Chapter 8 Confronting Demons

Jaw clenched, Apollo scrubbed at the counter, the cloth moving under his hands in powerful strokes. But his mind wasn't on what he was doing—it was on Brently's smug, self-satisfied voice, echoing in his head like a bad tune he couldn't shake. One of Ares friends from boarding school, as he had mentioned. At one time Ares and Brently were close, even dated. But that all changed when Brently married a woman succumbing to his parents financial blackmail.

The way Brently had draped himself all over Ares, as if he owned him, as if he was reclaiming something Apollo had never ever had the opportunity to claim. And it gnawed away at him, rousing something deep and primeval that simmered just below the surface, threatening to break free at any moment.

The days of silence chewing away at Apollo were getting harder and harder. He'd wanted to give Ares space, to let him work through whatever was going on in that head of his, but now it felt like Ares was slipping further away. And Brently… well, Brently was only pushing him back toward a world Apollo hoped Ares was done with. It was the closest to angry he had been over anything in a long while, a frustrated feeling burning in his chest as he mixed it with a bit of helplessness he did not want to acknowledge.

Apollo knew who had brought Brently here. Rafael. It was indeed a small world. A thought that turned the coil on his anger a notch tighter. Rafael was ever the one to stir trouble, find weak spots, and exploit them. Now, he'd brought Brently into their lives, a poison meant to corrode whatever fragile connection Ares and Apollo had been building.

He had always known that Rafael and Brently knew each other, but he was never quite sure about the extent of their relationship. During the years he and Rafael had been together, Rafael had cheated more times than Apollo could count, advertising his infidelities like badges of honor. He never hesitated to admit them, relishing how the truth cut like a blade, leaving Apollo bleeding from the inside out. But when it came to Brently, Rafael was always silent. He admitted nothing, offered no details, and that silence spoke louder than words. Apollo suspected that there was something more, a hidden layer that Rafael kept buried.

Their breakup had been anything but friendly. It had been a savage battle that almost became violent, both of them caught in a game that was fueled more by a lust for power than by love. Yet Apollo had resisted, drawing on some inner strength that he really hadn't known existed until the moment called for it. Apollo stood his ground, refusing to be Rafael's pawn, refusing to allow himself to be twisted to his wishes, and in the end, he emerged—bruised but unbroken.

It was a painful memory that still stung, even after all this time. The way Rafael had wielded the truth like a weapon, striking him down with cold, calculated precision. And yet, even now, knowing what he did, Apollo had tried to keep things friendly. He didn't understand why he should; the man had twisted the knife too many times.

But the past was the past, and Apollo knew he couldn't dwell on it, not when so much was at stake. Still, the memories lingered, a constant reminder of the scars he carried, the wounds that had never fully healed.

Although Ares had not fully acknowledged this shared attribute, it lingered in the air between them, binding them in an invisible thread of understanding. They were kindred spirits, united on their journey to break free from the chains that threatened to confine them. As they continued to run, driven by an unrelenting hunger for freedom, they found solace in knowing that they were not alone in their struggle. Apollo's hands gripped the counter, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. His gaze slid across the room to where Ares stood, a little too close to Brently, their conversation a little too casual, a little too familiar. It pained Apollo to watch Ares slowly slide back into his old ways, falling into that life that had never brought him any good fortune.

What cut deepest was the growing distance between them, a chasm that seemed to widen with every word Brently spoke, every laugh he coaxed out of Ares. Apollo had thought giving Ares space would help, but now that space felt like a void, one Brently was all too eager to fill.

Swallowing hard, he forced down the raw emotion threatening to surface. He wasn't going to let this go without a fight. Not this time. Brently and Rafael might have their games, but Apollo would keep them from taking Ares back into that world.

He still heard Brently's self-satisfied voice echoing in his ears, resonating with an air of entitlement. The image of him draping himself possessively over Ares, like he owned him, played over and over in his mind. It was a scene that oozed arrogance and superiority, igniting a fire of anger within him. The raw intensity, deep and primal, simmered just below the surface, ready to erupt at any moment. It was an anger that radiated through his being, a sensation that lingered in the air, always threatening to break free.

Ares. So infuriating, so goddamn stubborn, and yet…Apollo couldn't get the man out of his head. No matter how hard he tried, Ares lingered there, in his thoughts, like some insistent melody that refused to fade. It wasn't just how Ares looked at him—a raw vulnerability in his eyes, something fragile hiding beneath the anger—a shield. Apollo knew that look all too well—he had seen it in the mirror often enough.

