Morning arrived in silver mist and golden threads.
Hyacinthus stood alone in the palace garden, bare feet sinking into cool grass. Dewdrops clung to the petals of freshly bloomed narcissus and the sky blushed with the first warmth of sunlight. But none of it felt ordinary, not anymore....the memory of his lips lingered.
----
"Who was he?....a hunter?!", a stranger from the woods. But what kind of hunter vanished into thin air?
Hyacinthus felt his lips, "a hunter!", he whispered to himself. "But not even Artemis' hunters looked like him."
No one had ever made him feel that way. Not with a single kiss. Not with a single look.
High above the mortal world, Apollo sat alone on the edge of Olympus, his feet dangling over the clouds. He had shed the armor of divinity—his radiance dimmed, the fire of his form dulled into something that looked human. Mortal enough to be touched. Kissed.
He could still feel Hyacinthus's hands—unsure, trembling, curious. He hadn't told the boy who he was. Not because he meant to lie. But because for one fleeting evening, he had wanted to not be a god. He wanted to be just a man—to be seen not as divine, but desirable.
And Hyacinthus had kissed him not for the sun in his veins, but for the quiet hunger in his eyes.
It was terrifying. And beautiful.
---
That afternoon, Hyacinthus returned to the grove near the stream, hoping without admitting it. His steps were slower, his eyes scanning the trees. But the hunter did not come.
Instead, a new wind stirred the branches.
"Waiting for someone?" asked a smooth voice, floating on the breeze.
Hyacinthus turned to find a man standing behind him—tall, elegant, with hair like storm-tossed wheat and eyes the colored of a brooding sea.
"Who are you?" Hyacinthus asked, startled.
"I'm Zephyrus," the stranger said with a low bow. "A friend of the forest. The winds whisper to me… and today, they whispered about you."
Hyacinthus frowned. "You heard the wind speak my name?"
Zephyrus smiled, stepping closer. "They told me someone had stolen your thoughts. A hunter, perhaps? Mysterious. Golden. Dangerous."
Hyacinthus's cheeks flushed. He looked away. "I don't know what he was. He didn't even give me a name."
"Then maybe you should be careful," Zephyrus said softly, eyes narrowing. "The woods aren't always kind. And neither are those who pass through them."
---
By dusk, Apollo could wait no longer.
He descended again—this time wearing the same hunter's form: modest leathers, a bow over one shoulder, the glint of a half-smile on his lips.
Hyacinthus was sitting by the stream, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the sky. When he saw the figure approaching, his entire body straightened.
"You came back," he said quietly, heart thudding.
"I said I would," Apollo replied.
Hyacinthus stood, unsure. "You left so fast. I didn't even get your name."
"I'm called Leontes," Apollo lied gently. "A traveler. A hunter, sometimes. Mostly… someone drawn to beauty."
Hyacinthus's breath caught at the implication. "Why are you here?"
Apollo stepped closer. "Because I can't stop thinking about the way you kissed me."
The silence was instant, filled with the rushing of water and blood.
"I shouldn't have," Hyacinthus said, voice low.
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't even know who you were."
"Then let me fix that," Apollo said, and took his hand.
Their second kiss came without hesitation—slower this time, more certain. Apollo's fingers traced Hyacinthus's jaw, while Hyacinthus pressed into the warmth of his chest. There was no rush, only exploration—one moment unfolding into the next, like time had stilled for them alone.
When they parted, Hyacinthus looked up at him and whispered, "You feel like the sun."
Apollo smiled faintly. "Maybe that's because I've spent too long chasing it."