Back at the Start (02)

He doesn't dare to look back at you as he asks, "Can this be our place, Jewels? I... know it's a lot to ask."

Kastor goes quiet, his hands tightening just slightly on the tiller as he adjusts their course. He doesn't look at you right away, his eyes fixed on the horizon instead, on the soft shimmer of the Aegean in the late afternoon light. You feel it - the shift, the way something inside him folds in on itself. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t press, just nods once. "Our boat, then," he says, but the words lack their usual warmth.

The silence stretches between you, and for the first time since you pulled him into your arms, it feels like there’s distance again. Not a chasm, not yet, but a step backward.

Kastor steers toward the mainland, but not back to the village where you fought the cyclops. He keeps his gaze forward, his expression unreadable, and after a while, you recognize the distant silhouette of Mykonos emerging from the waves. The air between you is heavy, charged with words unsaid, but Kastor doesn't speak again. Not yet. Instead, he focuses on the boat, the rhythm of the sea, as if trying to steady himself with the motion, with the task at hand.

What do you do?

Kastor exhales, his grip on the tiller loosening slightly as he glances over at you, the tension in his jaw easing just a little. "Yeah," he says, rubbing a hand over his face before resting it on his knee. "But I've been thinking about taking the next step."

He looks out at the shore ahead, the golden light casting a warm glow over the buildings of Mykonos, before continuing, "It was good for me. Better than I expected, honestly. I liked the rhythm of it, you know? The schedule, the training, the games. Just... playing." His lips curve slightly, the first hint of something lighter breaking through.

Then he shifts, adjusting the sail, and his expression turns thoughtful. "I’ve been talking to some people. A couple of agents have already reached out. Nothing set in stone yet, but I think I’m gonna declare for the MLB draft." He lets out a short breath, as if saying it aloud makes it more real. "I want to see how far I can take this."

He finally looks at you fully now, searching your face like he's trying to read something in your expression. "I don’t know if it’ll work out, but... I have to try, right?" There's something open, almost vulnerable in the way he says it, like he's letting you in on a part of himself he hasn't shared with many. The boat rocks gently beneath you as you take it in - the quiet ambition in his voice, the way his fingers flex restlessly on the wood, the hope he hasn’t quite let himself hold onto fully yet. And you realize, in this moment, that he’s letting you see the version of him that dreams.

You reach the docks of Mykonos amid the many sailors and fishermen. Kastor lets out a soft chuckle as he ties off the boat, the corner of his mouth tugging up in something warm, almost boyish. "You, in my jersey?" He shakes his head, amused, but there’s something deeper in his eyes - something that flickers between pride and longing. "That might be the hottest thing I've ever heard."

He steps onto the dock and reaches up to help you off the boat, his hands firm around your waist as he lifts you just enough to steady you. When your feet touch solid wood, he doesn’t let go right away. Instead, his fingers linger, and he watches you closely. "I don’t want to be away from you, either." He exhales, like it’s hard for him to admit. "But... if I do this, if it works, I want you to be part of it. However that looks." His thumb brushes absently against your side before he finally drops his hands. The sounds of Mykonos hum around you - gulls crying, water lapping against the docks, distant laughter from a tavern up the hill.

What do you do?

Kastor’s expression shifts, his mouth curving slightly as he hears the name Acapulco. There’s something nostalgic in the way his eyes flicker with recognition, like he’s just been pulled back to that first date - back to the easy laughter, the teasing, the way neither of you knew then just how complicated things would become. Maybe even the diablo chicken.

"You need to go anyway, huh?" he muses, rolling his shoulders like he’s pretending to weigh his options. Then he smirks. "Well, if you’re making the trip… might as well make it a date, right?" His fingers flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you in right here on the dock, to press his forehead against yours and remind you just how much he wants this.

"Unless," he adds, tilting his head, "you’d rather stay here and let me wine and dine you Greek style. We could find some hole-in-the-wall spot with the best souvlaki you’ve ever had. And then maybe sneak back to the boat for a nightcap." There’s heat in his voice now, a challenge wrapped in suggestion.

Kastor’s grin spreads slowly, like he’s savoring the moment before responding. He takes a step closer, brushing his knuckles along the back of your hand, a casual touch that sends warmth curling up your arm. "Wining and dining it is," he says, his voice rich with amusement. "Hope you’re ready for the best damn meal of your life."

He calls over to a local fisherman tying his boat to the dock. In fluent, confident Greek, Kastor asks for a recommendation, exchanging a few words and a laugh before turning back to you. "I’ve got it," he announces. "There’s this family-owned taverna tucked away nearby. No menu, no gimmicks - just whatever’s fresh and made with love."

