Chapter Text
Persephone spares a glance over her should as she walks from the underworld to her mother's loving arms. Her eyes fix on Hades one last time before she steps out into the world, thawed yet bare, ready to make spring of it all.
Dionysus washes Ariadne's thighs after another Bacchanalia. He's already kissed up the dribbles of wine and all other kinds of Nectar from her chest and belly, but she is far too tired for him to use his tongue any lower. He whispers low praises, and she lays back, akimbo, no longer guarding herself.
Ares returns to Aphrodite's arms after a battle, still nearly shaking from it all. As usual, she envelopes him in an embrace of silken hair, velvety skin, and rosy perfume. He tells her lowly of his escapades as her fingers reach for his armor, and she does not have a negative word to say about any of it.
Eros is punctual now more than ever as he returns to his wife with a large bundle of flowers in his arms. Psyche receives both her husband and the blooms gladly, inhaling the scent of the floral arrangement as she took it with care. Her own wings, granted alongside her new immortality, flutter behind her as Eros leans in for a kiss.
Achilles presses his lips to Patroclus' temple, then his cheekbone, then his ear. Patroclus shivers and moves a strong hand to his back, tracing his known battle scars. They won't stop at this. But the stitches along Patroclus' back have prompted a new hesitance between them, and suddenly, for the first time, Achilles truly feels the difference between which of them is fully mortal.
Hyacinthus is as lovely a distraction as ever, while he runs gracefully to find a good angle before sending the discus flying through the air towards Apollo. The sun god catches it, stopping a moment to admire the beauty before him before throwing the discus back so the wind could carry it.
Penelope catches the red apple tossed her way with both hands, laughing at the satisfied expression on Odysseus' face. And again, as he declares they must get married all over again now that he's returned home. She humors him, relishing the light in his eyes that she had long worried was gone forever.
Zeus is back on Mount Olympus, not bothering to glance as he passes Hera. But the goddess he calls wife places an almost passive hand on his shoulder, sliding it up and closer to his collarbone. Tonight they will try again, tomorrow it will all be in vain. But it will not undo tonight.
Into Poseidon's arms, Amphitrite went. Faded tears washing away in the saltwater sea as his arms surrounded her. And in the respite from grieving, she feels him stroke her hair lightly. He is not perfect. Some days, he is not even good. Yet others, he's soft waves, consoling and holding. He is every sea, made small enough for her to press her lips to.