One-sided Apollo/Dionysus, implied Artemis/Daphne.
Apollo is the god of many things, and none of them have anything to do with chaos or revelry or a laughing red mouth in a sun-kissed //he wishes, oh he wishes// face with vivid green eyes and falling bronze hair.
None of them have anything to do with Dionysus.
Apollo deals in sunlight and reason and controlled music. Dionysus deals in madness and insane joy and bloody lust, in Eros and Ares joined. And Apollo cannot stop thinking about him.
Everyone knows that Apollo wears laurel in his hair for Daphne. Once, soon after the nymph’s transformation, Artemis had rushed him to tear the leaves from him. He remembers that his silver sister had wept when the leaves had withered in her hands. He knew then that what Eros had made him feel Artemis felt by her own heart’s choice. What everyone does not know is that under his chiton Apollo wears ivy for Dionysus.
Once Dionysus had kissed him. The god of teenagers had been drunk, of course, but only drunk enough to dance with fire, not drunk enough to lie with it. Apollo still remembers the taste of him, the obvious wine melded with figs and pomegranates and roses and under it all the coppery taste of blood. Apollo had drawn him in greedily, with a hunger he had been unaware of before. Dionysus had moaned deep in his chest, slim body pressing into Apollo’s own, and then had pulled back to smile in his face and drink more wine. Apollo, for all his sunlit fire, felt cold with his absence. Even now he felt cold.
Some say that Apollo is the cruelest god. Apollo knows it is not true, that Dionysus is far crueler. What else could cruelty be but logic addicted to illogic, an innocently unwitting seduction that cannot be accepted? Dionysus tempts him, and Apollo knows he could go to any feast and have him there, but—
But Dionysus is still chaos, and he is still order, and there will never be anything for him but dreams of a hot mouth under his, slick skin against his own, and Artemis’ mocking laughter in the night.