#definitely much longer than a snippet but I'm justifying it by saying that it was two prompts in one 🤧

[gingermintpepper]

🌈 or 🌥️ (or both if you're feeling it)

EHEHE thank you very much for the ask! Gonna mix both prompts and give something soft with my favourite dialogue of this piece (and it's not even a wip actually, this is just a completed bit of writing I have on hand that I'm not really planning on doing anything with) which asks the question I'm pretty sure only I have asked: what if Apollo was the one to tell Heracles that he had to head to the Underworld after he'd lost Hylas during the Argo Expedition (also he consoles him a little).

"It'll never get easier, will it? This life."

Phoebus Apollo doesn't answer him. Before, Heracles would've blamed it on ego, the vanity of the gods who think themselves so much better than the mortals they yank about with their power. Now, Heracles thinks he's just a figment of his imagination, another twisted trick brought on by that bitch of the Heavens. The silence stretches on and on, only the sound of his digging and the quiet rustle of fabric fills the space between them. Were Hylas still here, he'd happily fill this stale air, nattering on and on about herbs or the colour of the fish in the lake, or the beauty of the stars between the treetops. Now, the silence is oppressive. Dense. Like the weight of water pushing all the air from his lungs.

Heracles quickly takes the bundle of Hylas' meagre things and throws it into the hole. Best not to dwell on it. Especially not when an Olympian was right beside him. (Maybe it's a good thing that this illusion is so placid. Gives him space to breathe. To think.)

He spits, picks up the flint. "Can't answer that one either? How about an easier question then," the sparks catch on the edge of Hylas' silk belt, quickly eating up the precious gift. Hylas only got to wear it once when they'd celebrated the night before the Argo set sail. He'd wanted to bring it home for his mother. "Was I also cursed to be alone for the rest of my life? It's not enough that she took my family, she's going to take everyone that treats me well too?"

Phoebus Apollo remains silent, fire turning his body warm gold. Heracles clicks his tongue, anger mounting. First Megara then Pholus and now Hylas. Man, woman, beast, it didn't matter at all, did it? All would die if they loved him. Everything would melt away like ash on his tongue and she would keep him alive just to see him squirm.

"Don't just sit there fiddling with your cloth damn it, answer me!"

Phoebus Apollo looks up then. Eyes so gold they seem to burn their own colour, calm brow, stern lips. This wasn't the playful god who refused to let him take his sister's hind without proving his worth, nor was it the distant prophet outlining the sentence for his crimes. This was someone, something else entirely and Heracles can only swallow his tongue in the face of it.

"Come," he beckons with the slightest tilt of his chin, "sit here." Heracles does. "You ask difficult questions. Ones I have no intention of answering." Slender fingers do not falter in their sewing. Heracles watches all the fine bracelets and rings jostle only slightly as the god makes his stitches. "For that, I must apologise."

Heracles snorts, dismissive and looks out into Hylas' fire, "You lot have never cared to inconvenience me before. What is one more disappointment to add to pile?"

A grim smile dances at the edge of his painted lips, "What, indeed."

"If you aren't here to answer my prayers, then you must have another errand for me." And doesn't that just make his blood boil? Even now, when Hylas' pyre has not yet burnt out, the gods still demand more from him, still drive him harder. He digs his nails into the tooth of the rock they share, hopes it is enough to keep him from laying hands on his divine slave-driver's throat and ripping it right out. "Make it quick. Even you must understand the rules of mourning."

Phoebus Apollo's smile widens. He ties off his thread and cuts the excess length with the side of his fingernail. "On the contrary, I've come bearing a gift." Unfurling the length of cloth reveals a gorgeous chamlys, etchings like constellations dotting its dark length and shimmering even in the firelight. "A gift and a word of warning"

Heracles swallows thickly, such rich cloth would surely need to be hidden from his cousins. "If you think a fancy cloak is enough to gloss everything over -"

A laugh, soft and musical. Lighter than Hylas' chuckles, sweeter even than Megara's hidden giggles. How dangerous. How lovely. "Alcides, be calm. I have nothing to hide and there is nothing you could possibly give to me. You already have my gratitude for not harming my offspring, it would please me greatly if you also accepted my boon."

"The cloth is hexed?" It feels no different from a usual chamlys, maybe just a bit softer. Phoebus Apollo laughs again, richer this time so that it resonates in the very base of Heracles' bones and sends little electric sparks shooting all across his body.

"Indeed. It will keep you hidden from the eyes of the Lord and Lady of the Underworld. Do take it with you when next you set foot in their kingdom."

A terrible chill slithers down his back. Hylas' fire pops. "What's the meaning of this?" And Heracles forgets himself, digs his hands into the lush fabric of the god's chiton and wrests him close, "You think it's funny delivering my funeral gown now? When Hylas' body hasn't even cooled?"

Phoebus Apollo hums, brilliant eyes gazing calmly up at him, "I think it should be a great boon if ever your spirit wishes to wander in the great fields of Asphodel should you make the trip."