Chapter 5 Unveiling the Past

The air was cool and pine-scented, his senses filled with the sharp undercurrent of sawdust as Ares approached the studio. The sun had reached late afternoon, its long shadows thrown through the trees as though they had almost been piled in answer to that confusion by the light and dark dappling on the ground.

How he hated being so unsettled—Apollo had crawled under his skin, digging up things he'd tried to bury so long beneath anger and defiance.

He went into the studio. That smell of lumber and oil was pseudo-grounding, familiar—sort of.

Apollo stood at his workstation, his hands fluid and precise as he molded another piece with an effortless grace that only deepened the storm brewing within Ares. Each smooth movement was a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside him. Watching Apollo so focused, so composed, sent a surge of conflicting emotions through Ares—envy, resentment, and a longing he couldn't quite name. He both admired and resented the man's control, that unshakable calm that seemed so out of reach for him, especially when everything inside felt like it was unraveling.

He hovered near the door, unsure whether to stay or leave; his mind was a battleground of several emotions. His father was still there, hammering in his head about what he was supposed to be: something solid and immovable, a chiseled piece of Sinclair's legacy. Here, with Apollo, he was feeling just the opposite. He was naked and vulnerable in a way that really scared the hell out of him.

"You going to stand there all day, or will you come in?" Apollo's calm, even voice cut across the turbulent sea of thoughts which belonged to Ares.

His jaw tightened, but he pushed further into the room, his defiance muted. "Maybe I enjoy just watching," he shot back.

"Is that so? As Apollo mused, a hint of amusement danced in his bright blue eyes.

"Don't get it twisted," he shot back.

Apollo winked and resumed work. His knife scraped against the wood in a rhythmic pattern, a melodic background of sound. Something almost like hypnotic fascination nailed him to the gracefulness displayed in Apollo's movements. His hands moved with grace and sure confidence, handling the material like a part of himself and dictating the course of action.

"I've never seen anybody work like you do," Ares announced before he could stop himself, the admission slipping offhand.

Apollo paused, his knife hovering over the wood momentarily before turning to face Ares. "Thank you. It's taken years of practice and patience, virtues that have not come easy," he added, his voice soft and almost reflective. "Getting here has taken a lot of blood and tears."

He was sharing, inviting him to confide, and making an informal invitation for friendship and trust. But he couldn't go there, not yet.

"You should be proud," he said, wanting to shut down any hints of vulnerability. "So tell me more about you? Let's start with, what is your last name?"

Apollo nodded, "My last name is Petrakis. From my mother's side, my father was nonexistent."

Apollo's tone was calm, but something weighted in the words told Ares this wasn't easily given.

Ares leaned on the wall, crossing his arms in security, as he dared share a small part of his past, "I had a father, though not much of one. A brutal man. But enough about me, where did you grow up, graduate high school, you know, spill?" Trying to shut off the emotions that threatened to eat him alive.

As if understanding, Apollo continued, "I grew up in a small mountain town in Colorado, not unlike this one," his voice steady, almost reflective. "Right out of high school, I joined the military. I wanted to do something, prove something with my life, see the world, and maybe even make a difference. I did as a combat medic. I saw a hell of a lot of things that I wish I could forget. Lost a few but saved others on the way."

Something, sympathy, respect? It all pierced Ares at his words. A small smile stretched across his face, defined by the knowledge Apollo's experiences had forged him into a resilient and compassionate man. A man any parent would be proud of.

Ares hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words, wanting this to be a moment of connection, not just shared sorrow. He glanced at Apollo, his gaze softening as he spoke, his voice low and steady. "How did your mother die?" he asked gently, then, after a brief pause, added, "My father… he died from cancer. It happened fast." There was a quiet vulnerability in his tone, an unspoken offer to bridge the gap between their pasts, to find solace in the shared weight of loss.

Apollo shifted his weight. Gloom was etched across his face, and Ares did not like to see that in him. "She died while I was away on a mission. Her name was Selena. She passed away from natural causes. After her funeral, I needed a change of pace, and I ended my service with the Air Force, so I started mountain guiding. It was kind of cathartic. Difficult, but it gave me purpose." A smile barely formed at the edges of his lips and curled with slight pride as he resumed, "Then I took up cooking, worked my way to a chef, and even ran a restaurant for some time. But that wasn't enough. I needed something more… tactile. Something that connected me to the world completely differently."

Surprisinghimself with his boldness, Ares interrupted, "And it was then that you reached for a chainsaw?" His eagerness to know more about this captivating man shone through.

A deep, rich laugh erupted from Apollo's lips, making a shiver run down Ares's spine. "Not exactly. Kind of stumbled into chainsaw wood sculpting. I won a few competitions here and there and realized that I had a real knack for it. Love how it brings together power and finesse—like cooking or climbing."

