igrab
in
grabi_hands
The Winner [Apollo/Hermes, Apollo/Pan, PG]
Title: The Winner
Author: igrab
Pairing: implied Apollo/Hermes and Apollo/Pan
Written For: soxdamnxcute, for a random number meme
Wordcount: 691
Rating: PG
Once upon a time, Apollo and Pan had had a contest, to determine who was the better musician. Apollo had won, and for the longest time, in his head, he would affix the word 'naturally' to the end of that statement, because he was above all the God of Music, and he had been for far longer than he'd been the Sun God. Pan had been something else entirely. Pan used music, the way politicians used words to get what they wanted. But history told, time and time again, that eventually the truth would out. It was his birthright.
Once upon a time, not quite so long ago, a man had shouted to the wind: The Great God Pan is dead.
Apollo hadn't believed him.
You couldn't kill an idea, he scathingly told whoever would listen, in tones of increased aggravation. Pan was his great rival, he was wildness and irrationality against Apollo's order and justice and all things well and good in the world. He was vile and he couldn't just die.
Hermes hadn't said a word, but he was trying to say something with that disbelievingly eyeroll, and Apollo just didn't get.
Once upon a time, less than a week ago, Apollo had watched from the sky as a slip-thin satyr with a shaking voice told his fat old superiors the exact same thing. The Great God Pan is dead.
His first reaction was indignant rage. We've been through this! he railed, slamming a hand on the steering wheel. Not only is it fake as hell, it's old news!
Hermes frowned and fiddled with the radio stations. He wasn't listening.
Apollo watched, as the fat old satyrs that he hated had almost exactly the same reaction as he did. He can't be dead, you're only a child, what do you know, yadda yadda yadda. He could feel a headache coming on, from sheer building rage.
"But what if he is?" a voice broke in.
Apollo froze. He turned, pinning Hermes with a withering look. A wounded look. "What?"
His face was carefully schooled to neutrality, but Apollo knew that only meant that what he was feeling was traitorous. "Apollo, think about it. Are there any truly wild places left anymore?"
He looked down at the country he flew over, almost every day. He loved America. As rampant as inequality and hypocrisy was, there was just as equal a force of righteous anger for the force of good, for justice, a people who had fought tooth and nail for freedom and a right to be human.
The wildness was in the people, now. It was in the cities and the justice system and the internet. The land was dying.
Apollo felt his throat close. "He can't be dead."
" 'Pollo, Grover wouldn't've gone all that way only to tell us a lie."
"They've lied before."
"Grover. Underwood."
"NO!!" It came out as a wrenched scream, torn from his throat without his consent. You don't understand, Hermes, he can't be dead. He can't be dead. If he's really dead then I'm alone and he can't be.
"You miss him," Hermes muttered, and it wasn't a question.
Apollo nodded.
The God of Communication blew out a sigh, and Apollo understood what it meant: well, finally.
"...Winning isn't really all that fun, actually," he whispered, and he sounded so lost and defeated that he actually despised himself, in that moment.
Hermes leaned over and put his arms around him. "I know, I know."
He did know. Apollo remembered what it was like - the precocious little snot of a child, making off with his cows just to prove that he could. But then he'd felt sorry, and made up for it, in the very best way possible. He'd understood, even at such a young age, that sometimes it was better to be friends than rivals.
Apollo let his head fall to the steering wheel, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I miss him so, so much."
Author: igrab
Pairing: implied Apollo/Hermes and Apollo/Pan
Written For: soxdamnxcute, for a random number meme
Wordcount: 691
Rating: PG
Once upon a time, Apollo and Pan had had a contest, to determine who was the better musician. Apollo had won, and for the longest time, in his head, he would affix the word 'naturally' to the end of that statement, because he was above all the God of Music, and he had been for far longer than he'd been the Sun God. Pan had been something else entirely. Pan used music, the way politicians used words to get what they wanted. But history told, time and time again, that eventually the truth would out. It was his birthright.
Once upon a time, not quite so long ago, a man had shouted to the wind: The Great God Pan is dead.
Apollo hadn't believed him.
You couldn't kill an idea, he scathingly told whoever would listen, in tones of increased aggravation. Pan was his great rival, he was wildness and irrationality against Apollo's order and justice and all things well and good in the world. He was vile and he couldn't just die.
Hermes hadn't said a word, but he was trying to say something with that disbelievingly eyeroll, and Apollo just didn't get.
Once upon a time, less than a week ago, Apollo had watched from the sky as a slip-thin satyr with a shaking voice told his fat old superiors the exact same thing. The Great God Pan is dead.
His first reaction was indignant rage. We've been through this! he railed, slamming a hand on the steering wheel. Not only is it fake as hell, it's old news!
Hermes frowned and fiddled with the radio stations. He wasn't listening.
Apollo watched, as the fat old satyrs that he hated had almost exactly the same reaction as he did. He can't be dead, you're only a child, what do you know, yadda yadda yadda. He could feel a headache coming on, from sheer building rage.
"But what if he is?" a voice broke in.
Apollo froze. He turned, pinning Hermes with a withering look. A wounded look. "What?"
His face was carefully schooled to neutrality, but Apollo knew that only meant that what he was feeling was traitorous. "Apollo, think about it. Are there any truly wild places left anymore?"
He looked down at the country he flew over, almost every day. He loved America. As rampant as inequality and hypocrisy was, there was just as equal a force of righteous anger for the force of good, for justice, a people who had fought tooth and nail for freedom and a right to be human.
The wildness was in the people, now. It was in the cities and the justice system and the internet. The land was dying.
Apollo felt his throat close. "He can't be dead."
" 'Pollo, Grover wouldn't've gone all that way only to tell us a lie."
"They've lied before."
"Grover. Underwood."
"NO!!" It came out as a wrenched scream, torn from his throat without his consent. You don't understand, Hermes, he can't be dead. He can't be dead. If he's really dead then I'm alone and he can't be.
"You miss him," Hermes muttered, and it wasn't a question.
Apollo nodded.
The God of Communication blew out a sigh, and Apollo understood what it meant: well, finally.
"...Winning isn't really all that fun, actually," he whispered, and he sounded so lost and defeated that he actually despised himself, in that moment.
Hermes leaned over and put his arms around him. "I know, I know."
He did know. Apollo remembered what it was like - the precocious little snot of a child, making off with his cows just to prove that he could. But then he'd felt sorry, and made up for it, in the very best way possible. He'd understood, even at such a young age, that sometimes it was better to be friends than rivals.
Apollo let his head fall to the steering wheel, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I miss him so, so much."