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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago

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Patrochilles week 2022 | Day one theme: This, and this and this

Summary: Achilles overhears a snippet of conversation between Patroclus and another man, and thinks Patroclus is with someone other than him.

@patrochillesweek

POV: Achilles

Pairing : Achilles x Patroclus

Warnings: Jealousy | Insecurity

The summer of our seventh year at Troy was one of the warmest I had ever experienced.

There had been a lull in fighting. Patroclus had been away for a while now, tending to the wounded in the Athenian camp. They trusted him as much as they trusted Machaon and Podalerius, and he was called on by many by now.

When Briseis said there was no word as yet from him, I clenched my jaw. It had been almost two weeks since I had last seen him. The tent felt empty without him, and our sleeping roll felt cold despite the heat. I wanted to send a message but decided against it. Too many wagging tongues.

The sun dipped little by little, and Patroclus was still nowhere to be seen. To hell with it. I went back out and headed to the Athenian camp. I heard talk of Patroclus being in the constant company of one particular Athenian. They had always been in each other’s confidence, always talking in secret. I felt a weight drop in my chest, a stab in my gut. I swallowed such fears and asked around anyway, and was sent off in the right direction. When I came to the tent I was looking for I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard, “So that is how it is with you too?"

The person who spoke to him sounded like he was our age, his voice deep and comforting.

"Yes," said Patroclus.

"Never women?" The Athenian sounded amazed. I listened, my feet frozen in one spot. "Never women. Only men." Patroclus yawned lazily. "King Peleus would often encourage the serving girls if he caught them giving us the eye, but I was never interested, no matter how pretty and willing they were."

There was silence, as if Patroclus’ companion was thinking this over. "So this is possible? We could go ahead with this?"

The Athenian sounded positively giddy. My eyes went wide. What was going on?

"Of course," Patroclus said, strangely encouraging. It was something that sent another stab to the gut. "What is there to lose?"

"Wonderful. How should we go about doing this?"

I could not bear to hear anymore. I simply turned on my heel and walked straight back to my own camp, very nearly biting the head off of Ajax when he shouted a friendly greeting to me.

Briseis had been out as well, foraging for herself and us, when she saw me stomping back to my tent, fuming like anything. She looked at a puzzled Ajax, then at me, then turned back to him, shrugging in utter confusion. She hung around the tent entrance, debating if she should come in or not. She must have thought the better of it, for I heard her walking off.

My mind was a roil. Patroclus said he had no interest in women, only men. Him encouraging the Athenian. Encouraging him to do what?

So that is how it is with you too?

That sentence kept coming back to me. So that is how it is with you too?

Realization fell on me like a roaring wave. I suddenly felt empty and reed thin. My body felt like it had gone numb when I lay on my sleeping roll. The Athenian seemed liked Patroclus, and it seemed—it seemed as if Patroclus liked him back.

I felt jealous, angry. True, we never promised ourselves to each other, I lay with Deidameia on mother’s false promises and broke his heart, making him angry, but still--

I shook my head, to try and stave off the thoughts that came unbidden. I could not stop seeing him stretched out beside the Athenian, their legs entwined, their fingers linked around each other. I could not stop hearing the Athenian whispering Patroclus’ name in his sleep. It was too much. It was all too much for me to bear.

The inside of the tent grew darker and darker as night drove off the morning. The flap of our tent was pulled to one side and the light of a campfire made its way in. "Achilles?"

I turned away, not wanting to look at him at this moment.

Patroclus came closer, crouching down behind me. "Are you well?" he questioned. "Ajax and Briseis said you looked furious. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," I grumbled under my breath.

I felt his eyes on me. "Are you sure? They were both worried about you, and so am I."

I scoffed as anger sank its talons into me. "I am fine. Why are you here anyway? Shouldn’t you be with that Athenian instead?"

"Who?"

"The one you were talking to, in the tent with the pale blue and grey pennant?"

"Cyncus?" Patroclus sounded more than a little confused. "Why would I be with him?"

Cyncus. The much celebrated Athenian captain. Of course, it would be him. Curse my luck. "The two of you should go for it," I said, bitterly parroting what they talked about. "What have either of you got to lose?"

I heard a barely audible ah. Patroclus called out to Briseis, said everything was well, and that we would be skipping dinner. She shouted back, promising to have a good breakfast ready in the morning. He then joined me on my sleeping roll and lay next to me. "Do you think something is going on between me and Cyncus?"

There was that blasted name again. "Cyncus," I muttered under my breath. "Sounds like an insect’s name if you ask me. Does he look like one too?"

He laughed, that soft, breathy laugh that I had grown to love so much. "He does not, and you are being unkind." Patroclus rolled over and propped himself on one elbow. "And you still have not answered my question."

I sighed and yielded. "Yes," I mumble. "That is what it sounded like to me."

Patroclus inched closer until his body fitted against mine. "There isn’t anything going on between me and him." I could feel his breath against my ear, his arm circling around my waist. "Cyncus--"

What was it about that name? It set my teeth on edge. "--Has a companion in camp. And--"

My ears twitched. A companion? What sort of companion would he ha— Oh. My eyes grew wide in understanding. Cyncus had a companion, much like me with Patroclus. I suddenly felt very foolish.

"--They had been talking of what they could do once they went back to Athens. They heard the gossip about us, about our time in Pelion, and asked if life in the mountains was easy."

The mountains, the countryside. Away from prying eyes. Where they could live more freely. And who better to talk to about life in the mountains than one who lived with, and learned from, Chiron himself? I feel well and truly ridiculous now. I should have had more faith in Patroclus. He would never do such a thing to me. "I am so sorry," I whispered and turned to face him. "I should not have doubted you."

A beat of silence followed, and then, "I am not angry, and I cannot blame you. I would have been as jealous if I heard such things too, and I was, remember? Back on Skyros?”

And he forgave me for that, for betraying him. I felt even worse. Patroclus was always ready to forgive my mistakes, no matter what. It made me flush with shame. I made a silent vow to be more deserving of him.

Our camp grew quiet as most settled in for the night. Patroclus and I lay together quietly before he reached out and ran his fingers through my hair. "Your hair has grown even thicker now. Did I tell you that?"

My entire body tingled when his fingers drifted over my scalp. "You did not."

"It has. Briseis and I are unsure how you keep your helm on. She thinks we should either hack off--"

I cut him off with a quick, “No hacking of the hair. I mean it.”

“Braid and style it then, keep it out of the way.” Patroclus chuckled again, this time as his fingers traced their way over my brow, my eyelids. "Did I tell you about this?" Patroclus rested a finger at the corner of my eye. "How the corners of your eyes crinkle when you are happy? Even when you are not actually smiling, it still shows in your eyes."

His touch felt dizzying and sweet. "And this?" A thumb traced its way over my lips. "Did I tell you about this?" My breath hitched. Patroclus drew slow lines over my lips, his own breath coming out in shallow puffs, and it stirred me. "How your lips are always soft, like petals?"

I said no, and swallowed as those fingers drifted lower. "And did I tell you about this?" I felt his touch tremble a little when his hand went over the curve of my neck. "Your neck. How often I have seen it in my dreams."

My own eyes closed when he leaned in and pressed his lips to the base of my throat. There was a flush of heat in my chest; my fingers found their way to his hair. "Tell me more," I breathed. His kisses were ceaseless now. Patroclus stopped, then gently pushed me onto my back. "I will not just tell you," he murmured. His lips hovered just a grain over mine. "I will show you."

#Achilles being a jealous little bean #patrochilles week 2022 #patrochilles week #patrochilles #the song of achilles #achilles #patroclus #creative writing #writing #writeblr #fanfiction #writing challenge #a world of whimsy writes

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irisesandlilies · 2 years ago

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staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

fandom: hades, the song of achilles

relationship: achilles/patroclus

words: 6,436

chapter(s): 1/1

rating: not rated (teen - mature)

summary: It is an odd thing, to have held these words for so long, to have cradled them close and guarded them because they are all that remains of what they once were. To resign them to parchment is not enough, surely ink cannot capture the depth of Achilles’ regret, his longing, his splintered hope that fractures further and further.

Ten letters from Achilles to Patroclus.

written for @patrochillesweek 2022 day 5: past mistakes

Read on ao3

#patrochilles #patrochilles week 2022

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peggy-sue-reads-a-book · 2 years ago

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YOU KNOW WHAT WEEK IT IS

Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus.

a flower boy for @flowershopaus !!

#patrochilles week 2022

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thebookluvrr1816 · 3 years ago

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peggy-sue-reads-a-book · 2 years ago

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Patrochilles Week

Day 1: This and this and this

I believe the focus of TSOA to be Patroclus’s grief process rather than his life story for its own sake. It’s character driven and it is completely linear from his birth to entrance into the underworld like a normal memoir, yes. However, it is significant that the conclusion isn’t Patroclus’s death, but the peace he is finally given. The narrative ends abruptly the moment he is reunited with Achilles. While we imagine they embrace and enjoy a happy afterlife together, the fact that the mere meeting of their hands ends the conflict feels important. The final pages are so stark that every word counts. “This and this and this” which he shares with Thetis has symbolic power besides just persuading her to write his name on their grave.

And as a symbol, it’s amazing. Mourning plays a huge role in the novel, just as in the Iliad. Achilles, in many ways, refuses to mourn. Patroclus is “air and thought and can do nothing” so long as Achilles spends his last days pursuing revenge and refusing to cremate his body. Ironically, neither the extravagant funeral nor the violence done in his name give Patroclus what he really needs — a name. There is no peace for him so long as he is left without identity.

Patroclus does something really brave. First of all, I want to acknowledge his compassion for Achilles; not once does he resent him for neglecting his appropriate burial. Achilles wasn’t ready. He dies in a combination of anger and denial. Patroclus is wise enough to understand you can’t force loss-adjustment on anyone — especially yourself.