These small pieces of Apollo's life etched a picture of resiliency and strength, tempered by hardship into a tale that Ares saw in an absolutely new light—not just as the man who somehow always knew how to be his thorn in the side but as one who wrestled with his demons and came out victorious at the very end.

The look in his eyes eased; the question unspoken had resided in the warmth that passed with their furtive glances. "And you, Ares? What's your story? Or is it just headlines and trust funds?"

Ares stiffened at the indirect reference to his being born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Of course, Apollo would figure it out. Even during his remote travels, Ares was recognized. But why did that bother him? Why did it bother him that Apollo knew who he was? Outside of these mountains, he had a life of the best. Indulging in the finest drugs, sex, and food, though it had no meaning and purpose compared to Apollo's. It then dawned on him, and the weight of realization crushed him with shame.

"I'm not some kind of privileged kid," he snapped, though his voice missed its usual zest.

"Then tell me," Apollo urged, still soft but insistent. "Who are you, really?

Ares hesitated; his heart pounded, and his words suddenly caught in his throat. He kept his last name and money as a defensive barricade against the world, all alone and hidden from everyone. His father's expectations were on him like a thick, gray cloud that seemed to smother everything he did. Ares was to be perfection, a model son and future successor. Every one of these expectations was more like a shackle about his chest, keeping him choked and suffocated under the weight that he could never flee until now.

"That's what he wanted to see when he looked at me. This is what I'm supposed to be." Ares' voice was growing tight, strangled. "A modeled son, the Sinclair heir, is not me. It's never been me."

Apollo's expression softened, and he stepped closer to him; warmth washed over him like his presence. "Don't mind what is expected out of you by others, Ares," he reassured him. "Just live up to standards you set by yourself. You can be who you are. You have the right to live and to be happy."

Those words hit Ares like a ton of bricks, and suddenly, the dam broke. Nobody had ever allowed him to be himself, to take off his mask, which he had been wearing for too long.

His voice cracked at the admission.

"I don't know who I am anymore. My entire life has been about making my father proud and failing. Now, well…I just don't know how to move forward and find my way."

His eyes locked with Apollo's as he continued in a low, soothing voice, "You start by letting go—freeing yourself from his expectations, the fear of his disappointment, and the endless drive to fulfill his every whim. You find out what you want—what it is that makes you feel really alive."

Ares closed his eyes as the tenseness in his chest relaxed to the soothing sound of Apollo's words.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked, his voice subdued, less guarded.

"It's because I see so much of myself in you," Apollo confessed, his voice barely audible, weak. "I know how it feels to be lost, for one to feel like they are drowning under expectations. But I also know what it feels like to break free from that, to find one's strength."

A fissure opened up inside him, and walls that had hurt so much to put in place around his heart came tumbling down. How was he supposed to react or respond to Apollo's tenderness and validation? This needed to be righted. This was going to be one hell of a disaster, but yet…

"I am not your enemy, Ares," Apollo whispered. "I am but a man who has been through his own private hell and out the other side. I don't want to fight you. I want to help you."

Ares had been fighting and pushing aside feelings of weakness, so-called by his father, for so long. So, letting someone in, letting himself be helped, seemed like a thousand miles away. But it didn't seem so frightening in that quiet studio with Apollo's presence. It even sounded possible .

Finally, he opened his lips and just about whispered back, "I don't know how to let go."

"You don't have to do it all at once," Apollo replied, softening his voice. "Start small. Take it one at a time. You will get there.".

Ares nodded, unconvinced. Sure, he had believed it, but there was something in Apollo's words, in the way he said them with that quiet certainty, which had him wanting to try, believing maybe, just maybe, there really was some way out of his father's smothering hold on everything he did.

Having stood together, the weight of the unsaid conflict between the two men lightened and was replaced by silence. This silence spoke enough about the difficult struggles and sacrifices in their journeys.

Ares's gaze fell to the sculpture, his eyes following its lines until they reached where Apollo's had stopped. It was raw wood and unpolished, yet it held the promise of beauty in it.

"Why do you do it?" Ares asked, his voice soft. "Why do you put so much into something that seems so…fragile?"

Apollo followed his gaze to the sculpture, his brow furrowed. "It's worth it," he said after a moment. "It reminds me that even the roughest, most unyielding material can be shaped into something beautiful if you're willing to put in the time and effort."

Ares nodded; he knew very well what lay beneath the words. That wasn't about the wood; it was about his way that hadn't ended yet, he knew. Yet, for the first time, he felt he wasn't alone—the feeling that he had a friend who understood him and would help him find his way.

The tension between them now developed into something deeper, more personal. In that one moment, standing there, side by side, he just knew it was the beginning. There was so much to learn about each other and themselves still. But they had time. They had each other. That may be enough.