Chapter 4 Sparks and Tension

Apollo swiped at his brow, the rhythmic hum of a chainsaw coursing through his bones. The late afternoon sun stretched through the studio, painting everything golden and amber. Apollo's gaze back stepped onto his half-finished sculpture: a fierce and proud bear, dynamic in its rise from a raw pine block. But his focus was on something other than his work. Not now, for days. It focused on the human a few feet before it, glaring daggers at the shavings scattered across the floor. "That thing looks like it's ready to eat somebody," Ares muttered, his arms folded as he backed up against the wall. His voice was flat, but there was a twitch of admiration in his eyes so slightly Apollo didn't miss it.

"That's the idea," Apollo replied, laying the chainsaw down with effortless control. The vibrations still hummed in his fingertips, reminding him of the power he wielded. "Though it's more likely to bite you if you keep staring at it like that."

Ares rolled his eyes. "I'll take my chances."

Apollo chuckled, but the sound was overly tense. The past weeks had been a mixture of clashing personalities, simmering resentment, and an undeniable attraction neither seemed willing to address.

The road had been wiped out, a muddy scar where there used to be a path, washed away by the relentless rain that had pounded the mountains for days. The storm had ripped through the landscape with a fury that left nothing in its wake but broken trees and landslides, cutting them off from the outside world. They'd been cooped up in the cabin for two weeks, isolated in a cocoon of silence and unspoken understanding. The world beyond the mountains felt distant, almost like a memory, and Ares found that he didn't miss it. There wasn't anything left for him out there—nothing but ghosts and shadows he'd long tried to outrun.

He didn't ask questions that Ares wasn't ready to answer and didn't force conversations that Ares wasn't prepared to have. Instead, Apollo offered him something far more valuable: a sanctuary. A place where Ares could just be , without the weight of expectations or the need to explain himself. It was a lifeline, a quiet mercy that Ares clung to in those early days when their silence was a fragile thread.

Apollo's presence was steady, a calm anchor in the storm that had become Ares's life. He let Ares rest, let him breathe, and gave him the space to untangle the knots inside his own head. And in that space, Ares found something he hadn't expected: peace. A peace that came not from forgetting the past but from not having to face it alone. Apollo's quiet acceptance and unwavering patience made the walls Ares had built around himself feel less necessary and suffocating.

The cabin became their world, a small, intimate bubble where time slowed down, where the outside world didn't matter. The road might have been wiped out, but Ares was finding his way again, step by step, day by day, in the safety of Apollo's quiet understanding.

Every time Apollo glimpsed Ares's sharp jawline, the way the other man's fair hair fell into his eyes, or the stubborn set of his mouth, it felt like a challenge he was desperate to conquer—or resist.

The studio was typically his sanctuary, where he lost himself within the tempo of his labor. With Ares around, even that became complicated. Apollo could not deny the pull between them, but he knew getting involved with Ares was a recipe for disaster. It didn't stop him from looking, however.

He heard Ares click his eyes over to him, linger on him for a heartbeat too long. Apollo stepped forward, closing this little distance again, his presence a slow and deliberate pressure. The air between them grew thick, heavy with tension never spoken of.

"You're staring," Ares said suddenly, jerking the silence apart, his voice wavering slightly.

Apollo's eyes didn't waver. "Just making sure you're not planning on running off with any of my tools."

"As if I'd know how to use them," Ares shot back, his voice laced with sarcasm. There was, however, something else there, too, something softer, almost vulnerable. Apollo didn't miss it. He noticed Ares's lips parted, quickening his breath as if surprised by Apollo's proximity.

Apollo stepped closer, boots crunching softly on the wood shavings, and pushed the stray lock of hair out of Ares's face, fingers lingering on the warm skin of his temple. "Maybe I could teach you," he murmured, his voice a soft challenge. "But you would have to be willing to learn... and to submit."

Ares's breath caught in his throat as his eyes narrowed, his body trembling at the touch of Apollo. "Submitting is not something that comes easily to me."

"Good," he answered in that steady, near-whisper voice, leaning closer until the shell of Ares's ear brushed over his lips. "I like challenges."