Secondly, he seeks his own peace. He asks Odysseus. When that doesn’t work, he faces Thetis. What’s so profound about his story is the emotional courage it takes to face the kind of memories he shares in the raw, visceral language he chooses. By going fully into the Achilles’s beauty and skill and tenderness, he accepts the depth of his grief. Paradise and Lost are equally operative words, so to speak.

After Achilles, Odysseus, and Neoptolemus successively fail to give Patroclus a peaceful burial, in a way, he does it for himself. Yes, literally Thetis writes his name, but by openly grieving, Patroclus gives shape to his own identity. After twenty eight years in Achilles shadow and forty years completely invisible, Pat has had enough. Even the title of the book has Achilles’ name, not his. His obscurity is apparent before you’ve even opened the cover. It’s not until the absolute last page we finally get the visual poetry of their names parallel to one another. “… Achilles, and beside it Patroclus.” Behind all the rants about fame importance is the gentle message: no one deserves to be forgotten. Not a queer-coded side character, not anyone else. It’s not enough to be “made of memories.” The name on the grave is a present reality, set in stone.

And after four thousand years of western canon, we get to read it too.

#patrochilles week 2022 #Patroclus #the song of achilles #achilles #greek mythology #madeline miller #the iliad #patrochilles #tsoa madeline miller #achilles x patroclus #tsoa

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peggy-sue-reads-a-book · 2 years ago

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#PatrochillesWeek Day 2: Growing Up Together

(Hi, yes, I missed this but I still want to do them all)

A real hardship for Chiron was raising Pat and Achilles in a cave full of Heracles’ old stuff with years of opportunity to screw around. “Dad dad look! We’re the hydra!” “Kids get out of there.” And it’s the two of them squeezed together to fit into Herk’s breastplate. “Daaaaad! Achilles is chasing me!” “Achilles, please take the Nemean lion off your head and stop chasing Patroclus.” When they find his grieves and bracers in an old trunk they’re like “ooh! Shin guards!” and use them for soccer. (Pat ends up using the bracers cause his legs are skinnier but it doesn’t matter because they’re huge on them both) And Achilles just thinks he’s so sly every time he needs to run his damsel-in-distress drills and probably Pat should wear a pretty dress of Megara’s just to really get the effect down. Or like when Achilles wears Heracles helmet but it’s so big on him he just stands there and sings “bottabing bottaboom” and even Patroclus gets annoyed.

#greek mythology #the song of achilles #achilles #patroclus #patrochilles #the iliad #tsoa madeline miller #tsoa patrochilles #achilles x patroclus #tsoa #patrochilles week #patrochilles week 2022

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johaerys-writes · 2 years ago

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you’re a walking disaster, and yet—

—I’d follow in your wake.

Achilles/Patroclus | 3600 words | M

My entry for Day 2: “Growing up together” of @patrochillesweek 2022! The first chapter of a series of oneshots which will follow Achilles and Patroclus as they grow up and fall in love. Modern AU. Read here or on AO3!

Chapter 1: Dawn Chorus

The Pelides’ house is big. Very big.

It is the biggest place Patroclus has been in, and his home back in Opus wasn’t small by any means. It is old, too, one of those stone-brick mansions with thick vines climbing up the trellises on the walls, with terracotta slates on the roofs and gleaming marble arches on the balconies. One of those buildings that have been handed down to generation after generation of great men with power and influence and heavy-ringing names to go along with it.

Mr Pelides himself — Call me Peleus, he’d said with an easy smile when he’d come to pick Patroclus up— seems like a great man, one of those his father used at once to envy and to want to ingratiate himself with. He’s tall and broad and he wears his button down shirts open to his chest, and his pearl white teeth look even whiter against his leathery-gold tan. He drives a convertible and smells like cigars and calls Patroclus ‘lad’ instead of ‘boy’ like his father did. When they’d pulled up the long driveway, and Patroclus’ single suitcase had been hauled out of the trunk, Mr Pelides had clapped him on the shoulder and said, Make yourself at home, lad.

It’s been two days. Patroclus has yet to figure out how to do that.

It’s not that it isn’t nice there. His room is nice. It isn’t very big —probably one of the old guest rooms— but the bed is comfortable enough and his window has a view of the lemon trees in the garden. It’s spring, and the swallows have built their nests underneath the awning of the old shed. Their incessant twittering woke Patroclus up at dawn the day before, and then again that morning. He doesn’t mind it. He actually likes how merry they sound. And it's not like he's been getting much sleep anyway. Not since he left home.

Well. This is home now. Unless things change again. In the last month Patroclus has changed places thrice: his uncle, who didn’t speak to him, his eldest daughter in the city, who had no room for him, and then, at last, Mr Pelides.

Patroclus isn’t quite sure how long he’ll get to stay here either, if he's being honest with himself. His suitcase is half open by the side of the bed, his few belongings barely touched. Every morning, he expects Mr Pelides to come into his room and tell him to gather his things again and go down to the car — “Just a quick ride, not to worry”— and then who knows where he'll end up. There’s nowhere else for him to go, really. There’s no one, really, who wants him.

Patroclus lies on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breath pooling heavy in his lungs like lead. It is paralysing, this feeling. Outside, it’s not yet morning, probably hours still until then, but Patroclus is scared to go back to sleep. Scattered thoughts crowd his mind. If he falls through them, he may never come back out.

He tosses the covers off him. The wood is cool under his feet when he gets up. Patroclus pads to the door, cracks it open just a hair. The hall is dark and empty, like a walnut shell with all its insides scooped out. He goes out, as quiet as a mouse, and walks along the stretch of worn carpet. In the twilight, Patroclus does all the exploring he isn't brave enough to do during the day. He drifts through the long corridors, and even tries opening a couple doors that seem interesting enough. The rooms beyond are either empty or with their furniture covered with old white sheets and the curtains drawn. They stare back at him, grey and silent.

He still doesn’t know his way around the big house very well, but that's okay. There's no one up at this time, to stop him or scold him. Patroclus walks past the grandiose dining room with the large painting of a still life above the mantelpiece, turns left when he reaches the corridor that connects it to the kitchen.

He stops when he sees light pooling on the floor, through the kitchen door that has been left ajar.

There are faint noises coming from inside. The chink of cutlery and quiet breathing. Patroclus peeks shyly through the doorway. His eyes fall on a blonde head; it’s the first thing he sees, the colour shockingly bright in the otherwise beige and dreary space. He’s perched on the kitchen island, eating scoop after scoop of peanut butter straight out of the jar.

You'll meet my son, Achilles, soon, Mr Pelides had told Patroclus on their drive there. You two will hit it off just fine. He's as wild as they come, though. The indulgent pride with which he'd said the words had made them sound almost like a compliment. Don’t let him talk you into anything.

Patroclus had blushed as he swore that he would absolutely not do that. No sir. He knows better than that.

Looking at him now, he doesn't know if he does, actually. He had imagined someone tall, strong, fierce. He had pictured him like the boys back in Opus, his older schoolmates that Patroclus had always been afraid of. But Achilles… he's different. Patroclus doesn’t think he’s ever seen a boy wear his hair so long, like a girl. He’s short, too, and slender, and looks younger than Patroclus, a year perhaps or two. His cheeks are still plump with boyhood, and his long eyelashes caress his cheekbones like feathers.

Is this the wildling that Mr Pelides mentioned? A more angelic face Patroclus would be hard-pressed to find.

Achilles glances up, and two impossibly green eyes fix Patroclus on the spot.

"Hello."

Patroclus freezes, half-hidden in the shadows of the doorway. His breath is frozen too; only his heart lurches, lodging in his throat.

“You’re Patroclus, right?” Achilles hops off the counter, walking up to him. Patroclus’ first instinct is to take a tiny step back, ready to flee, but the other boy advances on him without breaking stride. “My father told me about you. I thought he was joking. I didn’t even see you anywhere."

“I was— in my room,” Patroclus blurts out, blushing to the roots of his hair. He feels as if he’s done something terribly wrong. He’s spent almost two days locked in there, fearing to go outside in case he did something wrong, in case he broke a vase or some priceless heirloom and Mr. Pelides got angry and sent him away too. But it seems that staying in his room was wrong, too. It’s like his father always used to say: Patroclus can’t do anything right.

Achilles idly scratches his cheek when the silence lengthens. Patroclus just stands there, staring and staring.

"Are you hungry?" Achilles asks. Without waiting for Patroclus' response, he dashes to the drying rack and picks up a spoon, then returns with it and the peanut butter jar in hand.

"Here," he says. "Dig in. It's good." He brings a generous spoonful of peanut butter to his lips for demonstration.

It seems rude to say no. Patroclus scoops a tiny bit of peanut butter, then reluctantly licks it from the spoon. It's thick. It coats his tongue like tar and sticks to the roof of his mouth. He makes a face before he can stop himself.

"What's wrong? Do you not like it?" Achilles asks.

Patroclus swallows with difficulty. "I… don't like peanut butter," he admits quietly.

"Oh." Achilles frowns as he licks his own spoon clean. "What do you like?"

"Nothing," Patroclus says hurriedly, "I'm not hungry." His stomach gives a quiet rumble, as if on cue. He was too nervous to eat anything the previous day, when Mr Pelides knocked on his door to invite him to dinner. He blushes further, sweat gathering at his temples.

"Tell you what." Achilles sets the jar and the spoon down. He does so carelessly, not even bothering to screw the lid back on. "The gas station's open all night. We'll go there, grab something to eat."

It isn't a suggestion; it's a declaration. Patroclus watches, speechless, as Achilles runs barefoot out of the room and returns with his shoes on, and a pair for Patroclus, then grabs Patroclus' hand and drags him out of the house as soon as he puts them on.

His bike is leaning against the porch bannister; Achilles kicks back the stand and sets it upright. Laika, the border collie mix that's far too friendly with strangers to be a guard dog, trots up to them, tongue lolling. She circles Patroclus' feet; he stops to scratch her behind the ear.

"Are you— really going out?" Patroclus asks, incredulous, as Achilles swings his leg over the bike. The stars are bright in the night sky. It must be four in the morning.

