Favorite Son

Perhaps I acquiesced too easily. In spite of my teaching him a lesson for once, he seems not to have learned truly. For many nights following our victory, I have allowed him to slake his lust upon my body whenever he wishes, and what thanks do I receive? Instead of treating me with respect and decorum, he has reverted to commanding me imperiously in everything.

And yet I must acknowledge that I want Hector to be commanding. I revere his masterfulness, his nobility, his gentle strength. Hands that have killed men – for but one reason: to guard those he loves – are hands that have touched me with love, even if he cannot bring himself to say as much.

So when he handled me roughly and called me a child after I had done something that I thought at last would make him proud of me, it was more than an ordinary mortal should have to bear. No regrets have I for striking back. He deserved it. If I apologized it was but to mollify him. Of a certainty the blow was more than made up to him later, although it may have been wiser to sleep apart from him that night.

And yet I need Hector as much as he needs me, and unlike him I am unafraid to own up to it.

But then, Hector has a great deal of trouble being reasonable. He foolishly and entirely without evidence feels that I have taken his place in our parents’ hearts. No amount of gainsaying on my part convinces him. Why can he not see that there is much love for all, that love of one does not preclude love for another? I wish Hector would take some simple pleasure in something in his life. He makes everything so difficult, when it need not be so. Moreover, he makes my life difficult, and that is hard to countenance.

Tonight it is my turn to make things difficult.

*** *** ***

I am still dressed quite magnificently when I leave the palace celebration, given in honor of Lycaon’s recovery, and return to Hector’s simple home. Therefore I sit on the broad carpet and not the floor of the main chamber, and I set a pitcher of wine and two goblets beside me, and also fresh bread and honey and olive oil. The tooled leather mat for our earlier game of lions-and-lambs still lays unrolled upon the carpet, and idly I take up some game pieces and roll the river-smoothed stones in my hand.

The outer door opens and I look up as Hector enters, then closes and bolts the door.

“I am tired, Paris, let us to bed now,” he says.

Oh, I think not, dear brother. “One game first,” I say aloud.

“Did I not speak?” He comes to the edge of the carpet and favors me with his most dictatorial look. “Were you even listening?”

I assess Hector’s outfit. I think my plan will work. “Just one game,” I say firmly.

“In the morning.”

“Now.”

“Paris…”

“Or you may sleep alone if you prefer.”

A sudden frostiness disturbs the air. To keep myself from wavering, I avert my eyes from his and begin to lay out the pieces on the mat. “You can be lions,” I say. A meaningless offer, for Hector always takes lions, but the best I could manage. His eyes are probably boring a hole in the top of my head. “Every time you capture a lamb I will remove one article of clothing, and when the game ends—“

“What?” Hector yells.

I risk a glance upwards. His face is turning red. “When the game ends,” I continue, “I will go to bed in that stage of undress, or perhaps fully clothed if you play badly.”

“Do you think this is a game to me, Paris?” he bellows. “Do you think I bed you for pleasure?”

“I think you bed me to control me,” I answer, lowering my eyes again and seething inwardly with the frustration that he seems able to engender in me without even trying. What other reason should one have but pleasure? I understand a great deal about Hector, but this strange refusal to accept pleasure for its own sake I will never grasp.

“The gods alone know who can control you,” Hector says. “Certainly not I.”

“You speak as though I try your patience on purpose.”

“Do you not?” His voice is quieter now.

Truly, I seem to possess an astounding propensity for wearing him down. It startles even me. And yet I see no reason not to take full advantage of it. I raise my eyes again and attempt the guileless appearance of a sweet-tempered younger brother. “If you will not allow me even this small thing—“

Hector heaves a giant sigh. “Very well, one game,” he says, seating himself opposite me on the carpet. “Never again let me hear you complain that I do not indulge you.”

Silly Hector. I always indulge him. Everyone indulges him, if he but knew. I pour him a goblet of wine, which he accepts with bad grace, rolling the bones and making his first move. As he drinks, I add: “And for each lion that is lost, you must remove one article of clothing.”

He sputters and nearly drops the goblet. “I shall not strip myself naked in front of you for sport,” he declares sternly.

“Then I suggest you play with care,” I respond mildly.

Hector snorts. “You may wish to take your own counsel, Paris, lest you find yourself chilled in short order.” He takes up the loaf of bread and tears off a large chunk, dipping it in the oil, watching as I take my move in the game.

We eat and play in silence for a time, and Hector stretches out and rests his head upon one hand. He is very good at strategy, yet the lambs are not without devious trickery on their side, and I am becoming more skilled at exploiting their attributes in this game. Hector is drinking the wine quite liberally, and Hector often becomes quite merry when he drinks, which is perhaps why it is widely reported that he avoids it before battle.

Even so, as the time passes I find myself removing my jeweled wrist cuffs, and the rope of beads from around my neck, and then one sandal and another. (Upon one loss I had tried to raise my hands to my hair to remove one of the ornaments, but Hector glared and I dismissed that gambit.)