Apollo stepped closer, the gestures in his movements languid, almost deliberate, his body brushing against Ares's as he reached past to steady the precarious plank with practiced ease. The contact was incidental—the closeness undeniable. He didn't steady the plank so much as he made for sure Ares felt every inch of his being. The air between them grew thick and heavy, weighted with something neither had fully acknowledged.

"Take it easy there," Apollo warned, his voice drenched in dark amusement as if really taking in all the space between them now. He stepped closer still, making the space between them nothing at all. His voice was low, a rumble vibrating through the air. "Wouldn't be good at all if I let you get hurt again."

Apollo watched as Ares turned his head, his eyes thinning to challenge in the air. Even that slight tilt of his chin seemed deliberate, a dare for Apollo to step closer, to breach the invisible line they both knew very much existed between them. The tension stretched between them like a coiled spring wound too tight; it was all but palpable, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

"You think you know what I like?" Ares's voice sliced through the air like a blade, but underneath the defiance, Apollo caught a flicker of something more—something that felt like an invitation, a challenge thrown his way. It wasn't just a question; it was a test that Ares seemed to egg him to pass.

Then Ares eased forward, far enough that his chest brushed against Apollo's. It was not so much a contact, but enough to cause a jolt in Apollo, some heat that flared like wildfire. His breath was warm against Ares's neck, close enough to stir the air between them, close enough to make Apollo's pulse quicken. The tension had turned into something very alive right then, and it was something to be answered—a call Apollo was more than ready to meet head-on.

Apollo's lips moved up into a knowing grin. He didn't let his body slide away. He didn't break away from these intense eyes. His hand slid down to Ares's side, fingers just running along the hem of his shirt, testing, teasing. "Oh, I think I'm closer than you'd like to admit," he purred, unusually thick with promise. The words hung between them like a silent challenge. The air seemed tense with the electric buzz of anticipation as their unspoken game simmered closer to the lip of something dangerous, something neither was quite willing to admit yet, but which held a certain allure.

Something flashed in Ares's eyes. Anger, yes, but something else that Apollo knew all too well. The distance between them seemed to shrink further, heavy with the thickening air, thick with tension that grew with each passing second. "You're delusional if you think you can control me," came the spat words out of Ares's mouth, his voice tinged with that kind of defiance that comes before surrender. "I don't submit."

Apollo chuckled softly, the sound a deep vibration that seemed to resonate between them. He moved in closer again, and his breath brushed against Ares's ear; his voice dropped to a commanding and teasing tone. "The secret is knowing just the right spot to push. They all surrender."

His hand swept upward, his fingers brushing against Apollo's chest; the touch was light, as soft as a feather, provocative rather than symbolic of connection. Apollo didn't flinch. He remained where he was, eyes locked on Ares in a bold, almost playful glare. He could feel the underlying tension in that touch, the swagger that masked something much more vulnerable, the way Ares's fingers trailed a little longer than they should have. Apollo knew this wasn't some casual move; it was a test, a challenge clothed in flirtation.

Ares's smirk deepened as he sensed the shift, determined to seize control. "What if I'm the one applying the pressure, Apollo? What then?"

Apollo didn't miss a beat. He calmly reached out, capturing Ares's wrist with a firm but unhurried grip, holding him in place with a quiet authority that spoke volumes. His presence wrapping around Ares like a promise, his voice brushing against Ares's skin like a warm breath.

"If you're going to try that, you'll need to step up your game," Apollo countered, his tone smooth and unyielding. "And if you want to push Ares, you must ask me for permission first." Ares's breath caught, his smirk faltering as he finally realized, Apollo wasn't just answering; he was orchestrating. The power shift was deliberate, the tension between them twisting into something more dangerous, more intoxicating.

"Ask nicely," Apollo continued, his grip tightening just enough to send a simple message. "Or, don't play at all."

They stood locked in a silent battle of wills for a long moment; the air crackling with anticipation. Ares's pulse quickened beneath Apollo's fingers, thoughts scattered as he wavered between pushing further and giving in to what was a force so much more significant than himself: Apollo's unyielding dominance.

But the moment slipped by, and who stood on top became unmistakably clear. Apollo's gaze held Ares' steady, unrelenting gaze, daring him to challenge the rules he'd set.

Finally, the defiance in Ares wavered, his voice now only a bare whisper, laced with reluctant submission. "What if I don't know how to ask?