"We are," Achilles corrects. "Come, hop on."

"But- what about your father? Won't he be angry?"

"Not if he doesn't know." He grins at him over his shoulder. "You won't tell him, will you?"

No one should be so brazen in the face of certain death. At least, that's what Patroclus always feared would happen if he was caught disobeying his father. But his father isn't here, and, in any case, somehow Patroclus can't bring himself to care about what his father would or wouldn’t do when Achilles looks at him like this, in his jade-green eyes a flash of challenge.

Laika wags her tail and looks up at him with her big, wet eyes as Patroclus walks to the bike. He steps up on the rear axles and places his hands on Achilles' shoulders, his heart thumping wildly at the prospect of what he's about to do.

He is out, in the dead of night, without a grown up. He is breaking several rules at once, following a boy with fire-blonde hair that smiles far too brightly for his own good.

They set off, the two of them, into the night. The wind whistles past Patroclus' ears as they follow the winding, sun-bleached roads, now empty in the darkness. Their shadows stretch and flicker beneath the pale, dusty halos of the street lamps they ride past. Crickets sing, hidden in the undergrowth of sprawling clover fields.

Achilles pedals fast, but he's a smooth rider. It's clear he knows these roads like the back of his hand. His shoulders are tense with purpose, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The wind combs through his hair and brings it to Patroclus' face. It smells of pomegranate and almonds and a hint of sweat, and it's so soft when it brushes his cheek. Patroclus likes the way it smells. He likes the way it feels.

"Almost there," Achilles says.

Past the bend of the road, the gas station's bright in the distance, standing out against the backdrop of dark grassland. It looks like a ship in the middle of the sea. Patroclus imagines they're both sailors, the bike a dinghy, and Achilles sets the course that will get them to a safe harbour.

The harsh fluorescent light hurts Patroclus' eyes when they reach the gas station and get off the bike. The cashier behind the register is a bored sixteen year old that doesn't even look up from his phone as they walk in. Achilles heads straight for the freezers, ogling the multitudes of ice cream cones and ice pops behind the glass.

Patroclus looks at everything like an alien. In truth, he is. He’s been to gas stations before, but everything looks so bright and colourful now that it’s like he’s truly been living in space, in infra-red light that leeched every other shade. He drifts to one of the isles, examining the packets of crisps on the shelves. There’s one in particular that he likes, salt and oregano, but perhaps he could try something different tonight.

A slender arm reaches past his shoulder and grabs a packet.

“Try this one,” Achilles says. “It’s my favourite.”

His lips and tongue are bright blue from the blueberry flavoured ice pop he’s already opened and started devouring. Patroclus almost tells him in a panic that he shouldn’t be doing that, that he should pay for it first before eating it, but it completely slips his mind. He feels like he’s in a dream, like none of this is real. Like he could do anything. Nothing can hurt you in dreams, right?

So he cracks open the packet. The artificial sour cream and dill flavour hits his tongue when he brings a crisp to his mouth.

Achilles gives him a neon-blue grin. “Good, right?”

“Yeah,” Patroclus says. The crisps are overly salty and leave a greasy residue on his fingers. It’s the best thing Patroclus has had in— so long. He can’t remember the last time food didn’t taste like ash in his mouth.

Achilles grabs a few more packets, seemingly at random, and strides to the cash register. He appears so certain and confident with everything he does, like he knows exactly what he's doing. Patroclus feels strangely at ease with him.

“We’ll have all of these,” he tells the cashier, “oh, and also—” He glances at the pink and yellow slush swirling lazily in the machine behind the counter, “—two lemon slushies.”

“How are you going to pay for all this?” The boy eyes him up and down with a sneer. “Got any money on you?”

“Yeah, your mom's.”

Patroclus whips his head around to stare at him in shock.

The boy narrows his eyes. “What did you just say?”

Achilles simply looks at him, calm as an icy lake.

"The fuck did you say, Pelides."

"I said, your mom gives me money, because she likes me better than you."

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Give us the slushies and we’ll go.”

“Want me to call your daddy to put you to bed?”

Achilles’ only reaction is to arch his eyebrow, slightly. “Want me to tell your daddy that you’ve been stealing from the cash register again, Aeneas?”

“For fuck’s sake, it was only one—” Aeneas stops himself, his face slightly red. He growls as he turns around and pours two lemon slushies in plastic cups. He slaps them down on the counter, frozen yellow liquid trickling down the sides. “There. Happy now?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Achilles smiles charmingly as he hands Patroclus the cups, then gathers the packets of crisps in his arms. “Good night! Don’t work too hard.”

“Fuck you.”

Patroclus stares at Achilles’ back as they walk out of the store. The door dings shut behind them, and Achilles’ dumps all the junk food they procured in the little basket at the front of the bike.

“Who… who was that?” he murmurs, walking beside Achilles as he slides the bike back onto the road. “A friend of yours?” He realises how stupid that sounds as soon as he says it. This was obviously not a friendly conversation.

“A guy from school,” Achilles says nonchalantly. “He’s older. We don’t hang out much. I don’t even like him, really. He’s a bit thick. In the head.” He leans forward, slurping the slushie from the cup Patroclus is holding. “But he makes nice slushies.”

“There’s not much to it. I’ve seen how they’re made; you just dump water and powder in the machine and it mixes it by itself.”

Achilles shrugs. “Dunno. He does it well, in any case. And it’s free, so! Who cares.” He gives Patroclus a conspiratorial grin, his eyes glowing in the half light with a feral gleam.

Patroclus gives him a wobbly smile of his own. He doesn’t really know what to do with this information. He can't even explain what he just witnessed. Nothing they’ve done so far feels real. It’s like the night is lawless, like they can do whatever they please without consequences. It’s intoxicating. It’s fun.

They munch on the crisps and drink the ice-cold slush, chatting idly as they walk down the empty road. Patroclus drinks his own too quickly and gets a brain freeze, while Achilles makes a game out of catching popcorn kernels with his mouth after tossing them up high. He throws one at Patroclus, and it bounces off the hollow of his eye. Another gets stuck in his hair, another one in his ear. Achilles laughs, but there’s no malice to it. It’s not like the boys back in Opus, who would crowd and shove Patroclus into corners and laugh at his hair, his clothes, his glasses. This time, Patroclus is included in the joke. It’s different.

Achilles doesn’t ask much. Patroclus likes that. They talk about the coat of paint Achilles gave his bike the summer before and the new gears his father installed that let him go extra fast. He shows him how to do cartwheels in the middle of the street. He climbs up a bus stop and tells Patroclus “Check this out!” before doing a backflip off the roof, before Patroclus even has the chance to warn him not to break his neck.

“I can jump from higher than this,” he tells Patroclus with a perfectly serious face after landing on his feet like a cat, while Patroclus stares at him, horrified.

Achilles seems… a tad insane.

He’s as wild as they come, Mr Pelides' words return to him. Don’t let him talk you into anything.

Actually, Patroclus thinks to himself, he wouldn’t mind following Achilles into anything. It thrills him, a little, to think that.

Dawn is close, just shy of breaking, when they reach the top of a steep incline. Achilles slides to a stop, eyeing the descend.

"Climb up," he says. Patroclus does. “Ready?”

“For what?” Patroclus asks. Achilles only smiles.

“Hold tight.”

Patroclus doesn’t have the chance to protest when Achilles sets his foot back on the pedal and rolls them forward. They’re so far up, Patroclus can barely see the bottom of the hill in the darkness. They swoop down together, gaining more speed by the second. Patroclus’ stomach drops, pulse thundering in his temples as the wind whooshes past them both. He holds onto Achilles’ shoulders for dear life.

“It’s too fast,” he shouts in his ear, and Achilles laughs. He laughs like he doesn’t care, and the sheer knowledge makes Patroclus’ pulse race quicker. They could get hurt. They could die, and he’s convinced Achilles would still be laughing, challenging death with a flat out stare.

The end comes sooner than Patroclus expected. They don’t see the rock that’s lying in the middle of the road until it’s too late; Achilles swerves to avoid it, but it only accelerates their disastrous fall. The wheel scrapes and screeches on the asphalt, and the bike is knocked out of Achilles’ control.

The next thing Patroclus knows, he’s flying off the backseat and crashing hard into the bushes by the side of the road. Achilles is quick to follow, rolling a few feet away from him.

First, is the shock. Then, the pain. It shoots up from Patroclus’ leg up his spine. He can’t see the injury in the dark, but he knows there’s blood. He can feel it soaking the fabric of his jeans, where they’re torn at the knee.

He hisses as he pushes himself up. The world spins around him. His elbow hurts too, where he knocked it in the ground during his fall. He stands with difficulty. Whatever wound he got, though, it’s superficial. Sheer luck, perhaps.

“Achilles?” he croaks. He limps towards the form that’s lying prone amidst the grasses. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

But Achilles doesn’t answer. He’s staring up at the grey-blue, pre-dawn sky with glassy eyes. He’s smiling, dazed.

Then, he laughs.

It’s a shy, husky sound at first, almost startled. Then, another wave rolls through him, and another, and another. It’s so free a sound, so wild, that Patroclus can’t help but join him. Soon, they’re laughing so hard there are tears in both of their eyes, the sound carrying through the wide open space. The breeze blows, and the tall grass bends, the dawn chorus slowly stirring the world awake, and there Patroclus is, covered in dirt and blood and breathless, staring at the boy who laughs when he falls.

Achilles sits up. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, and his eyes are bright with joy, crinkled at the corners. Patroclus gives him a hand and pulls him up.

“That was fun,” Achilles says.

“Yes. It was.”

There are knapweeds and tansies tangled in Achilles' straw-blonde hair. His white tee shirt is brown with dirt, and one of his trainers is missing. He’s smiling so hard, it splits his face from ear to ear.

Heavens, he’s so beautiful.

“Hey," Achilles says. His hand lands on Patroclus’ shoulder in a rough, friendly clap. "I like you.”

