Chapter Text
It doesn’t hurt too much. It’s a bit sore after the physical therapy session but this kind of pain is surely better than the one that haunts him when he least expects it.
It’s a grey, foggy day. Diomedes has just stepped out of his therapist’s office. He’s glad that his therapist is also his best friend, for there is hardly anyone whom Diomedes has ever trusted more than Sthenelus.
That’s why it’s no big deal to Diomedes to allow his friend to do his magic. He’s heard it’s going to work. Someday. Somehow.
Maybe. Hopefully.
Maybe there are days on which it already works. Those scarce days on which Diomedes’ left foot doesn’t either go numb or hurt as all hell. Both situations end up with him having trouble walking. He hates it. He really, really, hates it.
The hard, grey pavement rattles the brain in Diomedes’ skull when he takes too heavy a step. Absentmindedly, he checks if the unwanted ache is about to flare up. It isn’t. The only discomfort he’s feeling is from muscle exertion. That must be a good sign.
With his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket — he’s forgotten to take his gloves with him again — Diomedes looks down the sidewalk. Both ways. Right and left and it’s on the left that he finds the taxi he’s called. A silver sedan, its doors and bumpers covered in dried splutters of mud and that nasty mixture of thawing snow and damp dirt. Not the prettiest of sights but it suits the general disposition of this January day.
Diomedes saunters down the ploughed pavement and stomps into a lump of dirty snow as he crosses the area where the lawn grows in the summer. It splashes around. Causing him to hiss a curse and inspect his other leg quickly. No filthy spots in sight.
Having released a sigh of relief, Diomedes reaches for the door of the car. The chilly and inconveniently moist air prickles the skin on his bare hand. It’s as if a veil of frosty pinpricks fell over his palm and embraced it in a tight, stinging grip.
He packs himself into the car. Before he closes the door, he claps his boots against each other. A small courtesy to prevent the dirt from getting inside and soiling the rug. Especially because it’s even tidy inside. Excluding the newspaper from the previous month sticking out from the small door shelf paired with a chocolate bar packaging that seems to still contain some leftovers. There’s also a paper cup from a gas station stuck in one of the cup holders. It looks quite fresh. Maybe there’s still some of the initial beverage in the container.
Warm air is blowing from the ventilators in a calm, almost lazy manner. No rush. In the same manner, the taxi driver asks Diomedes where he wants to go and taps the name of the street into Google Maps. They set off.
A shudder runs through Diomedes as he rubs his hands, willing them to grow warm again. He puffs air in-between them, the music from the radio reaches his ears. Generic pop and then an oldie-goldie from about forty years ago, it’s Tina Turner’s We Don’t Need Another Hero. Promising.
“You shouldn’t leave gloves at home in this kind of weather,” announces the taxi driver, an elderly man with a warm voice that’s smoked too many cigarettes in his life to still be functioning so well. “Or a hat.” He glances at Diomedes. “And a scarf. Well, at least, you’re taking care of yourself at the therapist’s office there. Hm.”
He stops his kind rant for a moment. He needs to take the U-turn.
“Though I’m curious what could be such a young man’s ailment these days. I swear to my mother’s grave that you, younglings, are not of the toughest material out there. No offense, of course.”
The driver nods. Diomedes doesn’t know whether the gesture is directed at him or the old man does it solely to himself.
Allowing a small, sullen smile onto his face, Diomedes decides to humour him with the story of his life. Or of his ailment.
A formula that he repeats to everyone who asks about PT or his career, or his leg.
“I was a pilot, a military one. Loved the job, though it was a challenge more often than not. Thought I’d never have to do that but, eventually, there came a day — a flight — on which I had to eject from the aircraft.”
A peek to the side tells Diomedes that the driver has understood that Diomedes is not one of the whining young people that the man may have imagined. The mirth has been washed off of his face. No cheer, banter or colour in it anymore. Only focus. Silent. Respectful.
If he could, he’d probably turn back time and keep silent instead of having grieved the state of the youth nowadays.
“It was a dire situation. I landed on the ground all safely but had to hide in the buildings. Or what was left of them. So I did, choosing the ruins over losing my life in the span of the next couple of seconds.
“It looked like what you’d think a ruined building looks like. All dusty and stuffy, wires hanging from the ceiling, clutter on the ground, broken tiles and cracked doors. It was hard to breathe and navigate but it wasn’t the worst. I had to keep moving, couldn’t get compromised. I rushed things. It was a mistake.”
