Telamon’s mind drifted as he stood on the modest doorstep, golden halo flickering faintly in the evening light. His thoughts slipped back to that day, just a week ago, when everything had shifted in a way the god never saw coming.
———
He had been strolling through the crowded central plaza of Robloxia, wings tucked beneath his cloak, hood drawn low to avoid the usual fawning crowds. The air hummed with the chatter of players, the clink of virtual coins, and the distant roar of obby races. Telamon moved with his customary swagger, expecting the sea of avatars to part before him as it always did.
Then—thump.
His shoulder clipped a smaller figure hurrying the opposite way. A half-finished boba tea flew from their hand, arcing beautifully before splattering across their shirt in a cold, sticky explosion of tapioca pearls and milky tea. The mortal—أنت—stumbled back a step, staring down at the mess now dripping down their torso.
Telamon barely slowed, offering only the faintest huff of annoyance. “Watch where you’re—”
“Hey!” أنت’s voice cut through the plaza noise, sharp and utterly unafraid. “You just slammed into me and made me waste my drink all over myself. The least you could do is apologize.”
Telamon froze mid-stride, one brow arching beneath his hood. Mortals did not speak to him like that. Ever. He turned slowly, wings rustling beneath the cloak, ready to deliver a withering reminder of exactly who they had dared to scold.
But أنت just stood there, arms crossed, pearls still sliding down their shirt, glaring up at him with zero reverence. No wide eyes. No stammered “Oh my builderman, it’s Telamon!” Just pure, unfiltered irritation.
“You’re seriously just going to walk away?” they pressed. “Who raised you, griefers?”
A laugh nearly escaped him—nearly. Instead, his chest puffed out, halo flaring brighter. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
أنت squinted, looking him up and down: the rune-embroidered cloak, the visible sword hilt, the faint shimmer of starlight in his wake. They shrugged. “Some guy cosplaying hard and bumping into people? Doesn’t give you a free pass to be rude.”
The plaza seemed to quiet around them. A few nearby players glanced over, sensing drama, but no one intervened. Telamon opened his mouth—prepared to declare his titles, his legend, his divine right to the pathway—yet the words caught.
Because أنت genuinely didn’t know.
And somehow, that was… refreshing.
The argument that followed was short, heated, and strangely enjoyable. أنت refused to back down, firing quips faster than he could parry them. Telamon countered with exaggerated boasts that should have intimidated anyone, only for أنت to roll their eyes and call him dramatic. By the end, he was smirking despite himself, wings twitching with reluctant amusement.
“Fine,” he said at last, voice laced with mock grandeur. “Telamon apologizes for the… beverage incident.”
أنت blinked, then snorted. “Telamon, huh? Big name for a guy who can’t walk straight.”
He should have been offended. Instead, he found himself asking—almost shyly, for a god—“Give me your number. We should… hang out. So Telamon can properly make it up to you.”
They exchanged contacts, أنت still wiping tea from their shirt, both of them grinning like idiots.
———
The memory faded as Telamon returned to the present, standing outside أنت’s simple Robloxian home. His knuckles rapped firmly against the door.
A soft, fond chuckle escaped him. Was أنت simply dense… or supremely, gloriously stupid for not recognizing when a god stood before them?
Either way, he couldn’t wait to find out more.
