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Achilles was told conscription would be good for him, test his physical skills and school his restless energy. He arrives back in Athens a year later, worn out and desperately searching for Patroclus in the blurring bodies and hopeful faces at the airport arrivals.
His uniform feels stiff and uncomfortable now that he is surrounded again by civilians. He is enveloped in the commotion of tearful reunions, tired locals, and excited tourists, yet he feels entirely alone. When he finally finds Patroclus eagerly searching for him, the empty feeling softens into something more bearable, something familiar.
Achilles knows the moment he has been discerned in the crowd, Patroclus’ mouth widens with a grin that takes his whole face.
He calls Achilles’ name and they are both pushing through the mass of travelers to throw their arms around one another. Patroclus’ embrace is sure and his laughter is so bright. He tells Achilles how much he missed him in a murmur against his ear and Achilles almost forgets himself, forgets the people surrounding them. His lips form into a smile pressed softly against Patroclus’ neck, a wordless response, before he pulls away in haste and brings his hands to his sides.
He can’t stop staring because it’s been a year, and Patroclus can’t stop smiling, and his hair is falling into his eyes like always, and he is a dark golden from the summer sun, and Achilles just missed him so much.
“Fuck, I missed you,” Achilles says aloud, staring and staring, and Patroclus laughs.
They walk to their car, and even with the dimness of exhaustion Achilles cannot keep himself from asking Patroclus to repeat everything he’s told Achilles over the phone or in letters, because it is so much better to be with him and see the words take shape on his lips.
Patroclus helps him load his mere duffel bag of belongings into the trunk and they pause, standing face to face in the empty lot and Patroclus is still grinning when he reaches towards Achilles and tugs at a blond curl.
“I haven’t seen your hair so short in years.” He says and Achilles frowns.
He had been forced to cut it short. He certainly had not earned the good favor of his commanding officer, but he had been persistent in annoying the absolute shit out of Agamemnon and successfully evading a haircut in his last few months. Agamemnon had been stringent and downright aggravating, but Achilles was equally defiant and stubborn. And so, his hair has been growing back quickly, almost curling beneath his chin.
He tells Patroclus as much and he shakes his head with a fond expression playing on his lips, “It looks good. You look good.”
As Patroclus rounds the car and opens the door he says to Achilles, “when you get the chance to meet Cassandra and Clytemnestra you should definitely tell them that story, especially the part about pissing off your CO.”
Achilles grins, “oh?”
“Trust me,” they duck into the car and Patroclus grins back, “they’ll love you for it.”
They’re navigating the narrow and brightly lit streets of Psiri, the humid evening air heavy with the sounds of laughter and music. Patroclus glances over and when Achilles catches his eye he tries to smile, looking rather apologetic.
Achilles asks, “what is it?”
“A few friends are going to be joining us,” he says sheepishly, “They wanted to meet you as soon as you got back. I guess I talk about you a lot.”
“Oh,” he grins, “good things I hope.”
Patroclus glares at him to suggest he is a fool for thinking otherwise and Achilles laughs, pleased.
Achilles isn’t sure what he’s expecting when they arrive at the bar, but it’s not a gathering of beautiful women smiling sweetly and calling Patroclus in their direction like fabled sirens frolicking on a rocky seashore.
Achilles’ mother had always enjoyed telling the boys grandiose tales about them, her voice sweet as she imitated their songs, Achilles and Patroclus tucked beneath the covers, and Patroclus’ head lolling on Achilles' shoulder sleepily.
Patroclus places a hand on his back, fingers splayed and familiar, and guides him towards the girls. He smiles, nodding to each of the three in turn as he introduces them, “Clytemnestra, Cassandra, and Briseis.” Achilles quickly grew accustomed to stares in his youth, gliding over him like water, and he settles easily under their scrutiny now.
Clytemnestra, standing closest to Achilles, tosses her sleek dark hair and grins sharp and bright, “you must be Achilles.”
He nods, glancing at Patroclus to find his gaze steady upon him in the fading sunlight. Something flares warm and insistent in his chest, but he pulls an effortless, charming grin and introduces himself.