The two of you walk through winding cobblestone streets, Kastor’s hand finding the small of your back as he guides you past whitewashed buildings and colorful bougainvillea spilling over terraces. You reach To Spiti Tou Psara - The Fisherman’s House - a small, cozy taverna nestled in a quiet alley. Lanterns sway in the salty breeze, and an older woman waves you inside with a warm smile.

The owner - a broad-shouldered man with silver-streaked hair - ushers you to a table on the terrace, overlooking the water. "You eat what I bring you," the old man says. Kastor clearly enjoys the old-school hospitality, and nods.

Dishes arrive in waves: a bright, briny Greek salad with slabs of fresh feta, drizzled with olive oil so rich it tastes almost buttery. Grilled octopus, charred and tender, paired with a squeeze of lemon. A plate of soutzoukakia - fragrant meatballs bathed in cinnamon-spiced tomato sauce. And then the star of the night - freshly caught sea bass, perfectly grilled, filleted at the table and drizzled with garlic and olive oil.

Kastor watches you take your first bite, his eyes darkening just slightly when he sees your reaction. "Told you," he murmurs, lifting his glass of wine. "To good food, and good company."

At first, the family treats you like any other guests - warm but matter-of-fact, focused on delivering good food with no pretense. But as the meal goes on, something shifts. The older woman who first greeted you lingers just a moment longer when refilling your wine, her gaze softening as she studies your face. The man who filleted the fish murmurs something quietly to Kastor before giving you a respectful nod, as if he suddenly understands who you are.

Whispers pass between the servers, reverent but restrained. It doesn’t take long for you to realize what’s happening - they know. Or at least, they suspect. These are people who honor the gods, who know the weight of divine blood when they see it.

By the time dessert arrives - loukoumades, golden honey-soaked pastries dusted with cinnamon - the matriarch of the family, the older woman, finally speaks directly to you. She approaches the table with careful grace, her hands folded over her apron.

"You honor us with your presence, kore tis Kirke*," she says, her voice hushed but warm, like she’s speaking of something sacred. "Eat well, drink well. This is your house, always." The title - daughter of Circe - sends a shiver down your spine. It’s not spoken with fear or hesitation, but with deep, unshakable respect.

Kastor watches this unfold with quiet interest, his fingers idly tracing the stem of his wine glass. When the woman steps away, he lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "You know, I thought for once I might be the impressive one in the room," he teases, but there’s no real jealousy there - just admiration. "Guess I should’ve known better."

The family’s warmth extends to him too, though differently. They don’t revere him, but they recognize him - someone at your side, someone worthy of their hospitality. When he asks about the food, the owner sits down briefly at the table, explaining how his grandfather used to fish these same waters, how the octopus is prepared the way his yiayia taught him. Kastor listens intently, asking questions, eager to understand the traditions behind each dish.

When the conversation drifts back to the two of you, he leans in slightly, his fingers brushing yours on the table. "So," he says, voice lower, more intimate, "now that you’re getting the royal treatment… how does it feel? Having people recognize you like that?"

Kastor watches you for a long moment, his thumb idly brushing over your fingertips where your hands meet. There’s no judgment in his gaze - just something thoughtful, something deeper than his usual easy confidence. "It doesn’t sound terrible," he finally says, voice low and steady. "It sounds honest." His grip on your hand tightens slightly, grounding, anchoring. "You were born for this, Jewels. For recognition. For the weight of something bigger than just you. You deserve to be seen."

Kastor’s fingers tighten around yours for a second, just a flicker of hesitation, before he exhales through his nose and lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. He shakes his head, glancing away toward the flickering candlelight of the restaurant, and the distant waves beyond it.

"Yeah," he says, his voice quieter now, rougher at the edges. "I am. But my mother... she wouldn’t be welcome here." His jaw tightens, and he finally looks back at you, something guarded in his expression. "Not in a place like this. Not among gods like yours."

After a beat, he shrugs, "I think I prefer it that way. Being here... whatever legend I create is mine."

Kastor watches your hand as you pull away, like he’s considering reaching out again, but instead, he drums his fingers once against the table. He exhales slowly through his nose before meeting your gaze. "That depends," he says, tilting his head. "Do you want it to be over?"

He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out a little beneath the table, the candlelight catching in his eyes. "Because there’s plenty we haven’t done yet. We could go down to the water and see if the stories are true - if the moon really makes the sea glow like it did in the myths." His voice lowers slightly, playful but edged with something else. "Or maybe we just walk. Just exist here a little longer before we go back to a world where baseball and vampires are the biggest things on our minds."

Then, after a pause, softer now, more real: "I know we can’t stay. But I don’t want to leave just yet."