The words hung there, raw and unguarded, slamming into Apollo with the force of something that absolutely wanted to splinter his ironclad control. For a heartbeat, he stumbled, his confidence teetering as Ares's vulnerability sliced through the tension like a knife. All that bravado, the sharp edges, crumbled in that one admission. Apollo's "Ares" wasn't as invincible as he wanted the world to believe.

It was then that Ares's strong mask slipped, and the edges that lay beneath showed. His normally fiery eyes held a flicker of uncertainty—something he had wondered about but didn't really want an answer to. Apollo could see the battle that raged inside him: the way his need to protect himself wavered with the yearning to let someone else take the reins, at least for a moment.

Apollo's breath caught in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears. He hadn't expected this—to face the real Ares, scared and at a loss as to how to let go. It brought out a protective depth inside him, a desire to be the anchor Ares so greatly needed.

His smile was slower this time, though it was still a taunt; he also held a reassurance. Leaning in, his lips brushed the shell of Ares' ear. His voice had softened; the edge it held before was gone. "Then let me show you, Ares," he murmured, his tone both an invitation and a promise. "You don't have to know how. You only have to trust me."

Ares was immobile for a whole moment. He stood like a statue, every muscle held tight, as though one deep breath might shatter him. But something in him changed after the slightest second. There was a softening in his posture that nobody else would likely ever notice—the loosening of the winced tension that always seemed so woven into him. He was like a man carefully testing the waters to see if he could let someone else be in charge without losing himself entirely.

There was a fragile trust between them, delicate and easily broken. He knew he had to tread lightly and carefully because it wasn't just about power or dominance anymore. Indeed, it was about the connection, to give Ares something he didn't even know he needed.

He pulled back only far enough to meet Ares's gaze, his own vulnerability reflected in the way he looked at him–steady, yet with a silent understanding. "You've been surviving for so long, Ares. It's OK to let go. It's OK to let someone else carry that weight for a while."

It was then that Apollo finally noticed how Ares's breath caught—a telltale sign that the walls he had fortified around himself were falling. Their eyes met, and in Ares's gaze, Apollo saw a soft entreaty, an almost desperate search for something more, probably assurance, or maybe permission to let his guard down just a little. This wasn't just the pull of desire or the push to control; it was about trust, finding strength in vulnerability. And right there, Apollo realized something: this was more than a power play—it was an unspoken invitation into stepping within that delicate dance between strength and surrender, something requiring more than dominance: care.

"OK," whispered Ares, barely audible, but everything was enough.

Apollo smiled tenderly, touching lightly, reaching up to cradle the back of Ares's neck with his thumb, brushing softly against the warm skin.

"That's all you have to do," he said quietly. "Just let go.

It was then, as their struggle began to move from a battle of wills to something so much deeper, so much more intimate, that Apollo realized they were both learning to ask and learning to trust. The roles of master and student, dominant and submissive, blurred, leaving them on the edge of that entirely new thing, so irrational that neither had ever dealt with it.

The dance between them was far from over; there was just a truce for the time being. That very shifting, very fragile peace was born of shared vulnerability. Apollo didn't need to guide, but he only had to be there, steadfast and unmovable, so that if Ares was ready to let go, he would have someone to catch him.

The moment passed, as fleeting as its arrival, replaced by the hum of unsatisfied desire that permeated the very air of the room. But as Apollo went back to work, the drone of the chainsaw once again filling the studio, he understood that between them, whatever it was, was far from over.

Later that evening, Apollo found himself at the restaurant, reviewing the day's receipts. It was quiet; the patrons of the last dinner crowd had left hours before. The soft clink of dishes from the kitchen was the only thing that broke into the stillness. Ares was in there, doing his nightly duties. Apollo watched, taking more than a normal level of satisfaction in that maybe he was beginning to settle into normalcy, even if it seemed begrudged.

Part of him wanted to check in to ensure Ares was OK, but another part knew better. Getting any closer would only get messy. So, instead, he focused on his work—until Ares appeared in the doorway with a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

"Am I always this boring, or is it because of you?" Ares quipped.

Apollo looked up, catching the glint in Ares's eyes. "I'm a man of simple tastes. I enjoy peace and quiet."