Cassandra speaks next, “we’ve heard all about you. Achilles this, Achilles that. We know more about you than we do about Patroclus.”
“When will Achilles return from war?” Clytemnestra mocks in a deep approximation of Patroclus’ voice.
Achilles is watching when Patroclus blushes, his tanned complexion darkening. Briseis laughs, voice soft and almost lost in the noise of the evening around them.
He keeps his hand at Achilles’ waist even after they’ve drifted into the bar. It’s noisy and Patroclus has to lean close and whisper against the shell of his ear. Achilles shivers and tries to focus on the drink he’s been handed by Cassandra. It’s too sweet and it’s crowded but Achilles feels alone.
They fall into easy conversation, Achilles keeping unusually quiet. He’s exhausted, a little drunk. His head is spinning. He woke up this morning in a shitty bunk somewhere in Larissa and now he’s back in Athens and Patroclus has a hand on his thigh beneath the table and he’s trying really hard to think nothing of it.
The evening drags on, a slow crawl through time and he watches Briseis and Patroclus beside him, the suggestion of attraction obvious in her mannerisms as she speaks to him. Achilles closes his eyes so as not to see it and he can feel Clytemnestra’s stare settled on him, perceptive, almost smug in some sort of satisfaction. She turns and murmurs something low to Cassandra, who’s tucked into her side. Cassandra smiles into her drink and Achilles looks away quickly.
The ice begins to melt in Achilles’ drink, sluggishly giving into water and he turns the cup in his hands. His fingers are cold and wet with condensation and he stares at his fingerprints on the glass and wishes he had Patroclus alone.
The conversation lapses into a lull and Briseis stretches and stands to order the next round. Clytemnestra and Cassandra’s furtive glances land on Patroclus, he refuses their gaze and all Achilles can think about is Patroclus’ fingertips pressing harder into his leg. The music is suddenly deafening and he’s too warm. Their silent exchange is lost on Achilles, and he looks to Patroclus for an answer. Patroclus says nothing, swallowing the last of his drink hastily and his touch leaves Achilles.
“I’m gonna get some air.” He announces and disappears swiftly into the crowd before Achilles can reply.
He follows Patroclus out of the bar. He’s not even sure where he’s going, until the noise softens and the groups of people thin, as though his feet have carried him upon instinct.
The warm evening breeze is soothing, his head is pounding and he has drunk too much but all that matters is finding Patroclus through the dark shapes and blurs of people.
He’s leaning against the brick of a building a few paces away, eyes downcast and a cigarette already burning between his fingers.
“I leave you for a year and I come back to find you with a harem of pretty girls?” Achilles calls, a little slurred and teasing.
Patroclus startles, quickly dropping the cigarette to snuff it into the pavement with the toe of his sneaker.
It isn’t a secret to Achilles, but Patroclus still looks abashed and clarifies, “I’m quitting, I promise. I was just bored without you around.”
Achilles laughs, reaching out to squeeze Patroclus’ arm in an absentminded gesture of affection. Anything to be touching him. He settles beside him and tips his head towards the dark sky, turning his hollowness towards the night for the stars to take.
Patroclus shrugs in answer to Achilles’ question, “they’re cool. They’re also dating each other. Cass and Clytemnestra, I mean.”
That much was obvious.
Achilles’ eyes move along the lines of his profile outlined against the glow of surrounding shops and restaurants. He seems to take the light and hold it inside him, shining upon Achilles.
“Briseis seems sweet on you.” Achilles means it to be in jest, forcing away the deep and sharp ache in his chest.
Patroclus shrugs again, his expression changed when he glances at Achilles. He seems to search Achilles’ face and Achilles isn’t sure what he’s looking for.
He knows Patroclus well enough to drop it.
Achilles smiles, forced, “alright, what have I missed in Athens?”
“Nothing. Athens missed you,” Patroclus murmurs, and Achilles laughs soft and genuine.
Their apartment is a little shabby, it is a homey place with a glimpse of the Acropolis and the Parthenon from the balcony cramped with potted plants.