The words zing through Patroclus like electricity. His breath catches. “Um.”

“Let’s do it again.”

“What— now?”

“No time like the present.” Achilles goes to his bike and lifts it upright. “We have time for one more before my father gets up for work.”

Patroclus swallows thickly. The incline looms above them; they were lucky enough to survive it once. Will they be as fortunate the second time around?

Don’t let him talk you into anything.

But what if Patroclus wants him to?

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Achilles' lips curl; a cat’s smile. There’s respect in his gaze, Patroclus thinks, and a strange sort of pride. It makes the blood boil and fizzle in his veins. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do, he realises, to keep it directed at him.

Achilles takes a step back, nodding at the bike.

“You ride up front this time, then.”

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this please like and reblog, it really means a lot :)

#patrochilles #Patrochilles Week 2022 #tsoa #the song of achilles #achilles #patroclus #achilles/patroclus #patroclus/achilles #hades #hades game #the iliad #johaerys writes

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johaerys-writes · 2 years ago

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Achilles/Patroclus | TSOA | 3400 words | Gen

My entry for Day 1: “This, and this and this” of @patrochillesweek 2022! Read here or on AO3

The wind blew cool and soft through the courtyard. The leaves of the oak stirred, their pale undersides glistening white in the bright sunlight. They crowded Achilles’ head like a crown where he lay on the thick, gnarled branch.

“Guess what I’m thinking about,” he said.

I smiled, leaning against the trunk. It was warm beneath my back, pulsating with quiet life. “Easy,” I replied. “The honeycakes we had for breakfast.”

Achilles’ eyes were closed; the dappled shadows stroked his sleep-soft features. I envied them, in that moment; I wished to reach out, to touch, but he was too far away.

“No,” he said. “Guess again.”

“The robin we saw, nestled in the high rafters of the main hall. Autumn is coming.”

He shook his head. “Guess again.”

I laughed. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

Achilles shifted on the branch to look down at me, sprawled on the branch like a leopard, slow and lazy in the stifling late summer heat, with his hair spilling golden down his shoulder. His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Guess again. One more time.”

One time melted into two, to three. This, I told him. This and this. Every time, Achilles’ smile would get sharper, bright with mischief. “No. Guess again.”

“The cat that tangled in Neokles’ feet last week in the yard, while he was training the new recruits,” I said, “and he tripped up and fell face first in the sand.” The tree branch above me shook as Achilles did, in a fit of laughter. “How he cursed up a storm and vowed to catch and make new sandals out of it.”

“S-stop,” Achilles sobbed, breathless, clutching his chest.

“Or when Aeson ran to help him up and knocked over the sword rack in his haste, and they all fell in a heap.” I was grinning so hard my cheeks were aching. “Or, when your father walked into the yard and found all the recruits laughing, he ordered them to find the cat and bring it to him, so that he shall award it the highest honour for doing what no man has done before: dropping Neokles on his back in the palaestra.”

“Enough, I can’t—”

We were both laughing so hard, there were tears beading in our eyes. I was still trying to catch my breath when one of Peleus’ attendants arrived. Achilles pushed himself up on the branch, brushing his hair out of his face.

“What is it?” he asked in his most princely voice, still hoarse from laughter.

“Prince Achilles.” The man bowed. “The King awaits you in the hall. The guests have already gathered.”

I bit my lip, glancing up at Achilles. Our eyes met, and I knew then what he was thinking: we had both forgotten entirely about the feast that was to take place that afternoon. Peleus had asked us both to be there on time and on our best behaviour, yet we were both still outside, unwashed, and with our hair uncombed and stiff with sea salt from lazing at the beach for most of the day. I stood up hastily, just as Achilles hopped off the branch, landing on his feet like a cat.

“Tell my father we’ll be there presently,” he said to the guard, who bowed again and left.

We allowed ourselves a few more moments of quiet giggling before running to Achilles’ room. We washed over the basin and threw on our best tunics —mine was simple white linen, while Achilles wore his favourite plum chiton, with its golden shoulder pins— and off we went to the hall. Peleus was already there, as well as the lords of the Phthian court and his generals, talking over goblets of wine. He gave us a brief, examining look as we stepped in, and frowned slightly. He could tell we had only prepared ourselves a moment earlier and in a haste.

“Achilles,” he said. “How good of you to join us.”

The chatter in the hall stopped abruptly; all eyes fell on us. I shrank behind Achilles. He, on the other hand, strode to his father’s side with his back straight and his head held high, as if the men’s scrutinising gazes didn’t even exist.

“This,” Peleus said, gesturing to the man beside him, “is Thersander, King of Thebes. And this is his son, Tisamenus. They have travelled far to be here.” The boy standing next to the older man was tall, with dark hair and olive skin like his father, a strong chin and shoulders that were broad for his age. He’d been watching Achilles carefully ever since we stepped foot in the hall, measuring his every movement. Achilles gave him a fleeting look before returning to his father.

“A wrestling competition will take place in the outer yard,” Peleus said after the initial greetings were over. “You and Tisamenus are to go there, and after the matches are over, we are all to gather back here for the feast.”

This was news to both of us, but it wasn’t a surprise. It was the Noumenia, a holy day, the first of the lunar month, and Peleus often threw a small feast or celebration to honour the gods. Sports competitions were usually a part of it. Achilles nodded and turned to leave, and I followed, when Peleus’ voice stopped us.

“Patroclus is to stay behind, this once.”

Cold crept through me at the mention of my name. Achilles stopped short and turned to fix his father with a curious stare. His expression was still blank, but his back zipped straight with tension. The hall was silent, to a man.

“Why?” Achilles said.

“The races are for the princes only, and the sons of the members of the court,” Peleus said, not unkindly. “Patroclus will have to stay back this time.”

“Patroclus is my therapon ,” Achilles said. His voice was sharp, unbending in the quiet. “He has every right to take part.”

“Achilles.” Peleus’ lips widened in the patient, placating smile that he reserved only for his son. “It is only a small affair, in honour of Apollo Noumenios. It will not take very long.”

“Patroclus is—” Achilles started again, more forcefully this time, but my hand on his arm stopped him.

“It’s alright, Achilles,” I said quietly. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment, and the floor of my stomach dropped when all attention shifted to me again. I did not wish to make this issue any larger by letting Achilles argue with his father for my sake. Besides, the Noumenia was the holiest of days, and the conditions for competing were always very strict. The victor of the matches, the one that would be crowned with the laurel, would have to be a youth of good family and noble appearance, both of whose father and mother were still alive. I did not meet any of the criteria. Most people in the hall already knew this; those who didn't could surmise.

“I will stay behind,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice level. “It’s fine.”

Achilles turned bodily to face me. “No. It is not.” His eyes blazed with defiance beneath his golden lashes, shoulders square as if ready to fight anyone who claimed otherwise.

I could not meet that heated gaze for long. I looked away. “I’ll meet you after it’s over,” I murmured. I bowed respectfully before Peleus, King Tersander and his son, then quickly removed myself from the hall before Achilles could stop me. Achilles’ feet whispered on the marble floor behind me, but it wasn’t long before they froze once more when Peleus spoke up. I couldn’t make out the words, nor did I want to. The sound of their voices, sharp and agitated and steadily growing more and more distant, followed me as I scurried away, my eyes cast downwards at my feet.

I did not know where I was going; I did not care. I simply walked as far as the gates, and once my feet hit the hard packed earth, I ran. I ran out of the palace and onto the sprawling grounds beyond, the wind whistling by my ears.

When my feet sank into warm sand, I stopped. I had followed the winding road to the beach, where Achilles and I often went on warm afternoons like this. It was empty now, only a couple fishing boats bobbing on the water along the narrow wharf. I took a deep breath to ease the burning of my lungs and walked along the shore, the waves licking up the sand towards me.

The edge of the beach was lined with rocks of all shapes and sizes, half submerged in water. I stepped over them mindlessly, my feet having long since learned which rocks were steady and which would wobble under my weight, which groove made for a sure foothold and which would lead me sliding into the water below. I climbed quickly, like the wild goats that often descended from the rocky hills for water, until I had reached the mouth of the bay.

Before me extended the long strip of jagged, sun-bleached rock which connected one bay to the next. I hopped past the hollows in which dried salt gathered, my legs kissed by sea spray. I made my way to the small alcove in the rock that stood a little way away, and hid underneath its thick shadow. I sat down on a wide, flat stone. It was warm from a day’s worth of baking under the sun. The place was quiet, void of people, of animals, of things. There was only the rock under my feet, the sky above me and the sea beyond, wine-dark and endless.

In the palace’s outer courtyard, the wrestling matches would already be starting.

My shoulders sagged with their own weight. I imagined Achilles with the other boys, his hair gleaming like spun gold amidst dozens of dark, tousled crowns. I pictured his slender body gleaming with oil as he wrestled with strong, long-limbed Tisamenus, a competitor worthy of him, and all the rest of the noble youths watching Achilles in awe as he laughed and tossed the olive garland high up in the air, bright and buoyant with his victory. My heart burned with envy that they were there to see him and I was not.

The games are for the princes only, and for the sons of the members of the court. But I was not a prince anymore, and I was nobody’s son. I might have been Achilles’ therapon, but even he could not change the harsh facts of my reality. Peleus, in all his munificence, was still obligated to remind me of it on occasion.

And he was right. I was still an exile in a foreign land. My people value, above all, their family, their good name and their place of birth, and I had none. I had no family, no one to care for me as a son or a brother or a cousin. I had no land nor the right to claim it, and I would likely never see my mother again, or my father, even if I’d wanted to. I was alone, a pariah even among those closest to me. This was how it would always be.

Tears came, and I let them fall. They carved their way down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. I made no move to stop them, to brush them away. There was no reason. There was no one there to see me and judge. I was nothing, no one. The salty sea breeze whistled through the rocks, as if it had a voice of its own, but it was not me it was speaking to. To the god of the winds I was no more than a spec of sand.

