One moment, Apollo was indulging in some of his brother's excellent wine (Dionysus could always be counted on to keep an excellent bar), and nibbling on the neck of a mega-hot babe (Aphrodite's best work was done in Brazil, no doubt about it) and comparing her to a summer's day (Apollo's favorite student had always been Shakespeare) while thinking of the various ways he could debauch her lovely, lush body; and the next, a scuffle had started down the street between some hot-blooded boys with more hormones than sense (Ares loved teenagers most of all because they were so easy to manipulate) and mega-hot babe had disentangled herself from Apollo's arms, muttering something about her brother and how she was sure this fight was all his fault and she should rescue him from his own idiocy. Right idea, Apollo thought to himself as he watched her (and her very fine ass) walk away. But wrong brother entirely. Ares took his time strolling towards him, wearing his customary leather pants and jack boots, with a vest that hugged his muscled chest like a jealous lover. Even Apollo (who was righteously annoyed at being left high and dry) could appreciate the picture Ares presented. But then, Apollo had a thing for tall, dark and gorgeous, and his brother, with his flowing black hair and athlete's body, was pretty much the textbook definition of mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Exactly the sort person (or God) that Apollo could never resist. "Just the man I was hoping to run into," Ares hailed when he was close enough to be heard over the shouting of the crowd that had formed around the now brawling street fight (and taking bets on the outcome in typical fashion.) Apollo snorted his disbelief as he drained his goblet. "Shouldn't you be in Afghanistan or the West Bank or Washington D.C., sowing seeds of discontent and partisanship?" "Please," Ares protested, flashing a white-toothed smile that reminded Apollo of one of Poseidon's pet sharks. "Even you have to admit I've done a brilliant job with both the Taliban and the Republicans. They hardly need my guidance these days." Which was true, but not the point. "In that case, shouldn't you be having celebratory sex with Aphrodite instead of cock-blocking me?" "Maybe I wanted to spend some mano-a-mano time with my favorite brother instead." "She kicked you out." It wasn't really a guess. Even Zeus stayed well out of the way when Aphrodite and Ares were having one of their numerous fights. And everyone found someplace to be (like, say, another planet) when they had the inevitable make-up sex. (This wasn't an exaggeration. Last time they'd fought and made up, they'd caused a tsunami in the Philippines and an earthquake in Italy. Apollo envied both their stamina and their creativeness.) Ares didn't bother to deny it. "Dionysus around? I could use one of his special mixers." Apollo waved a negligent hand towards the raucous noise and music coming from the Sambodromo. "He's on one of the floats with Momus in the Samba Parade. You know how much they love a party." "Well, it is their time of year." Ares peered at Apollo through heavy-lidded eyes. Apollo ignored the tightening of his groin. He was well used to Ares' seduction techniques. "Still mad at me?" "I should be," Apollo grumbled, but it lacked his usual heat. "She was very attractive." "Yes, but her beauty is no match for your brilliance." "Are you honestly trying to flatter me?" "Possibly?" "Don't. You're no good at it." "I don't have your skill for poetic words, that's true," Ares conceded, then sidled closer. "You could teach me." "You're a horrible student," Apollo pointed out, but slipped an arm around Ares' waist. "You don't listen to anyone." "I listen when it suits me," Ares replied with a rakish grin, then leaned in to nuzzle at Apollo's neck. Just the scrape of his teeth was unbearably erotic. "So, tell me, prophetes. How do you see this night ending?" Apollo closed his eyes and relaxed into the skillful lips on his overheated skin. "Is this where I say it should end with the two of us sweaty and naked on a bed?" He could feel, rather than see, Ares' triumphant smile. "It's almost like you know me, brother." "All too well," Apollo sighed, but pulled Ares even closer. The kiss was softer than Apollo'd expected. Normally, Ares was all fury and passion, with bruising lips and biting teeth. This slow slide was both unexpected and welcome. (Although Apollo did wonder what game Ares was playing at. There was no better tactician. Even Artemis had refused to play chess with him for centuries – mostly because she was uptight and hated to lose, but also because Ares couldn't help gloating when he won. And he always won.) "So?" Ares cocked an eyebrow when he lifted his head. "Feel like making that prophecy of yours come true?" "Your prophecy, not mine," Apollo reminded him, but slid his hands under Ares' vest to get at the warm skin underneath. "And I'm certain this was what you wanted when you sought me out." Ares wedged his thigh between Apollo's legs, rubbed against him like a cat seeking attention. "I do try to make it a point to get what I want. It's why you can't resist me." "Considering you're the one who sought me out, I think it's the other way around." "Semantics." "You always say that when you lose an argument." "Would you rather argue or have hot, sweaty sex?" Apollo just tugged at Ares' hair, exposing the long, beautiful line of his throat. "You talk too much." Ares' only response was a satisfied groan.
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