Yet these small things about Ares haunted him the most. The way he took his tea, always with a dash of honey and bit by bit, savoring the sweetness like it was the only thing keeping the bitterness away. The way he would sigh at sunset every time, mixing melancholy with wonder in his expression, as if he saw it for the first time. He put honey on everything, even things that didn't need it, like he was trying to sweeten the bitterness he carried inside.

Apollo couldn't help but reflect on how Ares had gotten into pickling onions, of all things. It started as a distraction to keep his hands busy, but it had become a quiet ritual that soothed him in a way few things could. Carefully cutting up the onions, the focus in his eyes, the slight furrow in his brow—such a mundane thing, but it wrenched at Apollo's chest with something he couldn't quite name.

And now, after everything—Brently's intrusion, him growing away from Ares—those small moments were what Apollo clung to. Proof that Ares was still in there, beneath the defenses and the anger. But it was getting harder to reach him, harder to remind Ares of the peace he'd found here, of the connection they'd begun building.

Apollo scrubbed harder at the counter, the memories surging through him to feed the frustration gnawing away at his gut. Ares was slipping away, and Apollo could feel it happening, could see the distance widening with every passing day. He had not given up on the potential when he knew something real was between them, something worth fighting for.

Morning light from the mountains spilled in, bathing the space with a warm glow that stroked the edges of Ares's white-blonde hair, turning it into a halo of soft gold. Apollo watched from across the room, the path of sunlight dancing upon Ares's pale, lithe form. His muscles slid with his movements, and light danced across the lean strength that marked his shirtless form.

The loose pajama bottoms rested low on his hips, an afterthought, casual, which somehow added to his quiet allure. In that moment, bathed in the gentle morning light, he appeared almost ethereal, his presence a stark contrast to the brutality of the world beyond. It was a fleeting image—just Ares and the sunlight, a delicate moment of beauty that Apollo clung to, even as shadows encroached upon the fringes of his mind.

***

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The walk to the restaurant was about forty-five minutes away. It always gave him time to reflect. Sometimes he drove but he preferred walking if he could. The restaurant was a small leftover piece of his mother, it wasn't much but it had some rustic charm, and it mainly entertained the locals. The elite who visited the mountains didn't venture to this side of town. He kept the bar fully stacked with a simple menu of bar food. He knew it was time to let it go, it was no longer sentimental, but it had become an obligation.

The door to the tavern swung open with a jingle of bells, snapping Apollo out of his thoughts. His eyes locked onto Rafael immediately. Tall and uniformed, impeccably pressed, Rafael always had a way of commanding attention without even trying. His perfectly slicked back dark hair and flawless olive-toned skin highlighted the striking contours of his chiseled jawline. The kind of smile that could charm a room in seconds—warm, inviting, almost too perfect. But Apollo knew better; he'd been on the receiving end of that smile too many times.

Rafael stood tall in his uniform, every inch tailored, pressed, and pristine. It wasn't just clothing—it was armor, a symbol of the power he wielded and the control he thrived on. The crisp lines, the polished buttons, and the way the fabric hugged his frame with military precision screamed authority and dominance. Rafael wore that uniform like a second skin, using it to assert his presence and remind everyone around him of the status he held. And Apollo couldn't ignore how it always seemed to work, how Rafael's sharp appearance cut through a room, leaving no doubt about who was in command.

Those dark, calculating eyes were a dead giveaway—like windows to some hidden truth beneath, something twisted that always seemed to carry a trace of cruelty with it, no matter how carefully Rafael tried to mask it. More than anything else, that gaze sent a familiar brief pang of unease through Apollo.

His presence stirred old memories, brewing a bitter cocktail of loss and regret infused with an unsettling finality. Closing the distance, Rafael exuded the same effortless confidence that had once drawn him in but now repulsed him, as a wave of empowerment flooded his bloodstream, his muscles coiling with readiness. A surge of empowerment fueled his resolve to fight for his own happiness and that of Ares.

Apollo set the dishtowel down, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he stepped out from behind the counter. There was a bitter and controlled quality to his voice, but there was also a hint of underlying anger as he struggled to keep it in check.

"What do you want, Rafael?" Apollo demanded, each word precise and measured. "I see you brought Brently here?"

"You know what I want, what I have always wanted." His grin broadened, his eyes glinting with that goading light. "Oh, and by the way, Imight have let it drop that Ares was staying up here, you know how rumors spread," he confessed, his voice smooth and perfect, the mockery running off it.

Apollo tried to walk away, but Rafael's hand shot out before he could, gripping his arm with a firmness that demanded attention. "Come on, Apollo," Rafael's voice oozed with that familiar, condescending drawl. His chin tilted toward the group of young billionaires surrounding Ares, the clinking of glasses and clatter of conversation filling the air. "He fits right in, doesn't he? With his own kind. You know as well as I do, Apollo—he doesn't belong here, with you. He's the wealthy elite, and you…you're just a mountain hick."