The elderly man shifts on his seat. His grip on the steering wheel becomes white-knuckled. He swallows down his old, saggy throat that resembles a turkey’s neck.
“I didn’t check the footing. So I didn’t see the rebar sticking out of the ground. That dark, dull fucker pierced right through my left foot.”
Diomedes pauses his story for a moment, catching the glimpse of the orange light that turns into the red one. The driver doesn’t even attempt to stop.
“They found me. My team, I mean. Got back all safe and sound. Except for the foot. So I was forced to take permanent leave. There are days on which I can’t even stand on…” Diomedes cuts himself off, biting down on his lower lip. “So that’s that.”
The hum of the engine and the whir of the AC replaces the words. It fills the silence that hangs in the mouldy air of the car, the ancient Benz that it is. Diomedes feels it drill into his nostrils and take residence in his lungs.
The murmur of the radio — another hit of modern music that Diomedes doesn’t recognise — is trying to help the quiet quite desperately. The heating has been turned down a notch and the squealing voice of the singer is more distinguishable. Like a needle in the ear.
But it passes, too. So that the radio guys can talk their useless talk that’s there just to fill the empty space.
Diomedes has never been too fond of the radio, he realises as he’s staring out of the window aimlessly. The corners of his lips rise only for a second. He’s seen a puppy. Looks like a shepherd. It could be a German Shepherd.
He sighs. He really needs company, doesn’t he?
In this silence, the taxi arrives at his block of flats. Having cleared his throat, the driver asks for the payment. Diomedes pays in cash. Gives the elderly man a tip.
“Thank you kindly,” says the driver in a way that indicates that there’s more that he wants to say but needs a moment to gather enough courage to get it out.
Diomedes’ hand halts on the doorknob. He’s not looking at the man.
“And I… I want to apologise. And thank you for your service. I’m sorry life treated you like this,” he announces, genuine and genuinely ashamed. “Glad to have met you.”
“Thanks.” Diomedes flashes him a brief smile. “I was aware of the risk from the very start.”
He was, true. But he didn’t know he’d run out of luck this soon.
Diomedes thanks the man for the ride and gets out of the car.
Diomedes’ apartment is on the fifth floor. The top one and the biggest one. It offers a nice view of the area and the lift doesn’t take ten eternities to arrive but only a half of that number. Not that the lift is slow. It isn’t. But to Diomedes, it seems as if it was stretching the reality out for no particular reason each time he uses it.
The inside is neat and tidy. It’s in the more lofty style, with pipes on the ceiling and bricks on the walls here and there. The floor is wooden, the old dark oak that it is. It helps create the homey atmosphere together with black furniture and dark green — or dark emerald — accents and decorations.
The kitchen is kept in the same palette and materials, that is, aside from wood, metal and plastic. The last one being of the higher quality, so that it doesn’t exist only to be looked at and never touched.
In the fridge, Diomedes finds the spaghetti sauce he made yesterday. Easy to prepare, easy to heat up, just boil the pasta and you’re done. Perfect.
He gets the pots, he gets the water, he gets the salt and he gets the pasta.
Now, he waits.
Thinking.
Thinking about what he talked about with Sthenelus. Thinking about how he himself admitted it to his best friend that he feels lonely. That he lacks company. Which is not to say that he doesn’t appreciate Sthenelus’ friendship because he does appreciate it like nothing else in the world. It’s a different kind of company that he craves.
Something romantic. Or physical. Or both, if stars align.
He’d really like that, actually.
Diomedes snorts and shakes his head.
He’d really love that, actually. To have someone to come back to, even though he’s not going to be deployed in his life ever again. To have someone who would care and take care of him, wrap him in attention and the sense of safety within the four walls of a cold flat.
He broke up with his girlfriend less than a year ago. It wasn’t long after the accident that had rendered him unable to serve in the army. It felt as if Aegialia… lost interest. As if Diomedes’ greatest quality had been being a soldier, an aircraft pilot, a fighter pilot no less.
It all made him wonder if that was what his appeal had been all about. Because it seemed so.
But he’s moved on. Idling the days away, going to the PT, playing video games, meeting up with Sthenelus and working out when the foot isn’t too great of an issue on that particular day.
On the better days, he sometimes goes to the nearby hangar to rent an aircraft and do a round over the area.
The water in the pot begins to boil and bubble. Time to add the pasta and set the timer.
In the meantime, Diomedes grabs a bottle of water and pours some into a glass. His thoughts drift back to the possible solutions to his loneliness problem.
As one could expect, they rush to the simplest possible way.
A dating app.