It has changed very little in Achilles’ absence, a few more books piled upon the overladen bookcase, the leafy plant at the window creeping further along the ledge. As though the space had been waiting with bated breath.
They stand far apart, too far, in the flat’s kitchen, Patroclus with his back turned and busying himself with the kettle at the stove.
There’s an odd energy, tangible and quivering between them, and for once Achilles isn’t sure what to say.
“How’s school been?” He already knows but he asks again because he’s sobered up now and the silence is too much and somehow feels worse than the blanket of noise at the bar.
“Good, Patroclus finally looks at him and smiles, “I enjoyed my lectures last semester.”
He nods and the uneasiness has crept back in and lingers heavily between them. He watches Patroclus pour their tea and wonders if he was just as lonely when Achilles was gone. If he still brought out two mugs sometimes in habit and the realization of it made his heart hurt. The same way Achilles would be amused by something trivial and search the room to catch Patroclus’ eye and grin and all at once realize he wasn’t there, he was so far away, just a crackling voice on the other end of the phone.
When he hands Achilles a cup of tea their fingers brush, and it’s the same feeling that has always struck him suddenly and overwhelmingly since their first, most innocent touch; he wants more.
He doesn’t really care for tea, but Patroclus does so he thanks him and cradles the cup in his hands.
Achilles wants to say so many things, he had rehearsed a million foolish confessions on his flight. He says none of it, he knew he wouldn’t.
“I missed you,” Patroclus says softly, expression earnest, almost careful. It has always been Patroclus who has risked it first.
“I missed you too.”
The thing is, Achilles loves him. He’s loved him since they were teenagers messing around in a single bed and kissing in the olive groves shrouding their house. They promised one another it was practice, fleeting and careless. They would grow out of it. Achilles never did.
They bought this apartment together, just before Achilles left for basic training. Patroclus had just finished his tour, all lean muscle and golden from the Mediterranean sun, Achilles couldn’t tear his gaze away when Patroclus asked him to join him in Athens.
This place is theirs. But now Patroclus is making a life for himself beyond the worn walls, figuring it all out, without Achilles, and he is afraid. Afraid because he doesn’t know how to share Patroclus. The best of him had somehow always been a perfect secret for only Achilles to know.
He stares down at the mug clasped in his hands, wisps of steam curling and disappearing into the air.
He says Patroclus’ name, a half-formed thought beginning, trying to ease the tension and Patroclus suddenly takes the cup from his hands, places it gently on the counter. His fingertips are warm when they touch Achilles’ wrist, almost testing.
When he looks up, Patroclus is watching him carefully, heady gaze darting to Achilles’ mouth and back in the breath of a moment.
Achilles understands the hunger etched beautifully in his face, his chest swells with it, almost painful in its intensity.
He isn’t sure who gives in first, their lips touching tentatively. It’s maddening in its restraint. Patroclus’ fingers tighten around his wrist, pressing into the thunder of his pulse.
Something breaks in Achilles’ chest, being close to Patroclus now, the lingering taste of him on his lips, the surety of his hands. The cautious push and pull against the current of affection is almost unbearable.
Achilles crowds him against the counter, pressing so close that nothing could fit between the trembling lines of their bodies.
“I missed you,” Achilles says again, and he means he missed this too.
They promised they would stop. A halfhearted agreement at best, vowed the last time Patroclus had sunk to his knees with lust and determination bright in his face.
Achilles knew they would never have enough, it would never really be over, not for him. The fierce way Patroclus tugs his hair and leads him into a deeper kiss gives Achilles some stupid glimmer of hope that it isn’t over for Patroclus either.
Achilles' fingers scramble for the hem of Patroclus’ shirt, breaking away to demand it off.
Patroclus obliges, pulls his shirt over his head, and tosses it carelessly aside, his mouth is back on Achilles’ before he can think to beg.
Achilles can’t think, he can’t even form a coherent thought beyond Patroclus’ name, the syllables sweetly pieced apart with desire. Patroclus’ fingers tangle with his, grounding him as he leads them from the kitchen towards his bedroom.
