open: all harmony of instrument or verse, all prophecy, all medicine, is mine. 1

[papadopoulos]

Poetry is great.
You don't have to take my word,
try it for yourself!
___________________________

Somewhat unexpectedly, Apollo is indoors. It’s been some time since he’s had the time or energy to dive into poetry and books: though Tyson and his harpy² girlfriend did run a bookshop at Camp Jupiter; Apollo had had no time to look in on things in the midst of battle and trying not to turn into a zombie. He is taking some time today to appreciate the quiet of the library; immersed in any and every kind of poetry he can get his hands on. There are books of sonnets piled about him, Dante’s Inferno, some of Byron’s works, and a collection of Oscar Wilde’s poems. He has even managed to find some examples of Chinese poetry, and is sprawled out across a couch dressed for the beach, but looking as content as a cat who’s gotten into cream and like he's quite happy to stay inside all day.

It feels like it’s been an age since he’s properly gotten to dive into the written word as much as he likes to; and he is more than willing to take advantage of this peace and quiet.


¹Actually, he hates terza rima, but this poem is about him so it will do.
²Complimentary.

Comments

[papadopoulos]

He laughs, but it's quickly aborted, and shakes his head. "Could have been the fact that I don't quite remember how many I have?" he replies, looking about as sheepish as a golden retriever who knows he's done something wrong. "Or that I got defensive when he tried to press me for more information about how gods treat their kids in my world."

[wickedwit]

“One of my dearest friends in Denmark didn’t know how many children he had,” Claudius says, quite matter-of-factly. “He was a philanderer and a drunkard, of course. Someone with predictable, manipulable vices, which perhaps wasn’t the strongest basis for a friendship. Old friends aside,” with a wave of his hand to dismiss them, “defending the ways of one’s world is always a tricky proposition. Rarely does it resolve the heart of a dispute, but it gives good context. How do gods treat their children in your world?”

[papadopoulos]

"Not great." He sighs. "If you've talked at all to Magnus, you've probably heard a lot about it. I mean, his dad is Norse, but it's --similar to what we Greeks do as well. With less practicing for Valhalla, I guess."

[wickedwit]

“Oh, Valhalla is bad enough,” Claudius says, with a light roll of eyes. “My ancestors’ idea of what the reward for a life well-lived should be. Generations always disagree on these things. But I suppose Greeks are similiar, and place the same emphasis on proving one’s worth through quests and combat and otherwise needlessly risking one’s life. We all have a pronounced streak of self-martyrdom in our cultures, don’t we?”

[papadopoulos]

He shrugs. "My father--he's all about that kind of stuff. Proving you're worthy, being perfect, being good enough -- not upsetting his perfect little world. He's used to getting his way. I..." There's a pause, and Apollo sighs; thinking of Jason, of Piper, of Leo and Calypso, every one of his friends who have been forced to fight and honor the gods to prove their worth.

"..It's not worth it, in my opinion," he says finally, quietly. "Our kids don't deserve that, just because they're different from most mortals."

[wickedwit]

“There’s another thing we have in common,” Claudius says, with something approaching gentleness. “Gods, demi-gods, and royals alike. We’re born to extraordinary, unearned privilege, and told to prove ourselves worthy of that privilege, even though worthiness never granted us our powers in the first place. I understand it in theory. Someone like Luo Binghe, for instance, who has the power to control people with a single drop of his blood, could stand to be tested by a higher power to see whether he deserves such a thing. Heriditary kings should be judged on whether they deserve to rule over others. But the sort of judgment that comes from Zeus is simply judgment on how well you can serve his own designs. All because of the family you happened to be born in.”

[papadopoulos]

Apollo gives him a rueful smile. "Sometimes you just wake up and you're the god of the sun, you know? Anyway. I've got about 4000 years of making up to do in terms of the 'being a good dad' scale, and the bar is incredibly low if I want to do better than my father. I just wish -- ...well, I don't know if I wish my kids were here; because they have better things to do than be stuck in an alternate universe -- but I wish I could at least send them an Iris message or something, sometimes. Check in on them, you know. Everyone at home probably thinks I've just gone back to normal forgetful Apollo."

[wickedwit]

"Well," Claudius says, lightly. He flops, for a lack of a better word, into Apollo's side, sliding down from his careful perch. "We'll have to figure out a way to do just that. You know I'm not one for limitations. If we can revive the dead, we can get a message to your children. Just compose the message you'd like to send."

[papadopoulos]

"I can compose literally anything you want," he says, laughing. "But thanks for the offer of help."

[wickedwit]

"Oh, please do," Claudius says, slipping easily back into light-hearted, flirtatious tones, with a sideways look. "I've always wanted handsome men to compose poetry to me. Write something especially flattering."

[papadopoulos]

"Right now?" He looks amused. "I will warn you, my current preference for poetry is haiku."

[wickedwit]

“I meant later — half the pleasure of receiving a poem is imagining the lonely poet bent over a desk, so struck with longing it forces him to try and conjure your beauty in verse. But you have me intrigued. I’ve no idea what a haiku is, so it’s an enticement, not a warning.”

[papadopoulos]

"Oh, it's a Japanese form of poetry. Came around in --uh, the 1600s, I think? It's very simple, unrhyming, each line has a set number of syllables. Five, seven, then five again. They're fun, but a challenge to get right," he replies cheerfully, as though his haiku are not incredibly silly most of the time.

[wickedwit]

"As are most things worth doing," Claudius says with a cheeky smile. "Surely I'm worth it."

[papadopoulos]

"You?" He makes a teasing show of looking Claudius over. "I'll allow it."

[wickedwit]

"Allow it!" Claudius laughs, lightly grazing Apollo's shoulder with his fingertips. They're sitting close enough that they might officially be describing as cuddling. "I'm flattered by thy judgment, O Lord of Poetry. Thou knowest every poet needs a muse."

[papadopoulos]

Apollo certainly doesn’t mind cuddling with a handsome man. “True enough,” he says, grinning. “None of the Muses are here, though. How do you feel about donning a chiton and laurels?”

[wickedwit]

"For you?" Claudius makes a point of returning that up-and-down look, eyes raking over Apollo's scanty outfit. "I'll allow it."

[papadopoulos]

Apollo laughs, low and charming. "Good. I think you could pull it off."

[wickedwit]

“I’d rather you pull it off, when it comes to it. But,” he says, placing a hand to Apollo’s lips, “after you’ve written me poetry. I can’t have you thinking I’m a cheap date.”

[papadopoulos]

"Why ask for half-measures, then?" He grins, and shifts his weight just so, in a way that he knows looks particularly appealing. "Make it poetry and a song."

[wickedwit]

"Then serenade me," Claudius says, taking the offer with an excited smile, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes.

[papadopoulos]

Apollo grins, bright and sunny, and considers his song options. For a brief moment he thinks about singing SexyBack -- notably sung by the great bard Justin Timberlake; but perhaps another time. The vibes aren't quite right for that one. There are a lot of songs to peruse in one's mental categories after 4000 years of existence. Eventually, he settles on Don't Talk, a Pet Sounds classic. It is undoubtedly one of the greatest renditions of the song ever heard, but maybe don't tell Brian Wilson that.

[wickedwit]

It’s so charming — in Claudius’s opinion, anyway. Charming, and slightly ridiculous. He remembers flirting with even more ridiculous boys when he was younger, flattering their egos by comparing their voices to Apollo’s when they sang. “Thou sing’st so well,” he says with a laugh. “I have no one to compare thee to. I suppose I can do nothing but follow the words of thy ballad.” That said, he doesn’t talk, but puts his head on Apollo’s shoulder, making himself comfortable there.