I did not know how long I’d been there, when I felt the coolness of a shadow fall upon me. My vision was blurry when I looked up, startled; it was Achilles, standing over me, the blazing afternoon sun crowning him in gold.

“Achilles,” I breathed. My voice was hoarse and scratchy. I quickly wiped my face with the back of my hand. “What— what are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you,” he said. His face was serious as he regarded me.

My stomach twisted tight with shame. I did not want Achilles to see me like this, in this sorry state. I turned away from him, indignant that he’d intruded upon the privacy I had sought to give myself. Embarrassment and injured pride flared into a sort of sullen anger when the scene in Peleus' hall came back to me in full force. I was angry that I was unwanted, and that we both knew it; that Achilles had had to quarrel with his father for my sake; that no matter what Achilles or I did, I would always be less. Less, in every way that mattered.

More than anything, I was angry at myself for being angry at Achilles, for things that neither of us could change.

My nose itched and I sniffled. Achilles could see my reddened eyes, my puffy face; there was no way I could hide from him. I avoided his steady, green-eyed gaze, looking out into the sea instead.

Quietly, he came to sit beside me on the narrow rock. I braved a glance in his direction. He was flushed from his climb here and glowing. Doused in the shadows of the alcove, he was a dusky rose, his high cheekbones and his lips dusted sweetly pink.

We sat there for a while in silence. I expected him to speak eventually, to scold me for leaving like this, to ask me to come back and attend him as his therapon , as was my duty. Achilles did not.

“Guess what I’m thinking about,” was all he said.

His voice was soft, and delicate. He often spoke thus when we lay in bed at night, talking in hushed whispers in the dark, our heads bent close. In those moments, the air and the negligent space between us took on a dreamy quality; it was something private, meant only for us two, like the sharing of a secret.

This, I told him. The scrape of the waves against the rock. The sun glittering on the water like gold dust scattered with the wind. The seagulls that drifted aimlessly overhead. The stone I had shown him how to skip that morning, sending it hopping far into the sea. This, and this and this.

Achilles smiled his secret smile and shook his head, like he had so many times that day.

“You have to tell me,” I finally said. “I’m never going to guess.”

He stayed silent for a while. It was as if we were alone in the world, nothing existing beyond this place, this moment. The bitterness that had choked me earlier was but a distant ache, an echo; I could never hang on to pain or fear for long when I was with him. His presence was soothing, like a balm, a talisman against the world’s cruelties.

Achilles leaned closer to me and our thighs touched; his skin was hot where it met mine.

“This,” he said. He reached out to brush my knee, exposed as it was under my tunic. A shiver rolled through me when his fingers touched my skin. “This is what I’m thinking about.”

“My knee?” I asked. “What about it?”

“This scar, here. Where did you get it? You’ve never told me that story.”

I had fallen from a tree, in the courtyard of the palace of Opus, when I was six years old, I told him. I had escaped my tutor and ran away to play, and when I was found he’d given me a sound thrashing and a lecture on being unruly. Thankfully, he had spared me from telling my father about it, but as further punishment he had denied my seeking the physician to tend to the wound. It was quite deep, and it had taken me a while to stem the bleeding; it had healed soon after, but left a mark behind. My tutor always used to tap it with his stick when I was being restless, to remind me of the cost of insubordination.

There was a tiny crease between Achilles’ drawn brows as he listened; I had to resist the urge to brush my thumb over it, to smooth it out.

“Your tutor was a fool,” he declared with finality after I had finished my story.

A startled laugh escaped me, scaring away a seabird that rested on the rock not far away from us. “You’re not wrong about that,” I said. Achilles was still inspecting the scar with intense curiosity, running his finger over it. It did not surprise me that it fascinated him so; Achilles did not have any scars on him at all, nor had anyone ever been unkind to him.

“What else are you thinking about?” I asked.

Achilles lifted his eyes to mine and regarded me carefully, face tight with concentration. I loved that about him; no matter what I asked him, no matter how silly or trivial, he always thought about it like a real problem that demanded a serious answer. He reached up to the top of my head to touch my hair.

“This,” he said, threading one finger through my curls. “It has been sticking out like this since we woke up this morning.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip, suddenly embarrassed. I had forgotten to brush my hair that day; even when I tried, it was sometimes impossible to get a comb through my thick, unruly curls. Achilles had often had to wrestle me onto the bed and keep me immobile while he worked the tangles free with the fine-toothed comb he used for his own hair. “I’m… sorry?”

“I do not mind it,” he said. His eyes dropped lower, noticing the blush that crept up my neck.

I looked away, my cheeks feeling hot under the directness of Achilles’ stare, but soon I was glancing back at him, my gaze drawn to him like a fleck of iron to a magnet. I froze when he brushed his thumb over my cheek.

“This,” he whispered. The smooth skin of his fingertip scraped gently against the now-dried salt-track of a forgotten tear. “I was thinking about this.”

My heart skipped and tilted sideways; my skin prickled with our proximity, the tenderness of his touch. Achilles did not look away, his thumb following the path my earlier loss had carved. There was something in his gaze, weighted and solemn, like an apology.

“Why aren’t you in the yard, with the other boys, Achilles?” I asked quietly.

“I don’t want to be with the other boys,” he said. His words were simple and direct, as was his way.

“Your father will be angry with you.”

“Then so be it.”

“You do not care?”

He shrugged. The movement was slight, as if his father’s displeasure mattered little to him. I always marvelled at it, the way he made problems that seemed monumental to me appear so trivial.

The breeze combed through his hair, bringing its scent to me; he smelled of cloves, of rosemary, of sweet star anise.

“I was wondering,” said Achilles, “what you are thinking about.”

I blinked at him in disbelief, but then a quiet laugh escaped me. Wasn’t it obvious?

You. I almost said it. I felt drunk on it, the warmth of him so close to me, his attention focused entirely on me. Always you.

But I was robbed of words. A chill ran through me, like the early signs of winter frost, though the air was still thick and drowsy with summer heat.

“Do you think your father will be upset with us,” I asked instead, pushing the words through the knot in my throat, “if we stayed here until sunset?”

Achilles leaned back and let his hand fall. My cheek felt hollow with its absence. “He will not mind,” he replied, and sounded so certain that I believed him.

“We will miss dinner.”

“We can always sneak in the kitchens later.” His face was brightened with his cat's smile. “The cook always stores away half the honey cakes for the next day, anyway.”

We shared a conspiratorial grin. His hand found mine and gave it a small squeeze; he stood up and I did too, and on the rock behind us our shadows tangled. He pulled me to the water’s edge and I followed, helplessly drawn to him, like a flower following the sun.

“Show me that thing you did today,” he said, “when you sent the stones flying over the water.”

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, please like and reblog, it really means a lot :)

#patrochilles #Patrochilles Week 2022 #tsoa #the song of achilles #achilles #patroclus #achilles/patroclus #patroclus/achilles #tsoa fanfic #johaerys writes

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johaerys-writes · 2 years ago

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Achilles/Patroclus | 3600 words | M | Ch. 1/10

My entry for Day 7: Alternative Universe of @patrochillesweek 2022! Achilles is the young Prince of Phthia, Patroclus is his squire, in a story where they come together, come apart, then find each other all over again. Read on AO3!

Chapter 1: Heart of Winter

Phthia’s hall is packed tonight. Patroclus doesn’t think he’s ever seen it this full. There are jugglers and dancers and a band merrily playing, and the raucous laughter and animated conversations reach him in a wall sound. A servant fills his cup to the brim. He drinks.

The king’s table is full too, laden with platters of food, one dish more extravagant than the one before it. Patroclus has lost count of how many he has tasted, and he isn’t even sitting amongst the lords. He’s at the squires tables, sandwiched between Automedon and his cousin, Alcimedon. The young man brings his cup to his lips, but he’s so sauced already that a glug spills over his chin, drips onto Patroclus’ thigh. He quietly pats it down with a towel. He could have elbowed him and told him to watch it, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to make a fuss. It's easier to simply endure.

“A proper party, yeah?” Automedon laughs, arm thrown over Patroclus’ shoulders. Patroclus nods. It’s a party, alright. He has never been fond of them, and this one… this one has his stomach twisting in knots.

“Long live the king!” his friends exclaim loudly, and Patroclus winces. He drinks some more. It doesn’t help.

King Peleus stands up, raising his cup. The music stops abruptly, and the dancers and jugglers shuffle away from the centre of the room, retreating to the sides. Everyone falls quiet, waiting to hear his words. Queen Thetis beside him — regal, beautiful, icy— watches them all with cool detachment.

His speech is brief and humble, yet still booming, lifting the men’s spirits. The campaign the kingdom took part in against the Trojans was successful; the army came back with more coin, more land, more livestock. King Peleus is generous and well-loved among his subjects, and it’s obvious by the way they all toast him and wish him good health once he finishes.

“In a few years,” he says, and turns to the boy sitting beside him on the table, “once he completes his education and his training, my son will be leading our campaigns. But until then, you’ll have this old fart leading you to battle.” He slaps his chest and laughs, and the entire hall erupts in cheers.

“This old 'fart' has seen our kingdom through more victories than can be counted,” Achilles says after the applause has died down, “and will lead us all to many more. I will be honoured to follow in your footsteps, Father.”

He raises his cup, drinks to the King's health. The prince’s cheeks are a touch flushed from the wine, his lips plump and rosy as if they’ve been bitten. Waves of spun gold frame a face that’s fine-boned and delicate, like a woman’s, sweet in the warm amber glow of the fires and torches. He smiles, and the light coalesces around him like a halo. The crowd is helpless under his spell. There’s a glamour to him; he sparkles, draws the eye, yet the cool set of his features casts him apart, untouchable in his golden-hued perfection.

When King Peleus motions for everyone to sit down, and the music resumes, jade green eyes find Patroclus’ unerringly across the room. The prince winks, lip twitching in a private smile.

Patroclus’ heart buoys like a raft in a storm.