All he wants is to touch Patroclus, he isn’t sure how he went so long without him, how he didn’t burn and whither with want and heartache.
Patroclus' bedroom has changed very little, much like the rest of the flat. More books piled high on every available surface and stacks of paper and notebooks. Above his desk, there is an array of photos and postcards pinned, grainy pictures from their childhood and newer ones with their arms slung around each other, smiling.
Achilles had kept his own photo of them together tucked in his wallet while he was away, but Patroclus didn’t need to know that. It feels like a dream now to have Patroclus’ mouth on him, hands wandering low when Achilles had spent so long tracing his smile in the photo with a fingertip.
Patroclus pauses, drawing back slightly to bring Achilles’ hair through his fingers, and ask softly, “you alright?”
Achilles presses a thumb to his bottom lip and Patroclus’ lips part slightly. Achilles exhales shakily, nods. He replaces his finger with his mouth and kisses Patroclus deeply.
“Tell me if you want to stop.” Patroclus whispers and Achilles knows he’s not just talking about his fingers undoing his jeans and his hand wrapping around him right in that moment.
Achilles never wants to stop and he kisses Patroclus again in answer.
He finally gets Patroclus undressed and draped across the unmade bed, and his skin is a map of freckles and scars that Achilles has spent a lifetime learning. He touches the dark, raised skin at his elbow from the scar where he’d broken his arm as a kid, the spattering of sunlight dashed across his shoulders, and the mark at his collarbone from Achilles’ teeth. Each place Achilles touches, his mouth follows and it’s worship because he loves Patroclus. He will never stop, and every part of him is part of Achilles, and he remembers stories about soulmates he was told as a child and he knows that he has found him, his other half.
Patroclus draws his mouth along his jaw, his lips soft and breath warm. His fingers trail along the soft skin of his stomach and Achilles can feel him against his hip and he trembles.
“I haven’t been with anyone since you left,” Patroclus says in a whisper, and his hand is sure, fingers clever.
Something lifts from Achilles’ chest, the relief of it draws a moan and Patroclus catches the sweet sound in his mouth.
Achilles closes his hand around Patroclus’, tightens his grip slightly and strokes himself slowly.
“Bossy,” Patroclus admonishes and Achilles laughs breathily. He is perfect and he is half of Achilles, knows him too well.
Patroclus quickens a hand on Achilles’, the other hand holds his face, and Achilles turns his head slightly to press a kiss to his open palm.
Like pressing a finger to a bruise, it’s tender and a little foolish but it’s addictive. It’s the pain of it that tempts them.
Achilles sighs softly, returns Patroclus’ touch by reaching for him and stroking him languidly, “Me neither.”
Patroclus frowns a little, face drawn in pleasure, “hm?”
“I haven’t been with anyone else either.”
“Oh,” Patroclus thumbs the head of his cock, and Achilles whines loudly. His hand is warm and slick and it’s everything Achilles thought about in the past year when he was alone and his own hand drifted lower.
“I’ll come like this,” He warns as Patroclus mouths along his throat. “It’s been too long.”
“I know,” there’s a grin bright in his voice, “you’ll just have to give me another. I know you can.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, his stomach knotted with the deep ache of arousal. He would do anything for Patroclus, let him have anything he wanted. And he does, gasping against Patroclus’ shimmering breaths and coming into his hand.
The feeling doesn’t relent, not when Patroclus is inside him, not when he holds Achilles afterward and kisses him soft and open-mouthed. Not even when Achilles closes his eyes and drifts in his arms, it’s something infinite and aching and it never goes away.
They don’t have enough time before Achilles has to go north to visit his parents. Patroclus doesn’t join him, too preoccupied with the final year of his studies.
The drive north is quiet, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel as his thoughts drift. He turns up the music and tries not to think about any of it. He turns up the music more when he thinks about how much he misses Patroclus already, just an hour outside of Athens. He turns it up when he thinks about his lips on Achilles’ own, soft and familiar. It is deafening and still, all he can think about is Patroclus.
