Page 9 of Hercules

The ceiling tiles were vastly interesting again. At last he countered, “It wasn’t hard enough.”

Apollo spread his fingers out, dragging the skin beneath his closed eyes. “What?”

“You heard me.” Herc threw his elbow over his own face, struggling to shield the tears that stabbed all over again. Apollo had already seen them once. Revisiting this shit felt stupid and useless. “I—I’m not done. I can’t be.” A Sisyphus-sized stone dropped down his throat. “I still see them, Apollo. Meg. The boys. They won’t let me sleep. Or rest. I…I can’t rest.”

His sibling’s long pause was telling. Perhaps the boulder had made its way to Apollo too. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“What’s going on?” Herc gritted out. “Why hasn’t this worked, damn it? You said this would lift the weight. That at the end, I’d be ready to demand that you move out of your place to make room for me in the clouds.”

“I know. I remember.” But the asshole stopped there, pitifully short of the apology that Herc expected. Instead, he murmured. “I wonder…”

“What?” He didn’t shift his arm but at least cranked down the emotional spigot.

“I gave you twelve Labors to fulfill.”

“Of which I’m well aware,” he groused.

“But perhaps thirteen is the magic number.”

This time, he lowered his arm all the way. He also let Apollo witness his reaction—not a huge sacrifice, as his stepbrother clearly shared it. They were both comparing their intellects to the size of cane toads.

Thirteen.

One of the most revered numbers to their realm and many others. The sum that symbolized ultimate power, divinity…and completion.

But Herc couldn’t wait for all that to sink in. At once, he leaned over, impaling Apollo with new demand in the muscles that strained against his clothes.

“All right. You got anything more that needs handling?”

He didn’t care what. From mucking Augeas’s stables to slaying nine-headed hydras, he’d seen and done it all. No way could Polo Pony hit him with something shittier.

One more Labor.

That had to be the answer. His lucky number thirteen, ready to forever absolve him of his guilt-darkened days and silent, sleepless nights.

But that hopeful surge was wiped out by Apollo’s hesitant expression.

“It’s okay,” he forced himself to say. “If you don’t, I’ll wait.” As long as it took.

“Ermmm. That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” Herc’s brows pushed together. “Spit it out, pony boy. I’m ready.” Fuck, was he ready. “I just need to swing by home, change into better gear, and grab a few weapons. Give me an hour and—”

“Oh, that’s really not it.”

“Eh?”

Apollo deliberated so long about continuing Herc nearly threatened to go grab some tweezers and use them on the guy’s own guts. Finally, after a long inhalation, it appeared the god had found his senses—and words.

“There’s a string missing from my lyre.”

At first, Herc gave up nothing but a pair of what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about blinks. Halfway through the second one, all the gears in his brain decided to function.

“Wait. The lyre?” Because his stepbrother needed serious therapy about how avidly he collected lyres. But Apollo’s expression was too somber for anything except… “The one Hermes gave you?”

The god tersely dipped his head. “It was cut free from the frame on purpose.”

“So you mean stolen.”