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]

"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.