The words cut deep, but Apollo didn't let that show. He simply yanked his arm free of Rafael's grip—the force behind the action was more than physical. Apollo would not let Rafael's words crack his skin or let Rafael dictate how this all played out—not anymore. "Perhaps so," he added calmly, but a biting edge had crept into his words. "But at least I know who I am. Can you say the same?"

Rafael grinned until the end, when his smile faltered for a heartbeat. That moment was enough. Apollo held his gaze, unflinching, letting the silence stretch between them, saddled with all that remained unspoken. Rafael created chaos, but Apollo wouldn't let him destroy what he had built with Ares without some fight.

The smirk settling back onto his face like an old, comfortable mask. Rafael recovered quickly. "Oh, I know exactly who I am, Apollo. The difference is that I'm not pretending to be something I'm not." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper for Apollo's ears alone. "You can wear your hero suit all you like, but we both know how this end. Ares isn't going to stick around waiting for your hayseed sweet talk forever. He'll think he's too good for this place, too good for you, and when he does…well, you better not say that I didn't warn you."

Anger, as the emotion simmered beneath the surface, but he curbed it, refusing to rise to the bait. He merely locked eyes with Rafael, something quiet and determined in the gaze. "You're right, Rafael. I'm not pretending. But you've been playing games for so long that you wouldn't recognize something real even if it hit you square in the face."

Rafael's expression hardened, his smirk becoming frail at the corners. "We'll see about that," he countered, a challenge woven into his tone. "Just don't be surprised when he decides to walk away, Apollo," he warned, hinting at the possibility.

"You can't bully me anymore, Rafael," he spat, his voice dripping with measured confidence that sliced through the tension like a sharp knife. "I'm the one who left you, remember? I was nineteen when we met, and you tried to control every part of my life since then. That's why I joined the service—to get the hell away from you. But then my mom died, and I was weak. I fell back into your arms, but I'm not weak anymore. I haven't been for a long time. So, stop fucking with me."

Rafael's eyes blackened, his suave confidence splintering just a bit. "Is that so?" He hissed, striding closer until their faces were mere inches apart. "You talk a big game, Apollo, but we both know how this end. How it always ends. You'll come crawling back…just like you always have."

Apollo didn't back down. Heat radiated off Rafael, the barely contained aggression simmering beneath his polished exterior. But Apollo knew himself, knew his own strength, and he wasn't about to let Rafael push him around.

"We're not the same," Apollo replied quietly, his voice laced with controlled fury. "You think you can break me, bend me to your will? I didn't bend, and I didn't break."

Rafael's expression flickered with annoyance, his eyes narrowing as he realized he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted.

"You really think you're better than me, don't you?" He belittled, his voice tinged with contempt. "But here's the thing, Apollo—you can play the noble act all you want, but everyone has a price at the end of the day. Even you. Even he."

Rafael pointed toward Ares again, laughing and taking shots with Brently, unaware of the tension crackling across the room.

Cold fury pierced Apollo's stoic exterior as his gaze hardened, revealing a newfound strength.

"Rafael, you have no idea about who I really am. My life is not yours to dictate," he firmly declared.

A sharp sigh of exasperation escaped Rafael, combined with a quiet ‘tsk-tsk,' which clung tenaciously to the edge of his breath, probably betraying the growing irritation he was failing at concealing. His voice slick with hostility, smooth as silk but infinitely cutting.

"Tread lightly, Apollo." I know the violence that moves inside of you. We both know how this will end. Ares belongs to his own kind; people like Brently and me, who know how to play the game, not to some primitive mountain hick who doesn't even know his place."

The words cut through him like a taunt, velvet-wrapped in a threat. That familiar burn started in his chest again—old anger he had buried long ago boiling back to the surface. Yet he stood still, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Rafael's gaze. He wouldn't give the satisfaction of a reaction—not just yet. The storm could wait for now.

Motionless, his voice remained firm and resolute. "I'm not afraid of you. You definitely don't frighten Ares. You can never claim me as yours again, no matter what you do. Not in the present, not in the future."

The words hung between them, thick with the threat of what would come. Apollo knew this wasn't over—not by a long shot. But he also knew that, for the first time, he was ready for whatever fight Rafael was bringing.

It took him a bit to notice Brent's mocking voice hailing him. "Oh, help. We need another round of drinks." He bristled at the tone.

"Run little dog; that's all you will ever be, Apollo. You think you can protect him, but you have no power or money."