The moment Apollo took Hyacinthus's hand, the world around them seemed to vanish.
The forest, the stream, the earth beneath his feet — all melted into golden light. Hyacinthus felt his breath catch as his body was lifted, his skin tingling with a warmth that radiated from Apollo's touch. They rose past the clouds, past the winds and stars, until the sky itself opened, revealing Olympus — the realm of the gods.
It was not a palace of marble and stone as poets imagined. It was a realm of light, movement, music. Trees shimmered with silver leaves, stars hung like lanterns in the sky, and the air pulsed with power.
Hyacinthus stood in awe. "This is… Olympus?"
Apollo smiled. "This is where I dwell. And tonight, it is yours too."
---
Apollo led him to a chamber bathed in firelight, its walls pulsing with divine energy. The space was intimate and vast all at once — a paradox only Olympus could hold. The bed was draped in linens soft as clouds, golden threads weaving through fabric that shimmered like sunlight on water.
Hyacinthus turned to Apollo, his heart thudding.
"I've never been with anyone like you," he admitted.
Apollo stepped closer, brushing a thumb across Hyacinthus's cheek. "You've never been with anyone like you, either," he said, voice low, eyes glowing. "A mortal born with the heart of a god."
Their lips met — slowly at first, tasting, learning. But the kiss deepened, and Hyacinthus felt himself burning, like sunlight was pouring into his chest. Apollo's hands moved with reverence, exploring, memorizing.
Clothes fell like petals, cast aside by trembling hands. Skin met skin.
Hyacinthus gasped as Apollo lowered him onto the bed. The weight of the god above him was not crushing but grounding — like lying beneath the sun itself, held in its warmth and gravity.
Their bodies moved with instinct and desire, the tension of days unspoken finally breaking like a wave.
Apollo's touch was tender, yet filled with centuries of knowing. He mapped Hyacinthus's body with kisses — to the throat, the chest, the hips — each one a wordless vow. Hyacinthus responded with equal fervor, fingers tangled in golden hair, legs wrapping around him, the air between them thick with breath and heat.
Time lost meaning.
There was only the moment — the rise and fall of their bodies, the joining of two beings born of different worlds. Moans mingled with music from unseen rhythm and filled the slight space between them.
---
Later, Hyacinthus lay with his head against Apollo's chest, the god's hand tracing idle lines along his spine.
"Why me?" he asked quietly. "Out of all the mortals… why did you come to me?"
Apollo kissed his temple. "Because you were not born to remain among them. You were born for the divine. You are a song the world cannot keep."
Hyacinthus closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek — not from sorrow, but from the unbearable beauty of it all.
He was no longer just a boy from Sparta.
He was a lover of a god.
And on this night, beneath the stars of Olympus, he had touched eternity.