He reaches Phthiotis shortly before dusk, the last stretch of the drive a drift through the sprawling countryside.
He hasn’t seen much of his childhood home since moving to Athens with Patroclus, it’s odd to be here now without him. It’s lonely.
The small home is nestled high against the backdrop of the pale blue of the Aegean. Indications of his and Patroclus’ childhood are scattered about the space, beach glass and odd shells that they had collected line the windowsill in the kitchen, and sun-faded photographs hanging on the walls inside. Achilles always preferred the surroundings of the house to the quiet home itself, ancient olive trees with gnarled trunks for climbing, mountains carving shapes in the skyline, and the warm, idle sea.
His father is waiting at the end of the dirt road leading towards the house, embracing him in greeting. This, at least, is welcome and familiar.
“How are you, Achilles?” Peleus asks when he draws back to look at his son.
Achilles looks back at his father, the corners of his eyes and mouth are lined with the echoes of laughter. Peleus looks older than Achilles remembers, and Achilles realizes that he himself is getting older too. He won’t fit so neatly upon the branches of trees or in his narrow bed upstairs.
He tries to smile, “I’m alright. I missed everyone while I was away,” he collects his bag from the back seat, “tired from the drive.”
Peleus takes his bag from him and they shuffle quietly into the house. It is odd to feel like a stranger in a place that is so familiar, to make stiff small talk with his own father.
They trail up the staircase and down the hallway towards Achilles and Patroclus’ bedroom. It feels impossibly small as he stands in the center of it, the place that once held everything important to him. Peleus places his bag carefully upon the neatly made bed closest to the door, it was once Patroclus’.
He says, “I was sorry to hear Patroclus couldn’t make it.”
Achilles stares at the empty bed, “me too.”
“And how is he?”
Achilles thinks about Patroclus. Remembers him bright and content on the balcony of their flat the night before, fussing with his plants in the warm evening sun. He thinks about his lecture notes scattered everywhere, his untied shoelaces, his easy laughter, and the books stacked beside his bed that he will never read.
What he says is, “he’s good.” He tucks his hands into his front pockets and smiles with sincerity, “school’s good. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it, busy time for his studies.”
He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and glances towards the ceiling where the green, glowing constellations and stars they had stuck there still remain.
His father leaves and he is alone again, alone with the emptiness of outgrowing childhood and the unfamiliarity of his own home.
He kicks off his sneakers, laying down on the bed closest to the window. It glimpses the sea and the shimmering olive groves. It was his bed first, then it was theirs.
He lies there and stares at the ceiling, the cluster of stars in the corner and Centaurus easily identifiable below them. It’s eerily quiet. Without the pulse of traffic and noisy neighbors, the house feels so still.
He can only think of one thing to do.
He presses his phone to his ear and listens to each shrill ring.
Patroclus’ voice is warm with a smile when he answers and Achilles closes his eyes and wishes he could make himself believe Patroclus was there with him, pressed together in the cramped bed and his breath soft against Achilles’ lips.
“Hey,” Achilles opens his eyes and he is still alone, “I made it.”
“How is it?”
“Quiet.”
Patroclus laughs and Achilles’ heart aches. “I miss you,” he says because he can’t stop himself.
“Already?”
Achilles hums in affirmation, “yeah. Of course.”
Patroclus is quiet for a moment, “I miss you too, Leas. It’s always weird here without you.” Patroclus’ voice drops into a mock whisper, “all I’ve got for a study partner is that cat you started feeding in the alley and I don’t think she really likes me.”
Achilles laughs and misses him more. “It’s not really personal. She can sense you’re a dog person.”
“I can’t help it!”
“That’s okay, I still like you.”
“I like you too,” Patroclus says softly and Achilles smiles towards the constellations they once held each other beneath.
“Achilles,” his mother begins with a frown over dinner and he sighs in anticipation of the conversation to follow.
Thetis has always looked out of place in the house, a presence too imposing and a beauty too unfathomable to belong in such a dull space. Achilles understood it all wordlessly when she left.
