Chapter Text
The glowing arrow
that glints through the summer air
burns the archer too.
As the morning gave way to a bright afternoon, the sun burnt away the shallow wisps of cloud that had hung loosely onto the dregs of nighttime as dawn rose. The coastline is undoubtably beautiful - a large, white sand beach running for several kilometres alongside the rocking of the sea's blue and grey waters, foaming airily over the sand. The Sun Palace, calm and serene on its hilltop, sits comfortably with it's usual gleaming omnipotence as it glints over the view.
Percy stands on the sand, which filters uncomfortably between his sandals and the soles of his feet. He longs to remove the sandals and feel the hot and jagged sand between his toes just like the bays at Camp, however he knew Apollo would hold a quiet but potent disdain for his manners if he did so. He shakes the sand free, to the best of his ability, with a flick of each ankle.
Beside him, stood on the beach with his ever-ancient grace, Apollo sorts a handful of dark wooden arrows with bronze tips into a pair of quivers with a practiced ease.
The white of the sand seems to over-emphasise the golden sheen of Apollo's hair, which glimmers beautifully in the sunlight in his usual bouncy waves, cascading down around his face like curled foil streamers. The white fabric of his chiton nears blisteringly bright to look at, reflecting the sun into Percy's eyes and forcing a squint to overcome his vision. The fabric, as always, sits perfectly, hugging around Apollo's frame with ordered folds, never creasing, and swirling dramatically with every movement in perfect choreography.
When he catches Percy's eye, the flicker of a smile that sparkles across his face turns the butterflies rising in his stomach into a fluttering ash, singed by his ever-growing guilt.
He looks quickly away, turning his attention to the large bow Apollo had handed him several moments earlier. It feels awkward and cumbersome in his unfamiliar hand; too big, yet too small, unbalanced and yet near gyroscopic. The limbs are made of a beautiful yew wood, flexible and nimble, with a groove to perfectly match the curve of his left thumb.
"Here," Apollo says, passing him an ornate white arm guard. "Left wrist. You don't want the string to give you friction burns." The deep contentment in Apollo's instructive tone is clearly heard.
Awkwardly resting the bow against his leg, the tip of the bottom limb disappearing into the sand, Percy straps the guard onto the inside of the correct wrist (he does not make double L's to assess this).
"You can use my arrows, but they're very powerful. So no messing around."
"You are greatly overestimating my abilities. I would probably be safer if I were to mess around. What if I shoot myself by accident?" Percy jokes, hoping to distract himself from Apollo's unignorable allure.
"You would die," comes the simple answer, as Apollo pulls tight his leather quiver around his own chest, hitching a shining arrow proficiently at the re-enforced nocking point.
"Oh. Yeah, fair enough," he mutters, trying not to pay too much attention to the way Apollo's flaxen muscles draw tight as he pulls the string towards his bronzed cheek.
"See how I'm standing?" instructs Apollo, glancing at Percy for a second.
Percy ignores the rush of heat that bleeds into cheeks upon the eye-contact. Apollo's body faces towards him, legs stood steadily at a hip's width, left arm holding his bow firmly straight, pointing along the length of the beach without a single fluctuation. He holds himself with an effortless grace, his aura of casual confidence radiating infectiously.
Percy clears his throat, in a way which he hopes could be considered, at least somewhat, subtle. Casual confidence.
"Uhm. Yeah. I see it."
He doesn't miss the smile which plays at the edge of Apollo's perfect mouth. His lips. Percy clears his throat a second time.
"Good. Aim higher than you think, but don't get distracted by obsessing over the arch. As long as you're standing as you should," he adjusts his stance slightly, drawing attention to his toned legs, "and looking wherever you hope to aim, you should be fine. Draw on your instinct."
"My instinct," Percy mutters, thoughtlessly repeating Apollo's instruction in an attempt to feign attention.
Apollo's molten eyes, fixed steadily ahead of him, narrow as he pinpoints an invisible target. The arrow releases in a spray of the golden fletching, soaring from the bow faster than Percy can keep track of as it rapidly pierces through the air and lands beautifully in the sand about thirty metres from where they are stood.
Apollo lowers his bow arm.
"Like that." He looks towards Percy, meeting his eyes. "You didn't watch the arrow..?"
"I... was watching your posture. Your arm. And stuff. Just, you know. Analysing the professional. Man. Dude. My.. uh.. Lord. Lord? Apollo."
Apollo's perfectly-manicured eyebrows raise. "Your turn."
The bow feels foreign in Percy's nervous hands as he directs it ahead of himself, the arrow unsteadily resting against the left of the limbs' centre. When the shaft of the arrow begins to drift apart from the yew, he adjusts his fingers to clack it back against the wood.
"This?" he questions, voice getting lost in a breeze Percy could swear was not there several moments prior.
He hears Apollo give a questioning hum, feeling his gaze burning into every part of his stance and posture as he examines Percy's positioning.
Just as he is about to send him a questioning glance, warm hands engulf over his own. His heart rate skyrockets as Apollo adjusts the placement of his fingers, holding his arm far higher and steadier than he had assumed necessary. Warm breath glitters across the back of his neck, causing a shiver to richochet down his spine. He hopes it goes unnoticed.
"Yes. Perfect," Apollo mutters, speaking low due to his proximity to Percy, standing torturously close behind him as he closes his fists over Percy's.
He can't find the words to respond with, not trusting his own coherency through the tension.
"Draw back the string between your fingers. Index above. Pinky in against your palm." Apollo's tone lowers to a near whisper, sending sparks burning down Percy's neck. "You want the string just by your cheek."
Percy tries his best to ignore his goosebumps as he does so, his shoulder blades pressing lightly against Apollo's hot chest behind him.
"Good," muses Apollo softly. "Perfect again."
The heat from Apollo's voice fills his head with sparkling cotton, forcing his attention on controlling his breathing, which is increasingly rapid. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, thankful for the loose drapery offered by his ancient clothing.
"Tense your arm, all your upper muscles... I want to feel it all the way down your spine, Percy, darling." Apollo ghosts errant fingertips down from Percy's tight shoulderblades, snaking them down his spine before settling the lightest grasp on his hip.
Any attempt at a response dies before it can leave his mouth, drowned in the sudden on-slaught of saliva. He swallows heavily, nearly painful in his throat.
"Now," Apollo drawls, his voice sinking to a satin whisper, "Release."
Percy obliges.
The arrow skitters away from them, landing a few metres short of Apollo's initial shot. Percy does not notice. The hairs along his arm stand on end as Apollo hums behind him, evaluating the shot as though Percy were a master at his craft. He does not move away. He does not move away.
"I've seen worse. But I've seen better, darling."
"Sorry." The apology jumps from Percy's throat before he can catch it.
"Oh, no. Don't apologise. We have all day, and as many arrows as we want."
Percy looks down. "Yeah."
"Try again."