#( this got away from me idkfdskf achilles was shaken by what he read )

[resolutepath]

[ pat, for achi ] It would have been the 10th year they spent together if he hadn't left. And he was the one who left, so he knew he had no right to be upset, but his heart didn't get the memo. So, the past few days, he found himself staring more at the gift shops, the decorations, everything, thinking of what Achilles would've liked, what would've made them smile, made them laugh. Gods, he loves their laugh. He knows knew all the little things, and it kills him. Thoughts of Achilles wouldn't leave him, so he started writing them, hoping that their immortalization in ink would free his mind from them. It didn't work, but he still carried his journal everywhere he went.

But, one day, he left it behind, and Cú picked it up. The galaxy ranger knew he shouldn't interfere in these things, but... He'll let 'fate' decide.

He didn't say a word to Achilles, but left the journal on their sight. Inside it were written various phrases, some of them just one sentence long, others occupying half a page and more.

4. My love, my beloved, my sea breeze, my foolish hope, my sun-swallowed sky... Do you see the similarities here? Tantalizing and out of my reach, but the truth is that there was (is) no day in which I didn't (don't) yearn to call you mine, just mine, only mine. ... 12. I love you, and I want to tell you. Again and again. Please don't think I ever stopped loving you, don't think I ever loved you any less. I gave you my heart, didn't I? Do you still have it? I know I don't have the right to ask. ... 26. I have another confession to make: I never thought of you as perfect. No. You have always been far from perfect. A beautiful accident, the little piece that's one shade different from the rest of the mosaic, a house fire waiting to happen, every permutation of joy, a thunder failing to strike down a tree, senseless in every sense of the word. Everything about you have always been so goddamn loud, so goddamn gorgeous. ... 38. I hope you can one day understand. I don't, but what I feel matters not. ...

There had been a cloud around Achilles for most of the day. Bar his gruff visit to one of Patroclus' friends earlier in they day, he'd been loathe to spend time anywhere near the town, choosing instead to exist at the barracks where the roseate hue of the day's festival could not afflict his gaze. Through the sea of hearts, blooms and affections he only saw bitterness and agony and the cheery moods of those surrounding him were enough to set his teeth on edge.

Better that he was out the way, dealing with the Fragmentum while young soldiers with hopeful hearts chased their beaus in hope of plans later arranged and smitten individuals could revisit lovers out of his eyesight.

Amongst the endless stretch of white he ran, more akin to the hero Achaea had once heralded him as, stretching himself to be at his best to avoid the need for others to return. His spear was true, slicing down the lingering opponents swiftly without mercy, his lithe form lost in the dance of combat, seeking the relief of each strike made not in rage, but in purpose, until eventually his section was clear and he alone stood with heavy breaths, shifting damp hair from his brow.

A return to camp led to him nodding to a few others around before heading back to his usual dwelling to tend to his trusty spear, ensuring the weapon would be ready to go out again when the restlessness itched beneath his skin and idleness would no longer suffice. He settled into a quiet routine, pulling the stone over the blade rhythmically only stopping once he was content that there was no sharper weapon to be found.

It is upon the return of the whetstone that he notices the journal in his view, his brow furrowing. He owns no such thing, his thoughts are spoken plain or buried within him, no other option offered. Curiosity curls at his mind enough to pick it up and flick through the pages, a hitch of breath as he catches the sight of the writing within, the script familiar no matter how much time has passed.

The pages are folded closed immediately and he clutches it to his chest. He shouldn't read this. The thoughts scribed on these pages belong to Patroclus alone, he ought not invade the one private place he has deemed worthy enough to share to them to. And yet. Teeth clench, lips pressing together as his mind flits from thought to thought. Who had left it here? Not Patroclus. He has never seen it before, so the man himself would not have brought it here. And it was left here...

Impulse gets the better of him and he opens the pages once more, promising himself only one, just to get an idea of what Patroclus writes of now all these years later. It is selfish but determined, coming from the aching soul of one who cannot claim his heart back from him no matter how much it aches. The number twelve sits upon the page, and he reads with baited breath, swallowing as his heart begins to race, the wingbeat pounding so loud it fills his ears. There's no denying who these thoughts are written to.

What was supposed to be just one is forgotten as he devours the contents of the journal like a man starved, page after page consumed until all he can think is the swirl of thoughts he has read, his mind racing to recall each word, his breath short and stuttering as he tries to put together what this means for him. Hope crawls in unbidden like a vine curling around his heart, hooking into him and refusing to relinquish the hold it now has from words that continue to echo in his mind.

A blotch appears on the page beneath him. And another before he realises that he is crying, soft trickles that drip silently from his chin between trembled breaths. Now there is evidence of his trespassing into Patroclus' private thoughts stained alongside the ink. He will be known the moment his heart holds the journal once more and though there is guilt in touching what was not his to hold, he cannot find himself to regret it entirely for without it he would not have the confirmation that he is loved, he is still loved, that despite everything love was never lost.

A part of him wishes to go now with this knowledge, to give into the wants of the heart and sweep Patroclus in his arms. To steal a kiss from those lips he has missed, to wrap arms around the firm form that kept him anchored for so long and to breathe in the feeling of the two of them against one another. But that is a path of impulsivity. He knows should he go now, should he flee in tears emotive and wild, kissing Patroclus in full view of all, it would not solve anything immediately. It would instead be a folly, one of short term satisfaction with the chance to bring them ruin in the future. Their foundations are too shaky for such gradiose gestures, he needs to work with Patroclus to find their path again, not stride ahead and hope the other can stay on his page.

A hand drags over his face as such a decision settles within him. Maturing does not suit him, he was always a free-spirited creature of the heart, acting first and the ramifications of such were for others to consider. But this was too important. This was Patroclus. And to jeopardise it for even a moment would lead to his own undoing. From around his neck he withdraws the metal chain, unclasping the tags, but only to retrieve the second item that sits upon them before returning them to their rightful place, pressed against his chest, reminding him always. With reverance he holds the ring up to the light, twisting it back and forth as a steady breath shudders from his chest.

There has always been love. This object had once felt like a mockery, a tarnished stain laughing at him for believing, a spiteful reminder, a bittersweet longing, but now, now with the knowledge he has gained that quietens and he remembers why he had received this ring in the first place. What it symbolised back then, what it has always meant even if he had been too hurt to see. Another shaky breath passes over lips and he stretches his fingers of his free hand out until he can slip the band back where it belongs, a striking sight against his unadorned skin. He stares at it for a moment, letting the pound of his heart race and quieten in equal measure and then swallows, reaching for the journal and raising it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the cover in lieu of chasing after the man himself.

"When next we meet... make me understand. Help me, heart of mine. Because I am tired of us being on different pages, I long to find you again, for you to know me as you have always known me, for I to know you as you are and not a memory." He lets lids close and swallows, knowing the next time they see each other there will be a fundamental shift and while he cannot say what that will mean, he anticipates that it will be needed if they are to find the path they will need to walk together.

"I never did stop loving you, Patroclus, I never could."