She frets over him, her slender hands holding his face and frowning at his tired eyes and thin smile. She asks after Patroclus in much of the same way.
It has been the same expectations thinly veiled as curiosity for years now, a career, a wife, and grandchildren.
Thetis persists, despite Achilles practiced and empty answers, “you have not brought any girlfriends home since-“
Achilles interrupts, “we don’t have to talk about her.”
He still misses her sometimes, when he hears a certain song or sees something of her in a pretty girl he passes on the street. He really had thought he might marry her, she knew him, really knew him, and still loved him anyway and accepted that there would always be half of him that he could not give to her because it belonged to someone else, even if he could not admit it himself. Then she left.
His mother studies him with her dark eyes, searching and sharp and Achilles clears his throat, and says apologetically, “it’s just, I just got back.”
Unappeased, she continues, “and you plan to stay in Athens?”
“Patroclus likes Athens.” He says quietly and that is enough.
Achilles’ mother leaves, anxious to escape the house. It is still again, just the sounds of the running faucet and the sloshing of water. When they’ve finished the dishes, his father drys his hands and turns to Achilles.
“Your mother means well,” Peleus begins and Achilles does not want to have this conversation, “she worries about you in the city. She wants you to be happy.”
The sun has begun to slip beneath the horizon and fall into the swell of the ocean, cloaking the yard beyond the kitchen window in dusk. Achilles is thinking about the sea and the first time Patroclus brought their lips together. In his distraction, his reply is thoughtless, a quiet truth that spills out and says so little but unravels everything, “I am. I have Patroclus.”
All at once Peleus’ expression shifts, a sudden and simple understanding that places each witnessed moment of Achilles’ life neatly into place, bringing sense to every odd behavior that Peleus had warily overlooked between Achilles and Patroclus as they settled into youth and stumbled into adulthood.
Peleus nods, considering his response carefully and Achilles is plagued by genuine and wholly consuming fear, the same he’d felt when Patroclus first kissed him and he knew nothing would ever be the same.
“You could tell her, Achilles.”
“Tell her what?” He tries poorly to pretend confusion because it is easier than confronting the truth.
His father frowns pointedly at him and Achilles can see resignation in his face. It’s something kinder than anger or disgust, and that’s all Achilles could hope for.
Achilles wipes his eyes hurriedly with his sleeve and his face burns, “I can’t.”
He’s terrified of disappointing his mother.
“Does Patroclus know?”
Achilles shakes his head and turns away so his father does not see him cry.
Achilles weaves through traffic to make it back to Athens by dusk, parking carelessly in haste to see Patroclus. He takes the steps of their flat two at a time, the duffel bag at his shoulder weightless and feet swift as he’d been told as a promising athlete.
Patroclus is waiting in the flat’s tiny kitchen, knowing Achilles’ footfalls from the street and down the hall.
The lines of him are soft, blurred in the low light of the lamp in the corner. Patroclus smiles at him and it’s the same expression he’s always had, a little timid, something so bright in his eyes that Achilles could never place. Achilles loves him.
His greeting is breathless, limbs restless from the drive and mouth aching with a matching smile.
He’d only been away a week but it felt like another year apart.
Patroclus pulls him into his orbit, like he’s the sun and the moon and all the stars, just like their bedroom in Phthiotis, and Achilles is brought back to himself in the circle of his embrace.
“Achilles,” Patroclus says simply and then he’s kissing him.
Achilles isn’t sure what they’re doing or what they are to one another but he crawls into Patroclus’ bed instead of his own that night and he stays there.
Patroclus is quiet and Achilles knows he isn’t asleep, recognizes the weight of his breath and stillness beside him.
“How is your family?” Patroclus finally whispers, fingers brushing Achilles’ in the darkness, an infinitesimal touch that is so badly needed. It aches.
“The same.”
Patroclus’ breath is warm against his cheek as Achilles watches the beams of city light tremble and slither across the ceiling.
It was so still and silent back in his childhood home. It always had been, unbearably so after his mother had left them. Patroclus had breathed life into the lonely house and gave light where it had been so dark.
