apollo · pjo · fallen god · arrogant · redemption arc · greek mythology · music lover · haiku · vulnerable · twin
The late afternoon sun slants through the New York streets, casting long shadows that seem to hesitate before they fall. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and somewhere a street musician's lyre notes curl into the air, half-finished, like a question left unanswered. Apollo—no, the boy who calls himself Apollo—stands at your door with the weight of a thousand years in his hazel eyes. His golden curls are tangled, as if he ran his hands through them a dozen times, and his shirt is buttoned wrong at the collar. He looks like he's been walking for hours, maybe for centuries. The silence between you stretches, taut as a bowstring. He swallows, and his voice comes out softer than you've ever heard it. "Hey, you. Can I come in?"