I stretch full-length on the opposing side of the game and let my feet creep under the edge of Hector’s robe. It is still winter, after all. Hector uses one foot to push both my feet away.

“But I am cold!” I protest.

“Yes, indeed you are. Your feet are extremely cold and I have no wish to feel them upon mine. And after all was it not you who disdained the opportunity to go to bed?” he asks, making a move and removing another of my lambs from the mat. “Disdained it willingly, if I recall.” He looks up at me with a predatory smile, causing the dimples to appear.

The gods must have cursed me. By now surely I should have been able to make him remove some piece of clothing. Perhaps I can put my failure down to distraction over the sparkle of firelight in his beautiful hair, or the way his large hands engulf the small game pieces, or the sensuous curve of his lips.

“I am waiting, Paris,” he says in amusement.

“But then I will be even colder!”

“You insisted upon the game.”

True, I think bitterly to myself, yet I had not expected to be playing it this long. Somehow I thought that Hector would have lost control of himself long since and simply taken me. I grasp the edges of my tunic and pull it over my head and cast it upon the carpet, leaving nothing but the long skirt.

I am cold. I fold my arms across my chest and glower at Hector. And I notice that his eyes have turned smolderingly dark. “Hector?” I ask uncertainly.

With his broad forearm he sweeps the game aside and wrestles me to the carpet with swift moves, knocking my breath away for a moment. Bracing himself on one arm and trapping my legs between his knees, he leans over me, while his other hand trails down my chest and belly and pauses at the fastening to the skirt. Still hovering, but making no move to bring his lips close enough for a kiss, his hand works to undo the fastening.

I place my smaller hand over his to still his movement. “That you have not yet earned,” I say quietly.

Clearly taken aback, he pulls away and fixes me with a glare and a frown. But he is only goading me and the smile is lurking, waiting to break forth again, and for this I know I may thank Dionysus.

“Then you would prefer we finish the game,” Hector says calmly.

The game, the stupid game! What sort of fool was I, thinking that I might have a chance to win since he entered the house wearing only sandals and a single robe? I groan aloud in disgust at myself, and grab his big ears to yank his face down to mine and kiss him fiercely. He pushes back against me as hard and his tongue fills my mouth as he slants his head to kiss me more deeply. My hands tangle into his thick curls and pull at the bindings to release his hair, whereupon it falls in cascades around my head and I am overwhelmed with the scent and the softness of it.

Our mouths part when we need breath, and while I pant like a winded sprinter, Hector bites my throat. “Oh, Paris, Paris,” he whispers, licking the hollow place there and rubbing his beard against my nipple until I cry out. “Did I hurt you?” he asks anxiously.

I have no words. I can but shake my head unsteadily and caress his neck and run my hands beneath the sleeves of his robe to stroke his strong arms, while he kisses and licks my chest. His hand returns to the fastening of my last remaining garment, but this time I do not protest. It falls open and of a sudden Hector’s hand is warm and strong around my arousal.

“No,” I finally am able to gasp, “I want you first.”

That makes little sense but Hector comprehends, shifting his thighs apart. “Open your legs,” he instructs, and I draw my legs up and drape them over his thighs while he kneels over me. He grips behind my knees and pulls my body close until my buttocks rest against his lap and I feel absurdly exposed. But it does not appear to disturb Hector as he bundles my discarded tunic beneath my head and bends over me again to kiss my navel sweetly, while the wild waves of his hair brush along my belly and I nearly convulse from the sensation.

“Hurry, Hector,” I all but whimper.

“Be silent,” he commands me, yet his voice is very gentle. Closing my eyes, I give myself over to him, feeling his fingers opening my body, coated in the olive oil which remains mercifully nearby. Next he is deep inside me, and his hands are holding and guiding my hips as he strokes in and out of me. The sides of his robe sweep against me, for he has only opened it and not removed it, and it pools over my naked legs and keeps them warm.

My name – Paris – this is what I hear, whispered over and over. I turn my face into the bundled tunic, for I cannot bear just now to look upon my brother’s beauty. Something is happening inside my body, something which draws pleasure forth in a way so startling and unexpected that I shudder violently and, with no hand even touching me, I feel my own seed hot upon my belly and chest. Hector gasps and thrusts a final time, spending himself inside me.

There is silence and stillness, and my eyes open of their own accord. Hector’s head is still bowed and his hair obscures his face. His chest is heaving and his hands remain on my hips. Cautiously I reach with my hand and touch his, and his hand turns palm upwards and our fingers entwine.

“Paris,” he murmurs, still not looking up, “you are so very exquisite.”

From anyone but Hector, I would think that an insult or a taunt, but I can deny him nothing at all, as long as he continues to love me in this way.

He slips out of my body and disentangles our legs and rises, still with not a glance. For a moment I think I have misread him: that he is angry or distressed. But he reaches down and pulls me up and lifts me in his arms as though I am a maiden, and carries me to our bed where, while he snores, I contemplate the irony that it is Hector, and not I, who has gone to bed fully clothed.