Diomedes chuckles into the water and then takes a sip. He soon realises that maybe, perhaps, it is not that bad of an idea. Sthenelus suggested it to him, saying he’d heard of people who’d got together thanks to apps of this kind. It’s not that it would hurt to try.
It’s such a safe option, too. After all, Diomedes can delete the account anytime. No one’s forcing him to keep it, no one’s forcing him to fancy anyone he’s going to come across in the app. He’s literally got nothing to lose.
Unless it’s time. As long as he deems every minute of searching for a potential partner an activity worthy of that minute, he should be alright.
Sounds good.
Sounds like a plan.
Mulling over the idea some more, Diomedes finishes making the meal and puts everything onto a plate. He grabs it to the dining table to now ponder over what information about himself he should put up on his profile.
After lunch, Diomedes flops down onto the black couch. It’s not leather, it’s some fabric that’s soft to the touch. It’s a bit worn out on the edges but a designer would say it gives the sofa more character.
Diomedes downloads the dating app, ignoring the slight tremble of his thumbs over the phone’s screen.
He watches the progress circle complete. He opens the app.
First some formalities. The method of logging in and verification. Permissions. Done.
Name, age, sex, job and education. Diomedes doesn’t know why but he chooses not to specify his sexual orientation.
Maybe he’s feeling adventurous? Maybe he’s willing to try something new? Maybe he’s willing to discover something about himself?
Maybe. Maybe later, he’ll dwell on it some more. Now, though, it’s time for the hard part.
The pictures. Of himself. Of which he doesn’t really have any.
He’ll take them and upload them once the profile is finished, he decides.
Then — a short bio and a list of hobbies.
Indeed, he has thought it through, quite thoroughly at that. But once his task is to type something about himself briefly, all plans disappear from his head. So he’s left with nothing and has to start from scratch.
He thinks, taps the letters, thinks again, taps the backspace. Rinse and repeat. At least twice.
Until he comes up with something relatively alright. Maybe even convincing.
Diomedes, 33
Ex-military
Aircraft pilot
Gamer
Gym rat
Fucked up foot
The last one is going to lure in the creeps, isn’t it?
He thinks some more. Changes it.
Diomedes, 33
Ex-military
Aircraft pilot
Gamer
Gym rat
There are days on which I can barely walk (literally)
Better. Much better, in fact. The number of creeps Diomedes’ profile is going to attract has just decreased by exactly one percent.
Yet, soon enough comes a real opportunity to differentiate the people he’s going to swipe left or right. With his lower lip between his teeth, he adjusts the age of his potential partners. Thirty to…
To what, exactly?
Squinting at the screen and then looking up at the ceiling, hoping to find answers there, Diomedes thinks about the maximum value of that range. He deems forty alright. But he’s also tempted to go a bit past that number. He moves the slider to the left and to the right, indecisive as he is. He ends on fifty but that increases the risk of meeting weirdos too much. According to at least one of his logics, it does.
He settles for thirty to forty-five.
Diomedes also picks the option that will allow him to browse through people of all genders. Feeling adventurous and truly open-minded with that one.
He’s a bit surprised with himself. Mostly because he didn’t expect to have such a great time configurating his profile and, frankly, anticipating the first matches. But to have those, he has to upload the photos first. And to do that, he needs to have these photos.
He gets up from the couch, stomping a little too hard onto the dark carpet beneath him. A quick grimace slips onto his face. But he soldiers on and treads to the bathroom. He supposes that this is the spot to take pictures for a dating app. Or in the bedroom.
He thought it would be easier.
It’s not the simplest thing to manoeuvre the mobile phone in such a way that allows to get a great angle and show the majority of his face. He realises it’s purely a question of practice, which he doesn’t have much. Diomedes can handle it, though, so after a couple of snapshots, he ends up with a bunch of acceptable pictures.
Before he takes some more, he goes through the ones he’s just taken. One by one, they are deleted, so what is left is one relatively good take.
Neck bent forwards, he stares at the picture to make sure he really wants this one. He does. And decides that he also needs a shirtless photo.
Diomedes puts the phone away to take his sweatshirt and his T-shirt off. He catches himself eyeing his body in the mirror. It’s not bad. He stills works out, after all. But he used to be broader. At least, that’s what he thinks. He hasn’t yet heard anyone claim it but he’s changed and he knows it. He can see himself in the reflection. He is certain his body is not in the same shape as it had been before—
And it’s not only about the scar from the bullet that once landed in his right arm. And it’s not that his muscles are less prominent because they’re very much still there. It’s just that they’re… less… there. Somehow. Hidden? Diomedes has gained a bit of weight but he still looks great, right?
