6 Years Ago: Pylades

Although our first few weeks together were somewhat awkward, especially after the bombshell mother dropped about Pylades’ family, our friendship slowly came back afterward. We spent our days together filled with princely instruction: Drills with the sword and the spear, statecraft and battle tactics, the histories and cultures of the world, songs and the lyre, and such. Although Orestes possessed a smaller frame than I, he manages to somehow beat me in wrestling and armed matches. But to compensate, I was his better when it came to the books, and we were equally terrible at music and art. The time we spent together has also changed me to a better man. I no longer felt bad that he beat me in a footrace or a sword duel, but rather felt grateful that he was there to race or fight me at all. He was the best companion a man could ever wish for.

Unsurprisingly, we also spent our time together outside the lecture rooms and training fields. One day we may go swimming in the rivers, another we may climb tree and cliff, and yet another we may sneak into the less desirable parts of the city, looking for adventure, and occasionally to fill our lust. As a prince, I know that all the servant girls, and some of the boys, who reside in the palace, would happily pleasure me for my favor, but I think something about an act being dangerous and forbidden especially floats my boat. Orestes was the more reserved one, and the more one of our little excursions broke the rules or the more dangerous it was, the more hesitant was he. This sometimes led to arguments, but in the end we’d both come to our senses and usually agree on a compromise: a slightly less risky act.

But, the moments I enjoyed most with Orestes were not the most exciting ones. We would often make up games for ourselves, we would lie on the warm grass and ask each other what we were thinking about.

“How birds fly in the sky.”

“Why winds make the sound that they do.”

“Me,” he once said.

My heart skipped a beat, for those words rang as true as Apollo’s prophesies. In fact, he has been a large part of what I thought about recently. We laid in companionable silence for a while. I wasn’t sure about my own feelings; perhaps it was just friendship and brotherhood that we felt, after all, we were indeed so close, and the line between platonic and romantic love may blur. Meanwhile, I tried to find a way to defuse the slowly building tension.

“Dinner,” I responded. We looked at each other, and laughed.

4 Years Ago: Pylades

I loved spending time with Ore, and I was certain he reciprocated the feeling. As we swam, or played, or talked, I can see him visibly change. I know that he still thinks about his family at times, and at those times, his face was often solemn. But when we were together, it was all forgotten and his smiles would shine as bright as the morning sun. He also usually did not talk much to others in the palace, but when we were together, his tongue would be giddy with freedom; always talking about this or that. The contents he spilled were at times boring, but the sound of his voice more than enough made up for that.

On my part, I too, would often grin until my cheeks hurt, my face pricking till I thought it might fall off my head. We also learned from each other whiling learning about each other. Ore would teach me how to carve wood, while talking about how he liked their fresh smell. I would teach him how to skip stones in the lake, while talking about my solitary upbringing before he came. It may seem to the casual observer that those were innocent and carefree days, and perhaps they mostly were, but beneath all that there was ever a throne on my side. For ever since our bodies began to stretch and grow, I have slowly started to see Ore in a new light, and began to want … more of him.

Sure, there were a lot of girls and some boys that I did, but none of them were like him. Strangely enough, Ore himself didn’t really seem interested in anyone. Except for the little excursions that we still took sometimes, I have never heard moans behind his closed doors or observe his shadow return to bed before dawn. Well, it was not really me, that would be a bit creepy for someone’s best friend, but instead I asked some of the servants to keep an eye on him, and they never saw anything.

It was strange, really. In our countries, a man often took a wife before he could grow a beard, and it was expected that he would take a serving girl much sooner. At fourteen, Ore was definitely late to the party. Well, not late, he has been there, but definitely too reluctant to be there. It wasn’t even shameful for a man to enjoy himself with a woman, for the swollen bellies that followed usually meant profit for the kingdom since most of the servants in the palace were slaves, and those swollen bellies meant more slaves.

Moreover, it wouldn’t even be difficult for Ore to get with someone. He was handsome enough to charm, muscular enough to coerce, and as a close friend of the household, rich enough to pay. It would have been so easy, so infinitely easy for him to get someone, but nope. Nothing seems to be happening. Once, my father even asked him to pick from the girls serving our dinner that night. He answered, almost indifferently “I am tired sir, I want to sleep tonight.”

Yet when we were returning to our rooms, he seemed anything but tired. He talked excitedly about all the day’s events as we walked back. When we reach my door, and as he was about to bid me goodnight and leave, I clutched his arm and decided to force the issue. I wanted to know so badly why he isn’t enjoying himself more with the house servants.

“Stay,” I said, “your room is further down the corridor, and you said you are tired and needed sleep.”

I slapped myself internally for how stupid I sounded, but managed to keep a straight face. Ore looked at me like I was drunk, and maybe I did have one too many cups at dinner, but he smiled and came into my room.

“Ore,” I said, as we laid on my bed “You should look for the dark-skinned girl with black hair, from the table near the entrance tonight. Some of the servants tell me that she has been loitering around your doorways.” I spoke truth, but my purpose was to see how he would react. The only source of light in the room was the fireplace, and it was hard to know in the dim light if his face had changed. “I am tired sir, I want to sleep tonight,” he said. I forced a chuckle, but pressed on.

“The girl, do you like her?” I asked.

He turned to face me on the bed. ‘Why? Do you?”

“No, no.” I flushed, “that’s not that I meant.” To be honest, I am not sure myself what I meant.

“I mean, do you want to have …”

Ore placed his hand on my chest, and gently pushed me down onto my bed. Then he leaned over me. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he said, staring into my eyes which his which were dark blue like the depths of the ocean. Heat rose up my neck, his fingers now touching my face. His body was so close, and I could smell nothing but him. I wanted to lean in for a kiss, but fear held me back. What if he didn’t reciprocate my feelings? What if he felt disgusted? I would be losing the best friend that I have ever had.

It seemed that I made the right call, since he leaned back and just looked at me. His face was still. “Good night Py,” He said, as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing did happen and it was actually just all in my head. At least he had the courtesy to not leave my room, but rather just shifted himself to the far side of the bed. It really wasn’t pleasant for me, since I wasn’t able to get much sleep that night. Images flickered through my mind of all the things I wanted to do

I wished I could say that that night was my only brush with temptation, but I’d be lying. Another one of my more memorable close calls happened during summer. We were on the hills after lunch, our backs to a tree. The sun was high, it had just rained, and the air smelled fresh around us. Ore shifts, and his knee touches mine. His skin was cool, yet tough from all our time spent outdoors; I liked that texture. He starts humming something, I recognize the song and join in.

I turn to look at him. His face is so smooth, no spots or pimples or bumps like many of the other boys our age. His features looked as if they were sculpted by a master artisan with a firm hand; sharp angles, and no trace of sloppy fat – yet the final product did not sting the eye at all. He turns and find me staring. “What?” he asks, breaking the music.

“Umm…nothing.”

He looks closer at my face. Fuck, I can smell him now. The salt of clean sweat, the mud of the forest, the freshness of summer dew, and was that … acorn? My pulse jumps, and I can feel the pressure building in my heart but I don’t know why. Heck, he has looked at me a thousand times before, there is nothing that I haven’t seen of him nor him of me. Yet why was this time feeling different? Why does this feel so … intense?

The strength of my desire and the rate at which it blooms shocks me; I suddenly flinch and startle back. His face was still, and we pretend for the rest of the day that that didn’t happen. In fact, we never seem to talk about these little intense moments that we share. I wanted and waited for him to bring them up, but he never did.