"A man of peace, huh?" Ares smirked. "I would've pegged you for one of the raging sort."

"Maybe I've had enough chaos for one lifetime," Apollo replied, his voice quieter than before.

The smirk on Ares' face immediately fell. The air between them became unconsciously heavy, and both stayed quiet momentarily. Then, without further ado, there was a tremendous clatter in the kitchen, followed by the splintering sound of breaking glass.

Apollo leaped to his feet. "What was that?"

Ares winced. "I, uh. might have dropped a tray."

"Dropped a tray?" Apollo repeated with exasperation.

"It got away from me," Ares defended, guilty eyes huge. "I will mop it up."

Apollo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I swear to all that is holy, you're a walking disaster zone."

"Hey, I'm trying here," Ares snapped, voice going suddenly sharp. "It's not like I asked for it to be this way."

Apollo's temper flared. "And I didn't ask to be saddled with a spoiled brat who thinks the world owes him something."

Ares's face darkened, and raw emotion replaced the playful banter. "You don't know anything about me," he hissed.

"I know enough," Apollo shot back. "I know you've been coasting on your name and money for so long that you can't handle things when they don't go your way.

Ares's fists balled, his hands turning white at the knuckles. "You have no idea what I've been through. What I told you about who and where i came from is just the tip of the iceberg, on paper I sound rich, but I do not have anything in that world that matters, unless I want to sell my soul. Again."

"Then tell me, let me in," Apollo challenged, coming closer. "Because you keep pushing me away and your anger is eating you up."

Ares's breath caught, and for one familiar moment, Apollo thought that wall of ice would finally break. Instead, Ares spun on his heel and charged out of the kitchen, gone without another word. The door thudded shut behind him, echoing into the vast emptiness of the restaurant.

Apollo stood at the closed door, his heart pounding. He hadn't meant to lash out, but he couldn't help it. Ares got under his skin in ways he hadn't foreseen, stirring up emotions that Apollo had long believed buried.

The next day was more challenging. The tension this time was almost unbearable. There was a shift, though, one that was slight, almost unnoticeable. Ares was quieter and more focused, his usual snark dulled, and Apollo couldn't decide yet if that was a good thing or not.

The vaporous odour of wood shavings and wet splinters of freshly cut wood hung heavy in the evening studio air. Apollo remained by the door, his eyes never leaving Ares, who moved about the room, pausing near the sculptures. Overhead lamps outlined sharp lines of the jaw and subtle curves of lips as if they cast a soft light on his face.

As Ares approached the sculpture, his fingers strayed over all the details, the work carved into the wood. Apollo watched how Ares's touch lingered long, reverent, and curious, as if he could read the soul of whatever piece he was looking at by the grain beneath his fingers.

That much more wealth poured into the summer-swamped tourist town. Those were quite the breed of people who came to this far-off town for its rustic charm and unspoiled wilderness, but brought their luxury cars and designer clothes with them. It wouldn't be long before someone recognized Ares Sinclair, the infamous nepo baby of the Sinclair empire. Of course, Apollo had done his research. He knew who Ares was, even if he hadn't offered that information himself. The tabloid favorite son of a billionaire, known for wild parties and scandalous behaviour, was in Apollo's studio, a million miles away from his glittering world.

But most strange to Apollo was the lack of missing person reports on all accounts. With all the news and social media digging, Ares's disappearance had yet to be reported. Nobody noticed his absence, or maybe no one even cared that he was gone. That bothered Apollo more than he wanted to realize.

What had brought Ares to this town on that rainy, fateful night? How had he shown up, totally wet, with clothes on his back and no explanations? Apollo wished fervently that Ares would open up and tell him what really happened, though to that day, all Apollo had was questions and a nagging feeling that Ares was running from something—or someone.

And then there was the matter of Ares's car. After the storm, Apollo checked around the area, but the vehicle remained nonexistent. The mudslide had washed it, along with half the mountain.

The tumultuous storm in Apollo's thoughts went unnoticed as his gaze lingered on Ares's fingertips, tracing the smoothness of the wood. Ares's voice cut through the silence, filled with uncertainty but equal parts newfound respect. "You've got a talent."

Surprised by the compliment, Apollo felt his heart skip a beat. "What?"