Achilles’ throat tightens thinking about it, this radiance that had suddenly appeared in his life. The threat of tears is evident and his words tremble slightly before he can right them, “they were at each other’s throats when mom was there. She kept asking me when I’ll get a job and a girl and have a family.”
Achilles swears he can feel Patroclus tense beside him.
“And your answer?”
Achilles huffs, “I’m working on the job.”
He can feel Patroclus’ gaze heavy on him in the darkness and rolls onto his side to face him. His hair tangles around his head and Patroclus extends mindless fingers to play idly with a curl.
“Do you want a family?” Patroclus’ question is jarring. An odd strain to his voice. He continues to twirl Achilles’ hair between his fingers.
“Patroclus...”
That was the deal, wasn’t it? Fumbling in the dark meant nothing, no matter how badly Achilles might want it to, they had to make the lives that were expected of them.
Patroclus is quiet, expectant. When Achilles doesn’t speak again he turns away in a tangle of sheets. The conversation lapses into uneasy silence, something unsaid and delicate between them.
He should tell him that Patroclus is his family, he’s never wanted anything more.
Instead, Achilles curls against Patroclus’ back, pulling him close by his waist and burying his face in his dark, messy curls. He breathes him in and thinks about how much he loves him. How fragile this moment and each moment to follow feel in his rough hands, he thinks about how good he is at breaking things.
He feels Patroclus’ breath swell and press into his own chest, warm and familiar. An extension of himself.
“They want me to move back to Phthiotis.” He admits.
Patroclus tangles his fingers with Achilles’ where they’re curled against his stomach. Achilles squeezes them to say with his touch everything he can’t with words.
His response is hesitant, “will you?”
Achilles' lips move against Patroclus’ neck, a promise etched into the skin with warm breath, “no.”
Patroclus’ exhale is heavy, relieved, and pushes against Achilles’ heart.
“The city has grown on you?” There’s a teasing quality to Patroclus’ voice, still a little strained. He’s trying.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t go without you.”
“Oh.”
Patroclus turns his head slightly and Achilles can feel his breath, their noses brush when he says, “I don’t mind Athens if you’re here.”
Patroclus makes a noise, his breath catching in his throat.
Achilles doesn’t tell him, just hopes he knows. It’s unfair to expect that of Patroclus. There are so many things Achilles doesn’t know either. He feels like he’s stumbling in the dark.
“Maybe I’ll give up on the job thing altogether and just move to the mountains and grow olives.”
Athens wavers at the precipice of autumn, the sun still high and bright but the evenings brisk and cloudless.
Achilles grabs Patroclus’ hand in haste, so as not to get separated in the bustle of nightlife as they weave towards the underground. Patroclus’ fingers are cold and Achilles squeezes them with a quick swell of affection that he couldn’t subdue if he tried.
Patroclus laughs, Achilles has applied to a handful of jobs with little luck. Now, he’s decided to toss ideas half-heartedly into the air for Patroclus’ assessment.
“Without me?”
Achilles huffs, indignant, “of course not, I’m not harvesting all those olives myself.”
Patroclus grins sweet and crooked.
They have no excuse to be holding hands now, and regretfully, Achilles drops his hand, trying to smile back.
“Maybe I could get serious about track again,” Achilles offers earnestly and Patroclus is quick to mask his surprise.
Achilles had been the top track star in secondary school, he had been assured repeatedly that a career in athletics was all but guaranteed if he were only to seize it. It didn’t matter that he was tired and hurting and wanted success to come on his own terms. Opportunity slipped through his fingers and now he is older and too out of practice to even scratch the surface of the athletic promise he had before. Natural swiftness and grace could only carry him so far.
When they’ve boarded their train Patroclus looks over, his brow drawn with sincerity, “do you really want to? Or do you just feel like you need to be doing something?”
“I do need to do something.”
“I’ll support you no matter what, you know that. I just want you to be doing something that actually makes you happy.”