"He'll be leading the whole army one day." Automedon sighs and shakes his head. "What I wouldn't give to be his squire." He slaps Patroclus hard on the back, his drinks almost flying from his hand. "You lucky bastard."

Patroclus frowns down at the ale that's dripping from his fingers and onto his breeches again. No amount of patting with a towel will save those.

He presses his lips together tight, and says nothing.

The night wind howls outside, whistles through the castle's tall spires, makes the window rattle on its hinges. Patroclus shifts on his lumpy mattress, the oil lamp sputtering beside him. He's left it lit long after he was supposed to fall asleep, eyes trained on the tiny bell by his window.

The bell jingles. Patroclus jolts bolt upright on the bed.

He throws his woollen tunic over his head and slips out of his room on soundless feet. The castle's corridors are empty and silent, dark save for the occasional lamp still burning, sending flickering shadows over the damp stone walls. Patroclus makes his way up to the high keep from the servants' staircase, fingers brushing the wall and following the gaps in the stone to mark his passage. But it's only out of habit; he doesn't truly need it. He could have found his way blind, with his hands bound.

There is yellow light pooling on the floor from the slit underneath the prince's door when Patroclus taps it. The door opens not a breath later, Achilles' face peeking through the interstice.

"Come, come," he hisses, "you're late."

Patroclus slips in, ducking under Achilles' arm. The door is bolted shut behind him. It's hot like a kiln in the room, with the fire crackling in the hearth. The wood is scented with rosemary and clove and frankincense.

"I was waiting for your signal."

"I'd already given you a signal. At the banquet," Achilles explains impatiently. "I winked at you."

Patroclus flushes. He had thought that was a signal, but hadn't wanted to presume. "You wink at me all the time," he murmurs, abashed, and Achilles rolls his eyes.

"And it means something every time." The prince shakes his head, but there's fondness in it. The golden flecks on his eyes sparkle; his gaze is joyous, a far cry from the regal indifference earlier in the hall. "I wanted to see you, alone. Come."

Patroclus follows him close to the fire, lets Achilles sit him down on the plush cushions. Patroclus looks around the room that he’s been in a thousand, thousand times, his eyes snagging on the colourful rugs and tapestries, the golden-tasselled curtains and the crimson velvet canopy over the bed. There’s a multitude of books and shiny knick-knacks on the shelves and along the window sills, expensive gifts from all over Greece for the young prince, but the opulence is deceptive. Achilles lives ascetically amidst this luxury, with few personal effects, which are now gone, cleared away.

The entire room is clean, very clean, and tidy. No-one-will-live-here-for-five-years type of tidy. A travel chest is at the foot of the bed, its lid half open. Patroclus makes himself look away.

They talk about the banquet, each one sharing the gossip overheard during the feast. Achilles tells him about Nestor, his father’s old general, how the old man fell asleep into his wine cup while talking about his past exploits again. Patroclus tells him about Alcimedon, how Automedon had to drag him outside after he got drunk and started flirting with the court jester. Achilles laughs, and the sound is bright and clear like snow thawing in the spring sun.

“Tell me again,” he says. Patroclus does.

This and this, he tells him, all those crude jests he heard at the squires’ table and that would never be said amongst the lords, and Achilles tips back on the floor, snorting and honking. It’s so ungraceful and unprincely a display that Patroclus soon melts on the floor with him, both of them shaking with sobs of laughter, kicking their feet. There is a side to Achilles behind his regal and serious facade, that not many get to see: it’s a side that grimaces and grins at silly jokes, that talks with his mouth full, that doesn’t care if his clothes get rumpled by rolling on the floor alongside his squire. He holds nothing back; he laughs until there are tears in his eyes, until he’s breathless and gasping.

Patroclus is so in love with him.

He has been for years. Ever since that cold and dreary late autumn afternoon, when the gleaming young Prince of Phthia saw Patroclus, sweaty and dirt-covered in the training yard, and took him into his service without question, without a second thought. Achilles saw something in Patroclus that day, and while Patroclus may never find out what that is, he knows he could never repay him for this kindness. He would gladly bleed out on the snow if Achilles wanted to know what colour his heart is.

Not that Achilles would ever ask. But Patroclus still likes to think that, of all the things Achilles could ask of him, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do.

He is not the only one with a crush on the prince, of course. He has seen the longing glances by the stable hands and the serving girls, has heard the soldiers talk amongst themselves about the beautiful, fleet-footed Achilles, his nimble fingers, his slender, narrow waist. The gossip grows stronger and bolder each day that Achilles grows into manhood and more fearsome in his beauty than the last. Patroclus was hopeless even before Achilles chose him as his squire; now, he thinks, he’s utterly ruined.

After they finally catch their breaths, Achilles wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes. The silence lingers for a bit, and it’s fragile, tentative. This night is like a thousand other nights, but there’s something hovering above them both, the quiet charged with everything they’re both not saying. Achilles shifts on the cushion, clearing his throat.

“A storm is coming,” he says. As if to confirm his words, the wind picks up, howling beyond the window. Snowflakes tap against the glass, like diamond tears.

Patroclus’ heart gives a hopeful lurch. “Will you be staying until it dies down, then?”

Achilles shakes his head. The smile he wore before is nothing but an echo on his lips. “I can’t delay any longer,” he says. “It has to be tomorrow.”

Patroclus sinks once more. It leaves him dizzy; the sudden lift and drop are too much for him. His eyes burn, and he’s grateful for the shifting shadows that obscure both of their faces. He nods and forces a smile, determined not to let his feelings show.

But Achilles notices his unease, he always does. He scoots closer and lets his voice drop low, soft and soothing, while he tells him about his trip in the morning, things that Patroclus isn’t supposed to know. He tells him of the directions Chiron enclosed in his letter to him, the way to the most well-guarded secret in Greece.

“It’s beyond the eastern mountain range,” he says. “I’ll cross the valley, and then he’ll meet me there, by the river. I have to go alone; Chiron won’t let anyone else near his glade.”

“His glade?” Patroclus echoes, incredulous. He cannot imagine it. It sounds magical; a green place of lush trees and flowers and birds twittering merrily, hidden in thick foliage. Phthia is the land of hail and snow, and this is what they all know, but Pelion sounds like spring. It sounds like Achilles belongs there. The Flame of the North, they call him, for his fire-gold hair; once he goes, Patroclus thinks, all things swift and beautiful and bright will be gone with him.

Perhaps Patroclus could convince him to change his mind. Perhaps, in another life, if he fell to his knees and begged, if he pulled at his hair, Achilles would take pity on him and stay, or ask him to accompany him. But this is not this life. In this life, Patroclus hasn't the power to change... anything.

The thought congests Patroclus’ throat. He glances away, into the fire, and speaks no more, in an effort to hide the crack in his voice, the yearning, the heartbreak. He doesn’t want to sour this night. His last night with Achilles.

“I composed this song,” Achilles says when the silence lingers a little too long. “I wanted you to hear it.”

He gets up and walks to his dresser, where the lyre stands. It is Patroclus’ mother’s lyre, the one he brought with him when he was exiled to Phthia, sent by his father to serve the young prince. Achilles sits down opposite Patroclus and crosses his legs underneath him. There is a feline grace to his movements, always, but tonight there’s a thread of tension in him even as he sits leisurely on the plush cushion. Giddiness, too, perhaps. Patroclus knows him too well to not know these things; he’s spent way too long watching him, cataloguing every mannerism and every shift in his expression. And why shouldn’t Achilles be giddy? It isn’t every day that one is called to the mystical forests of Mount Pelion to train under one of the greatest teachers that have ever lived. Who wouldn’t be ecstatic at the prospect?

Patroclus tries to be happy for him, he really does, even as he can’t imagine life in the castle without Achilles. He doesn’t want to.

Achilles’ fingers run over the strings lightly, like birds. The notes that pour forth are sweet and crystal clear like drops of dew. Achilles’ voice joins them, and it’s even sweeter, reaching down inside Patroclus and warming the icicles that always linger in his heart. Patroclus listens to him, entranced.

“Do you like it?” Achilles asks after he’s finished.

“It’s beautiful.”

Pleasure softens Achilles’ features at the praise. “I wrote it for you,” he says.

Patroclus's jaw goes slack at this. He cannot control the way his pulse skips and thumps like it’s drunk, or the expression on his face. He must look absolutely crestfallen, for Achilles’ smile wobbles. “Patroclus,” he starts, but Patroclus is faster.

“I’m going to miss you,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. And then it’s Achilles’ turn to look crestfallen and struck dumb. There is something else in his eyes too, like guilt, or perhaps pity. Patroclus wants to die from the embarrassment.

Heat travels up his cheeks, warm fingers burning beneath his skin and choking him. This is no way to talk to a prince. This is no way to talk at all— Patroclus has no rights. He’s only a squire, and the fact alone that he’s a squire and no mere soldier or servant is only because of Achilles. No other knight or prince treats their squire the way Achilles treats him, despite his mother’s obvious displeasure and the nobles’ gossiping. He’s the closest thing to a friend and a brother Patroclus has ever had, and now that he’s leaving, Patroclus will— he will—

“Oh, Patroclus,” Achilles sighs. He sets the lyre aside, his earlier joy now entirely gone, and Patroclus wilts with shame that he ruined this, their last night together. He wants to be happy for him —he does, he really does— but his selfish heart betrays him.

I’ll miss you, he thinks. I’ll miss you, I’ll miss you, I’ll—

The firelight limns Achilles’ aureate hair, the sharp lines of his face. His hand, when it touches Patroclus’ shoulder, is very warm.

“I’m going to miss you too, Patroclus.”

The words take him aback. They echo within him like a great bell struck. He’s still frozen, helpless under the heat of his touch, when Achilles moves forward. Their foreheads touch; Achilles’ breath brushes Patroclus’ lips. He smells of honey and wine, of crushed roses, of wheat warmed all day by the sun. He smells like summer, in the heart of winter.