"Your work," Ares said, still not looking at him. "It's… impressive."

Apollo blinked, taken aback. He'd been bracing for another jab, not praise. "Thanks," he said, the words coming out in a rasp far rougher than he'd meant. "It's taken a lot of years to get here."

Ares just nodded, gaze still on the bear sculpture. "I can see that.".

The silence that followed was tense, but it was not boiling with animosity. It was something else simmering just below the surface. Apollo stepped forward slowly, heavily, toward him. Ares didn't move, his gaze still on the sculpture. However, the posture of his shoulders and the way he held his breath told Apollo otherwise.

He closed the distance between them until his chest almost brushed Ares's back. He could feel the heat coming off of Ares, the subtle up and down with each breath. Slowly, almost wavered by uncertainty, Apollo reached out, his hands hovering above Ares's.

"Feel that?" Apollo whispered, lips inches, dangerously close to Ares's ear. His voice was low, husky, filled with the intensity that matched the moment. "The way the wood yields to your touch? It's not about being strong. It's about control, patience… knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, where to guide it."

His fingers trembled slightly, Apollo noticed as hands enveloped them, calming and guiding them along the smooth contours of the sculpture. The space between them buzzed with an intensity that blurred the lines between a simple lesson and something far more intimate with every passing moment.

Apollo could feel the heat radiating from Ares. "Turn around. Let me teach you."

His chest pressed against Ares's back, their heartbeats quickening in unison. Leaning in, Apollo let his lips brush ever so lightly against the shell of Ares's ear, his voice dropping to a smooth, almost teasing murmur.

"The wood… it's stubborn at first, resistant. But if you know how to work with it, if you can master it… it'll give you exactly what you want."

Apollo could feel Ares's focus beginning to waver, his breath catching as their hands moved in perfect sync, the heat of their bodies pressed in so close together. The tension between them was alive, crackling like a live wire with each deliberate touch, each whispered word drawing them closer and closer to the point of no return—one that neither of them seemed in any hurry to avoid.

"You cannot rush this process. Can't just force it. You have to lead it, tease it… make it surrender to you." Apollo's fingers tightened over Ares's, his grip firm, almost possessive, as he guided the movements.

"And when you finally get it to yield," he guided, "there's nothing quite like it. The satisfaction of seeing something so resistant finally give in… it's intoxicating."

Ares' concentration faltered under the weight of Apollo's words. Every movement of Apollo's hands was deliberate, calculated, a subtle demonstration of control—over the wood and Ares.

"When it finally gives in," Apollo murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvety tone, "there's nothing quite like it. The way something so stubborn finally yields… it's intoxicating."

The impact he had on Ares was clear in the way his breath quickened and his fingers trembled ever so slightly. Apollo let his lips hover near Ares's ear, his breath warm against the sensitive skin.

"Tell me," he whispered, voice teasing, "what do you think it takes to make something so resistant bend? Is it strength… or something else?"

Ares turned to face him. When Ares turned to face him, his expression showed a conflict, caught between anger, confusion, and something else neither of them was ready to name.

"Maybe it's not just about the wood," Apollo continued, his words heavy with innuendo. "Maybe it's about knowing exactly what it wants, where to push, how to lead it until it's exactly what you desire."

The thickening tension between them filled the air with a palpable sense of anticipation. Apollo took a slow step forward, his torso now firmly against Ares's chest, the stifling heat between them threatening to suffocate.

"Or maybe," he rasped, his breath grazing Ares's ear, "you're starting to wonder if I'm talking about something more than just the wood."

Ares' voice was tight when he finally spoke. "Don't think this changes anything—I'm still no more staying here than I must."

Apollo's jaw tightened. The flicker of hope drowned. "I wouldn't dream of it," he replied coldly.

There was no trace of it anymore. The fragile peace and calm had vanished between them. But, as Ares walked away, Apollo knew something had changed—something neither could turn a blind eye to.

Apollo found himself at the restaurant later that evening, surrounded by the aroma of sizzling dishes and the bustling chatter of patrons. The restaurant was eventually quiet, and the only sound was the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen, breaking the stillness. Ares was in there, doing his nightly duties, and Apollo couldn't help but be proud of how he had settled into his routine, even if it was begrudgingly.