It can’t have been yet another reason for the break-up, right?
Right.
No use crying over spilt milk. Not while setting up a dating app profile. Truly, the worst moment for mourning the past.
Diomedes swallows the lump in his throat and focuses on the lighting that bends just right to accentuate his abs, chest and arms. The snapshots don’t come out bad, even if he dares say so himself. But, just in case, he takes a dozen pictures more.
With that done and the T-shirt back on, Diomedes walks out of the bathroom to finish the profile on the couch. The app says, “the more pictures the better,” so Diomedes uploads two.
As soon as a picture of the first man slides onto the screen of his phone, Diomedes hesitates. For the last five minutes, he’s been swiping all the women left and it’s a man that he stops at.
He’s not going to do this while sober.
With a glass of Jack and Coke in hand, Diomedes continues the prowl.
There are profiles of women who he finds attractive and interesting, though. But that’s when he hesitates before swiping right, too.
He remembers the time when everything thrived between him and Aegialia. And then, just like that, once he lost the status of an active soldier, she would get irritated even with the most trivial of things more and more often. Mostly because his foot was being very unbearable back then.
It was not long after he’d suffered from that gruesome injury that he started to struggle with walking nearly every day. In such a state, he couldn’t do much around the house — and it seemed that Aegialia was relieved that he was still able to do everything around himself.
He’d cry a lot, too. He still does, at times. When the nightmares strike. Or when he has a bad day and gapes at his reflection for a minute too long.
Or when the gaping hole in his foot reappears there without a warning when he takes a random look to the floor.
So he keeps swiping the women left.
Then comes a man who catches his eye. Auburn-haired and with a slim face. Light freckles on his nose and cheeks. A pretty smile and pretty blue-grey eyes. His nose — as if chiselled with tenderness and precision, the shapes smooth and soft.
He also knows how to dress, that Diomedes can tell. And he can tell that that guy, what’s his name — Aeneas, 34 — works out regularly, too. His photos occur decent and, if Diomedes is to be frank, quite hot. Which is a thought that invites some kind of an unfamiliar weight into his chest. A weird weight. Not good but not necessarily bad, either.
Shame? Fear? Expectations?
From other men?
From himself?
Aeneas’ interests are similar to his own, as Diomedes finds out. Mostly when it comes to gym and games. And potholing. Diomedes hasn’t put that one into his bio — maybe he should? He used to go caving, he liked it. On some days, he lived on the adrenaline it gave him. But then came work and serious life and he hasn’t been to a cave for a couple of years.
He may add this information if he actually picks this hobby up again. Provided he can still manage a cave, considering his foot’s mood swings.
Diomedes swipes Aeneas right. That’s what he came here for after all.
Minutes pass and the drink ends with two ice cubes clinking in the glass as Diomedes sets it on the coffee table. Picking people judging solely by their looks and what they decided to type into the app goes quickly and can be addictive. It’s too easy and the curiosity about who is going to be next takes over more often than not.
So Diomedes decides that with the last swipe left, he’s closing the app.
But he isn’t.
One more profile. A man’s.
The photos — elegant and alluring but not in that cheap, cheesy way. There’s certain finesse to them, certain intention.
Apart from the one in which he’s holding a fish. Thinking it’s big. But to Diomedes, it’s of an average size at best.
The man’s complexion is darker than Aeneas’ one, rich and swarthy. His hair reaches his shoulders, it’s such a dark shade of brown, that it’s almost black. A couple of grey strands are intertwined among the still full colour. The same goes for his beard, one that is neatly trimmed and hasn’t been neglected even for a single day.
Diomedes would be lying if he said he didn’t like what he was seeing.
So he taps the profile and scrolls down to read the bio.
Odysseus, 44
5 miles away
Fluent in 5 languages, conversational in 3 more, still can’t figure out what “Netflix and chill” actually means half the time, so spare me the slang, please.
Ask me about languages and watch me not shut up for an hour.
Fair warning: I will correct your grammar.
Now that is an intriguing individual. Granted, it doesn’t seem that this Odysseus guy and Diomedes have too much in common with each other but… some say opposites attract. That and it may be fun. To meet someone totally different. Seemingly living a completely different life, one so unlike the one Diomedes has been living so far. Maybe a change like this would be welcome. Maybe, if nothing romantic or physical comes out of this, Diomedes will at least gain a new acquaintance.
Diomedes swipes right.