Distant panic settles in Patroclus’ chest. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, for fear of leaning forward, of giving up, giving in. Achilles’ fingers glide gently down Patroclus’ cheek.

“Don’t forget me,” he whispers. “Don’t forget this. Not even for a moment. Do you promise?”

Patroclus would laugh, if he wasn’t so numb. How could he ever forget him? The whole world could freeze over, and the last thing remaining in his mind would be him.

“Promise me, Patroclus.”

“I— I won’t forget.” Patroclus swallows past the lump in his throat, reminding himself to breathe. “I promise.”

That seems to soothe something in Achilles, to ease the tension that lingers in the line of his shoulders. He edges back and smiles at him, the emerald green of his eyes more vibrant than ever. Patroclus thinks he’ll drown in them.

He doesn’t return to his room that night. Achilles pulls the blankets from his bed and they lie there, on the rug, until the darkness beyond the window lifts into the bleak grey of early dawn. They’ve had nights like this countless times before, where Patroclus would sneak into his room and they’d talk and gossip until dawn, but this one isn’t like the others. It can’t be. Their tongues flap ceaselessly at first, as if to speak all the words that they won’t be sharing anymore, to fill in the missing years that will come, but then they fall silent, gazing into the fire together. Achilles drifts into a light slumber, but Patroclus stays awake, watching him, trying to capture those moments in his memory and preserve them, crystal clear and perfect.

When dawn breaks, Patroclus helps Achilles dress and brushes his hair. They both make quick work of saying their goodbyes. Patroclus quietly slips out of the door, before the servants arrive. Before he says something he’ll likely regret.

He washes his face with the ice cold water in his small basin and changes into a fresh set of clothes, throws his woollen cloak about his shoulders. He dashes to the yard after the sun rises, painting the world a gentle rose. The prince and his retinue are already there, mounting their horses; a crowd has gathered to watch.

Achilles is wearing his favourite plum-coloured cape, the fabric falling richly over his horse’s rump. His golden hair contrasts the white of the fur collar so beautifully, its colour matching the circlet resting on his temples almost exactly. A fine dusting of snow is falling all around them, fluffy and powder-white, catching on his eyelashes, melting on his skin.

King Peleus wishes him a pleasant and easy journey, makes a show of seeing him off. Queen Thetis beside him is quiet as ever, her features cold as ice. She kisses her son goodbye, then returns to her husband’s side when Achilles kicks his horse forward.

When he reaches the tall arch of the castle’s entrance, Achilles shifts a little on his saddle. He doesn't look at his mother, his father, the castle he's leaving behind. He looks straight at Patroclus, and his gaze is visceral in its intensity. It takes his breath away.

Don’t forget me, Patroclus can hear his voice in his head. Don’t forget this.

Then, Achilles winks at him, and smiles his secret smile.

The portcullis lowers. Achilles’ horse steps gingerly on the wood, and then they’re all riding out at a swift canter.

The crowd disperses, but Patroclus has no heart to leave. It’s like his limbs have lost the memory to move, all sense of purpose draining from him the moment the Achilles’ horse becomes a hazy shadow that disappears down the curve of the road. And then there’s only hoofprints where Achilles used to be, already covered by the snow.

Cold spreads through Patroclus, seeps into his bones. It’s as if his heart has forgotten how to beat.

Automedon appears beside him, and Patroclus thinks he’s talking to him, but he can’t hear him. He absently agrees to whatever it is his friend asked him, then slips away into the crowd leaving the yard. He runs up the service stairs, almost toppling a servant and his tray in his haste to get away. He’s panting by the time the door of his room closes shut behind him; he pulls the latch with trembling fingers.

His face finds his pillows blindly, and Patroclus buries himself there. He curls in on himself, finally allowing the tears to come. He’s wracked and shocked by it, the depth of his grief, the intensity with which it floods him. It leaves him gasping; it feels like he’s drowning, too far into the dark to ever breach the surface. Because Achilles is gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, and he isn’t coming back. He won’t be back for years.

Patroclus cries until he’s sure there are no tears left in his body.

For a single moment of sheer insanity, Patroclus considers following him there. He imagines shoving all of his clothes in a bag, stealing a horse from the stables and galloping after him, into the storm. He knows the way there. Achilles told him every detail. They would both go to Chiron’s secret glade, away from the court and the nobles and all the damned gossip. They would be there together, just the two of them; not a prince and his squire, bound by honour and duty. They would finally face each other like free men, like equals. The fantasy is so real, so warm, that Patroclus is drunk with it.

But the impulse is short-lived. Chiron would never allow him to stay. Achilles has no need for a squire where he’s going, and if he isn’t Achilles’ squire, Patroclus is nothing. He is no one, the exiled son of a disgraced father. He wants to follow Achilles, to tell him everything he's been afraid to tell him all these years, but his feelings are too fragile, too misunderstood. So he keeps them locked inside himself, carefully tucked away, alongside his promise.

“I won’t forget you,” he whispers to himself, the words sticky on his tongue. He touches his lips with his fingers, where Achilles’ breath had touched them the previous night, when he’d held him as close as a lover.

I’ll never forget you.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you enjoyed this, I’d love to hear your thoughts! <3

#patrochilles #Patrochilles Week 2022 #tsoa #the song of achilles #tsoa fanfic #hades #hades game #achilles #patroclus #achilles x patroclus #achilles/patroclus #twin flames #johaerys writes

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johaerys-writes · 2 years ago

Text

Achilles/Patroclus | E | 2.7k words

For Day 4: Fluff of @patrochillesweek 2022! Achilles is trying to work, and Patroclus is being particularly distracting.

Read here or on AO3!

Achilles glared at the map before him. The figures and lines drawn in black ink stared back at him, as if in disapproval.

The tent door whispered as it was pushed aside. Achilles looked up at Patroclus, walking in. His hair was heavy with saltwater, ringlets clinging to his brow and the curve of his elegant neck. Rivulets glistened silver and gold in the flickering light of the brazier as they carved paths down his collarbone, disappearing into the dark curls on his chest.

“How was your swim?” Achilles asked.

“Wonderful,” Patroclus replied, padding towards him. His sandals left wet footprints on the floor of the tent. “The water was very refreshing. You should have joined me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Patroclus was a welcome weight when he settled on his lap. His hands were cool when they fell on Achilles’ shoulders; even cooler lips caressed the shell of his ear, tickling. “Has the sea lost the favour of the Best of the Greeks?”

Achilles chuckled.

“The most charming of the Greeks.” Sharp teeth gently scraped his earlobe, making him shiver. The hands drifted downwards, brushing Achilles’ chest over his tunic. “The strongest, most richly endowed of the Greeks.”

Patroclus’ voice was low and sultry, heavy with promise. Achilles turned his head to catch Patroclus’ lips in a deep, hungry kiss. Patroclus moaned in his mouth, pressing himself closer.

“The most endowed, hm?” Achilles asked against his lips, and Patroclus laughed.

“By half.”

Achilles grinned, threading his fingers through his philtatos’ wet curls. He smelled of warm sand and saltwater, the rich iodine scent of the deep, the sweet musk of his skin. Achilles buried his face in the crook of his neck to breathe him deep, running his tongue over the still damp skin to taste him.

“The sea has not lost its appeal,” he murmured. “But it also cannot solve this problem.” He gestured at the map spread out on the table. “It’s been tormenting me for hours.”

Patroclus glanced at it with mild disinterest. “What’s the problem with it? It seems like a perfectly adequate map to me.”

“It’s not the map itself,” Achilles said, smiling at Patroclus’ deliberate miscomprehension. “It’s what it is showing me.” He brushed his palm over the smooth leather. “It’s the city of Aetolia. The Dardanians have been guarding it like Cerberus does Hades’ gates. Its stores contain most of the grain that gets distributed amongst the smaller towns. If we manage to bring it down, it will deal a significant blow to their supply lines.”

“Is that all? Then attack it.”

“We’ve tried that. They keep repelling our attacks. The fort is far too strong. It is said that it has never been taken.” Achilles sighed and shook his head. “The walls are fifteen paces high and three paces thick. There are men on every watchtower, and the guard changes every six hours. That means there’s a substantial force left behind the walls. There isn’t an inch of battlement that’s left unattended, at all hours of the day. They… what are you doing?” Achilles asked when a playful hand drifted down between them, trailing the inside of his thigh.

“I am listening.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“How can you tell?” Patroclus smiled sweetly as deft fingers disappeared beneath Achilles’ tunic. “Do go on.”

Achilles took a shaky breath when those pesky fingers wrapped around him. “Patroclus...”

“I am listening.” He tilted his head to the side, watching him. “How many soldiers man the walls? I want numbers, General.”

Heat stirred underneath his skin, pooling low, coaxed by the gentle yet precise movements of Patroclus’ hand. He knew the pace Achilles liked, the pressure, and used it to his benefit. He slowly stroked Achilles until he grew full and hard in his palm. Achilles pressed his eyes shut for a moment, to collect himself.

“There are— always ten men along the north and eastern walls,” he said, his voice shaking. He brushed his lips over the curve of Patroclus’ shoulder, tasting the drying salt on his skin. “One man for every four crenellations. Judging by the frequency with which they are rotated…. We’re talking at least thirty, perhaps fourty men.”

“That’s a skeleton force, for so large a fort.”

“There are more— on the grounds.” Achilles’ words caught on a strangled moan when Patroclus’ thumb rubbed the head of his cock, smearing precome over the tip until it shone. “Guards at every gate.”

“How many gates are there?”

“The scouts have reported two main ones, north and west, and at least two smaller ones, along the eastern wall. They’re for supplies, probably, and smaller groups to go in and out undetected. Or…” Achilles stared, dazed, as Patroclus sank to his knees before Achilles’ spread legs.

He pushed Achilles’ tunic up, the fabric bunching up around his hips. His pink tongue brushed over his lips, making them gleam. His eyes, warm and richly brown like fertile earth, flicked brazenly up at Achilles as his fist moved rhythmically up and down his length. He leaned closer to lap at the bead of translucent dew that had gathered at the tip of his cock. A sigh rose to Achilles’ throat, just as heat coiled in his belly at the sight of Patroclus’ mouth, so close to him, the feel of his breath on his skin.

