhere, tools strewn all over the shop, and half-finished sculptures stacked against the walls—every single one of them intricate and impressive. Ares didn't know a thing about woodwork and did not know what Apollo expected him to do out here.

Apollo passed him a broom without further discussion. "Begin with the sweeping. We will then proceed when you are ready."

Ares accepted the broom, wearing a frown on his face. "Really? You intend for me to sweep?"

"I suppose all beginnings are humble," Apollo answered, not missing a beat. "Not to mention you said you didn't want handouts. Well, this isn't a handout. This is a job, and I'm your boss. Get to it.".

Probably best unheard, he cursed a few colorful word towards Apollo as he began to sweep. The work was monotonous, but it afforded him something to focus on besides his misery. He glanced now and then at Apollo, hard at work carving a block of wood with practiced ease. The man conducted himself in a way that seemed to be precise and faultless, making Ares envious but at the same time full of resentment.

He often found himself gazing across the shop while Apollo was completely engrossed in his work. He worked so fluidly that one couldn't help but feel envious in a painful way. Apollo's hands, emboldened and rough, guided that chisel over the wood block in a dexterity testifying to years of practice.

Apollo's hands moved with a practiced grace, each stroke deliberate and controlled, as if he were merely uncovering what already existed within the towering piece of wood. The rough, unfinished log stood taller than either of them, its thick, sturdy form dominating the workspace.

Yet in Apollo's hands, it was no more daunting than a blank canvas, waiting for the artist's vision to bring it to life. The wood was broad and solid, its grain coarse and unyielding, but Apollo handled it with a calm assurance, as though he could already see the intricate shape hidden within, waiting to be released. It was as if the true form was right there, just beneath the surface, and Apollo was simply coaxing it out, one precise cut at a time.

Ares looked on as he saw the muscles ripple under Apollo's shirt, his forearms tensing and relaxing with each motion. Something was mesmerizing in how Apollo seemed so attuned to that wood and connected with his craft. The chisel made soft, rhythmic sounds as Apollo sliced through the grain. Carved shavings curled away like whispers of secrets being uncovered. It was a dance, liquid, an intimate exchange between man and material.

Apollo would pause for a breather, chisel lifted and eyes darting up from the work for that moment, and it would catch Ares' breath in his throat. The way Apollo's eyes narrowed in concentration, the slight furrow of his brow, and the faint sheen of sweat on his temples were all so…arresting in their way that Ares couldn't help but be caught up in fascination by the way Apollo reined in the wood, much as it was some part of his body, a part of which bent to his will, surrendering to his vision.

Ares swallowed, suddenly very aware of the heat pooling in his belly. There was something primal in the way Apollo worked, something that stirred a deep, unspoken craving within him. It wasn't just the physical attraction that was undeniable: the broadness of Apollo's shoulders, his firm hands, and the way his jeans hung low on his hips, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of bronzed skin as he leaned over his workbench.

It was more than that. It was how the passion oozed from him for it, quiet in intensity, intimidating yet alluring to Ares. He wanted that—for it to be him that radiated that impression, not just the skill or the artistry but the confidence, the mastery that Apollo oozed with every single movement. And with that came this shot of jealousy, sharp like a reminder of his purposelessness and uncertainty.

But underneath the jealousy was something darker and more consuming: desire. He desired the same ease that Apollo showed with his tools and the ability to turn a block of wood into something beautiful and meaningful. As Apollo went back to carving, Ares's eyes never left the way his hands moved, the way his fingers curled around the chisel handle, and the flick at his wrist.

Those hands held power, a silent strength from which Ares could not tear his eyes away.

He had often imagined the sensation of being molded by those hands, shaped with the same care and attention that Apollo devoted to his art.

Ares shifted uncomfortably, mouth dry, pulse sharpening. He turned his gaze, embarrassed by what he thought and by the way his body reacted to the sight of Apollo working, but he couldn't quite bring himself to stop looking, either. He drifted back, over and over, and he could swear the man worked harder when Ares watched, as if the glint of hunger in his eyes bolstered Apollo's own spirit.

It was infuriating, this pull he felt toward Apollo—a lover laced with bitterness and longing. Still, it was undeniable. And as much as Ares wanted to hate him, tried to push him away, he could not help but wonder what it would be like to let go, to surrender into the hands of a man who carved beauty from chaos, who found meaning in the rough edges of the world.

But Ares would not be doing this. Not yet. For now, he would stay away, cling to his bitterness, and try to ignore the nagging ache that just kept growing stronger with every furtive glance at the skilled hands of Apollo, every soft scrape of chisel against wood, every breath that echoed with the promise of something more.