Page 8 of Hercules

“Sorry, broha. Was just trying to loosen things up.”

But the apology? Actually possessing half an inflection of sincerity?

That did.

“Loosen?” Herc groused, finally falling into one of the thin-cushioned chairs at the front of Apollo’s messy desk. “And what the fuck is a broha?”

The guy’s mouth quirked a little as he ignored his chair behind the desk to choose the chair opposite Herc. “A mixture of a brother and a friend.”

“Oh.” Herc settled back, finding a new need to examine his feet. “Okay.”

“It’s what I was hoping to be when you first came to me.” And Apollo found a new fascination with the ends of his blowout. The colored tips nearly matched the buttermint green of his eyes, but he looked more troubled by his split ends than any need to preen. “That day, after everything went down with—well, you know—you were so…”

“For fuck’s sake,” Herc growled. “Would you get on with it?”

Finally the guy dropped his hair then cleared his throat. “Well, you terrified me. In ways I’d never known how to be. You were…pretty lost, man.”

Herc grunted as impatience fully flared. “Pretty ‘lost’?” What the hell with the therapy bullshit, anyway? “Apollo. Damn it. You’re not running for public office, dickhead, so stuff the diplomacy.”

“Fine,” the guy spat instead. “You were so fucked up. I thought I’d be watching you extract your own intestines with a pair of tweezers. How’s that for some blunt fun?”

Herc’s new grunt wasn’t nearly as satisfying as its predecessor. It preceded his slide forward until his elbows collided with the tops of his knees. “I know,” he muttered. “And I’m sorry you were the one who had to go through that.”

“Well, I’m not.” His stepbrother’s face was firm. “You came out of a nightmare spell, to confront the dead bodies of your beloved woman and your beautiful kids. And the memories of how you’d rendered them that way.”

Apollo pulled in a breath as if there was more to that, but instead swallowed his way into silence. Herc, suspecting that continuation was going to be an apology of the guy’s own, was grateful—and decided to state why.

“Regrets,” he bit out. “They’re such soul fuckers. Insanity shredders.”

Apollo stretched a hand across the one over Herc’s nearest knee. “Couldn’t have said it any better.”

“Hell you couldn’t have.”

“Now who’s finger painting with the diplomacy?”

“Not if it’s the truth.” Herc pulled his hand away. “That just makes the whole thing a photograph.” He cocked his head back, perusing the holes in the low fake ceiling. “A sad, pathetic thing in need of filters.”

So. Many. Filters.

As he was contemplating if ombre green and a splash of bokeh dots would make him look mysterious and moody or just plain pathetic, Apollo murmured, “It’s not getting any better, is it?”

Herc didn’t move. He already felt his stepbrother’s stare on the salty drops that slid from the corners of his eyes into his hairline.

Past his raspy throat, the confession finally leaked out.

“The fuckers are still there, broha.”

All of them were. Not just the regrets or the temptation to see if he could really pull out his innards with a tweezer. It was…everything. The horror. The shock. The vacillation between everything he still wished for and the reality that actually was. The truth of his last ten years still feeling so impossible. So much longer and harder.

For another long moment, Apollo was still. Well, as still as his dervish of a brother was going to get. “Even after all twelve Labors I assigned?” he finally queried. “You’re sure you’ve actually finished them?”

Herc gritted his teeth. That kept him from biting off the guy’s head. Literally, at least. “You want diary entries or something? Or recommendation letters and shit? I’m sure His Majesty Eurystheus would be willing to talk about what a great job I’ve—”

“Calm down. I believe you. I always have.” Apollo pushed back to his feet. “So now, as per the promise I made when you first begged for the Labors to take your mind off of Meg and the kids, you’re owed a home in the heavens with the other gods and me. Any preference about size or style? And when do you want to take the keys?”

“I don’t.” It took less than those two seconds to decide the words. To know their truth. “Can’t I just keep the place in the Underworld?” he persisted as the guy opted for a fresh frown. “I’m fine there. My stuff is there. Sometimes, Samael even lets Cerberus come over and romp with Deianira. It’s fine. It’s comfortable.”

“It’s in hell, you mor—” The guy interrupted himself with a rough sigh and a pair of fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Herc. Seriously. I’m having trouble understanding this. Ten years ago, you begged for a way to atone for what happened. In many ways, I even agreed with you. Despite that nasty spell, you picked up the bow and shot those arrows. So I sent you off to handle twelve feats that nobody else would touch. You were basically my cosmic whipping stick for ten years.”