“You were saying?” Patroclus purred.

"I want you,” Achilles blurted out.

Patroclus’ eyes glittered with amusement. He licked a stripe up the underside of Achilles’ cock, tongue swirling over the head, but without taking it in his mouth. Achilles’ nails dug into the carved wooden armrest.

“That isn’t what you were saying.”

“Patroclus, please.”

“Tell me about the castle defences,” Patroclus said.

“Gods, I just want to—”

“Achilles.” Slender fingers squeezed the base of his shaft, for emphasis. “Tell me about the defences.”

Achilles let out a sigh of defeat, sinking a little deeper in his chair. Patroclus continued teasing him, each flick of his tongue sending tremors through him, yet without quite giving him what he knew he needed.

“They are stronger and more sturdy than any we’ve seen since arriving,” Achilles said breathlessly. “They’ve taken care to man every section, especially the weaker parts. We’ve been circling it for days, yet there’s no way through.”

“What are the weaker parts?” Patroclus’ lips closed over the head of Achilles’ cock, eyes fixed on him. He didn’t move lower, yet the warmth and suction was enough to make Achilles’ mind swim. His eyes rolled back in his head when Patroclus sucked him just a little deeper, teased him a little harder, tonguing the slit.

A squeeze on his thigh brought him back. Achilles glanced down to find Patroclus watching him with keen interest, cheeks hollowed and plump lips enveloping the tip of his shaft.

“There are— there are no weak parts,” Achilles managed through the haze of desire that was quickly descending upon him, mudding his thoughts. Strategies and battle tactics were slipping away like sand through his fingers. He gently cupped the back of Patroclus’ neck, trying to guide him further down, but Patroclus knocked his hand aside.

“You aren’t thinking, Achilles,” he scolded.

Achilles pouted. “I am trying. But you’re not letting me. You’re…” He sighed, his thumb gliding over Patroclus' flushed and slick bottom lip. “You’re making it very hard to focus, philtatos.”

Patroclus smiled, softening. The firelight danced in his eyes and his skin gleamed like bronze. Yearning and lust made Achilles bold; he leaned forward to kiss him, to pull him flush against him, but Patroclus was faster. He did not let Achilles close the distance between them. He pressed the flat of his palm to his chest and pushed him back against the chair.

“Every fort has weak spots,” he said. “Find those for me, and I’ll give you the release you seek.”

Achilles quirked a brow in challenge. “And if I don’t?”

Patroclus smiled in answer. “Then we shall see who will be the first to yield.” And with that, he dipped down between Achilles’ legs again.

It was torture, and it was bliss. Patroclus, who knew his body so intimately, inside and out; who knew exactly how to touch him, where to touch him, the right amount of pressure that was needed to make him tear at the seams; he played with him like a musician with his instrument, drawing just the right sounds from him with only the barest of movements. Pulling tiny, tiny threads with surgeon-like precision, watching intently as he came undone before his eyes. Achilles held that lovely, knowing gaze, caressing Patroclus’ cheek with his thumb as he sucked him, as he drove him closer and closer to the edge with hands and lips and tongue.

He was being worked to the point of madness, yet never crossing the threshold that would tip him over the edge. There was sweat gathering on Achilles’ temples, beading at his spine. And Patroclus kept going, asking more and more pressing questions that Achilles had to use all of his will to answer.

Yet, no matter how hard he thought — or tried to— he could not find the gap in the fort’s defences. There was nothing for him to grab on to, nothing to use to his advantage. The Trojans may have outsmarted them, just this once.

“There is no— no opening,” he panted, voice low and hoarse. Patroclus’ mouth slid down, taking him deep; he groaned when he felt the pressure of cartilage at the back of Patroclus’ throat. He tensed all over when he felt pleasure soaring, searingly bright, trying to push it back down. “There’s a moat before the north wall. The eastern and western walls are thicker. The crenellations are wider too, so hot oil can be poured down. We wouldn’t even make it — ah— past the middle of the—” He groaned low as Patroclus took him down to the base. “You feel so good—”

Patroclus hummed around him, the vibration travelling through his skin where they were connected. And his eyes, his eyes; they kept him captivated, an anchor to keep him steady as wave after wave of warmth rolled through him.

“What about the south wall?” Patroclus asked, sliding his lips off him.

Achilles bit back a low whine of disappointment as Patroclus replaced his mouth with his fist. His hand brushed up Patroclus’ arm, fingers threading through his hair to pull him closer once more, but his lover was unrelenting. He pressed him back against the chair again, keeping him still and at his mercy.

“Patroclus,” Achilles panted, “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“I need you. I’m so close—”

“Not yet.” Patroclus squeezed the base of his cock, stopping another wave from cresting. His eyes were gentle, like always, but his resolve was ironclad, his expression implacable. It only served to stoke the fire that burned in Achilles’ core. “You’re not allowed to finish until I say. Is that clear?”

A low whine rose to Achilles’ throat. He bit it back, and nodded.

The flames in the brazier danced in Patroclus’ eyes. They stayed there for a while, gazing at each other while Patroclus stroked him steadily. They breathed together, their chests swelling and contracting in time with the other, perfectly in sync. Patroclus’ hair had slowly reclaimed its usual bounce and thickness as it dried. Achilles wanted to bury his face in it and breathe him deep, but he didn’t dare more from where Patroclus was holding him.

“Tell me about the south wall, Achilles,” he said softly.

Achilles’ throat clicked as he swallowed. It was getting harder yet to think, but he used every last ounce of his control to bring some focus back into his brain.

“It faces the river,” he said, strained and hoarse.

"What about the navy?"

"They don't have it. They're far inland. Just some fishing boats, narrow enough to fit through the watergates. Too small to matter. And they don't need a navy force anyway." He held Patroclus' gaze as the pressure built and built, with each firm stroke of his hand. “That’s why it’s impenetrable. It’s a strategic position, both for commerce and defence.”

“If anyone can figure out how to penetrate an impenetrable fort,” Patroclus quipped, “that should be you, philtatos.”

“It isn’t forts I want to penetrate right now,” Achilles quipped back, but his voice cracked on a moan when Patroclus’ thumb pressed against that spot, the one Patroclus always liked to tease with his tongue, because he knew it made Achilles weak.

“In that, we are in agreement.”

His fingers, slick with saliva and the dew of Achilles’ arousal, slid deftly between his legs; the familiar pressure made Achilles gasp. One finger quickly turned into two, then three.

“Yes,” he sighed, “like this.” Achilles let his thighs fall open further, trying to take him deeper, faster, but Patroclus clicked his tongue, slowing down.

“What did we say about patience?”

Achilles grumbled in protest, “You like seeing me suffer.”

“Hush, you’re enjoying it.”

Achilles opened his mouth to protest further, but all words died on his tongue when Patroclus bowed between his legs again. And this time he didn’t hold anything back. He took Achilles as deep as he could go, the muscles of his throat squeezing around him, while his fingers curled, pushing him ever closer towards the precipice.

The sharp heat and pressure that had coiled low inside him burst into something white-hot and blinding. Achilles shuddered with the force of his release. A groan tore through him, eyes falling shut as he poured his pleasure down his lover's throat.

He was still breathless and reeling when Patroclus' lips brushed against his own. Achilles chased the taste of himself on Patroclus’ tongue, deepening the kiss to uncover the heady sweetness of him.

It was so quiet, so mellow a moment. Achilles was soft and dewy with the afterglow, all tension bleeding from his muscles to be replaced by endless, pulsing warmth. He was ready to surrender wholly to it, let himself sink into that syrupy sweetness with his Patroclus and let time fall away.

"The fort isn't impenetrable, by the way," Patroclus whispered against his lips.

Achilles leaned back to blink at him, dazed. "Hm?"

"It has a weakness. It's been there all along."

"What is it?"

"The south gate.” Patroclus peppered lazy kisses along his jawline. “The one by the river. It's the least guarded, and they don't have a navy. But you do."

"But our ships aren't meant for river travel," Achilles said.

Patroclus climbed up the length of him, arms winding around his neck as he straddled him. "The Scamander is wide enough at that point to use the oars. Send one ship, maybe two, under cover of darkness, while the main force stages a surprise attack on the north wall. If you manage to breach the watergates, you'll slip in behind their backs before they realise it. They'll be caught unawares and overwhelmed, attacked from both sides. They'd be fools not to surrender." He sighed into their kiss, leaning into him. "If they're smart about it, you won't even have to kill that many of them."

Achilles blinked at Patroclus, then at the map. It was risky, and bold. The Trojans would never see it coming. "You think this could work?"

"It's worth a try." Patroclus shrugged. "Do your commanders have any better ideas?"

A sly grin widened Achilles' lips. "Better than yours? Unlikely."

Patroclus laughed when Achilles stood up, with Patroclus still in his lap. His legs wrapped around Achilles' waist as he walked them both to the bed.

"None of their suggestions managed to convince me.” He smirked, “They don't quite have your way with words, you see."

"Oh? And it's Odysseus the men call silver-tongued," Patroclus hummed, wrapping a lock of Achilles' hair around his finger.

“I wouldn’t trust Odysseus as far as I could kick him. You, though.” Achilles lay him down on the sheets, hovering over him. “You should be part of every council.”

“Gods, no. Now who’s the one that likes to see the other suffer?” He rolled his eyes. “An hour in those councils would be the end of me.”

Achilles laughed as his palm slid down the length of Patroclus’ body, mapping the curves of his muscled chest, smoothing down the expanse of his stomach, following the trail of dark hair that led to his navel. Patroclus’ head fell back against the pillows when Achilles took him in hand, coaxing to hardness.

“I had a different end in mind,” Achilles purred, leaning down to capture the next sigh that left Patroclus’ parted lips with a kiss.

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