Achilles doesn’t know what makes him happy, and that’s the worst fucking part of it all. Everything that once felt fulfilling feels distant and he doesn’t know how to get that excitement back. It’s lonely and it’s boring and he feels like everyone but him has it figured out.
“I don’t know what makes me happy.”
They are sitting so close together that the outsides of their thighs are touching and Patroclus tips his head against Achilles’ shoulder and his curls brush Achilles’ cheek. He’s smiling when he replies, “Me neither. Let’s go get drunk and forget about it.”
Achilles fucking loves him.
The sun is still warm in late autumn, beating down upon the city, and reaches shining hands to burn their exposed necks, even in the winding shade of the alleys in Plaka.
Achilles is beside Patroclus one moment and gone the next.
He has stopped suddenly at the window of a little shop. It’s a shop they pass a handful of times a day near their flat, but today Achilles is enchanted.
Patroclus stops a few paces ahead, having noticed his absence, “what?”
“Look!” Achilles gestures towards the piled displays of careful woodworking, idols of the ancient gods, and hand-carved cooking utensils.
Patroclus draws closer, “the statues? I told you I’m never buying one of those, they’re touristy and I don’t like Apollo-“
“Shut up, I know,” Achilles rolls his eyes and gestures with increasing impatience, “the guitar.”
Patroclus’ eyes find the instrument tucked into the corner of the shop window and studies it for a moment, looking to Achilles to smile softly at the fascination bright in his eyes.
“You don’t know how to play, Leas.”
Achilles frowns, gaze still fixed on the handmade instrument, “I could learn.”
Patroclus nods, indulging in his sudden whim with a smile, “okay. Go for it, if you want.”
Achilles turns to Patroclus with his own lopsided grin on his mouth and Patroclus knows that expression well.
He takes to it quickly.
His mother had made him take piano lessons as a child, another spark of promise that had been snuffed out with the pressure of success. Those skills lend themselves to him now.
Patroclus helps him hunt down a less expensive second-hand parlor guitar, something easy to start with. They restring the guitar together, and when Achilles finally holds the guitar, poised to play it, he looks at Patroclus and smiles, “thank you.”
Patroclus just smiles back and nods, says wordlessly with his expression everything words cannot, and Achilles is struck with how deeply and hopelessly he loves him.
Playing gives him back some glimmer of excitement he thought he had lost forever. The strings keep his hands and mind busy and it is a feeling that is completely freeing.
Early on a Saturday morning, he strums an easy progression, sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed. He hums something absent-minded and soft, his voice sweet.
Patroclus rolls over with a groan and mumbles against the line of Achilles’ thigh, “why didn’t you pick a quieter hobby?”
Achilles laughs and leans over to kiss him, “good morning to you too.”
Patroclus’ frown fades quickly, his mouth forming into a begrudging smile against Achilles’. He trails a fingertip along the strings of the guitar beside Achilles’ hand and gazes up at him sleepily, “play me something.”
Achilles looks upon him, sheets tangled around his waist and sleep-mussed curls splayed around his head. He feels his fingers tremble against the frets and his heart aches.
“I don’t really have any songs down yet,” he murmurs in excuse as he grips the neck of the guitar more tightly.
“I don’t mind,” Patroclus says, and his hand curls around Achilles’ ankle.
He takes a steadying breath, stumbling over a few chords before he finds a melody, spurred on by Patroclus’ soft, fixed stare.
The lovesick feeling doesn’t fade, it grows stronger and falls into rhythm with the song he plays.
“Achilles!”
He turns to search for the soft voice calling for him in the commotion of the medical university campus. His eyes find Briseis, waving with a textbook in her lap beneath a nearby tree.
Achilles looks at her from a short distance away, realizing perhaps for the first time that she is really quite pretty. A soft, round face and large dark eyes. There is a kindness in her face, in the lines of her smile and corners of her eyes. She is smiling now and she is so vividly beautiful.
He is waiting for Patroclus’ lecture to finish, having wandered the campus in the meantime. He realizes now that he has never found himself alone with her, they have always been accompanied by their friends and guided into easy conversation.
He approaches, “can I sit?”
She nods as he sits opposite her, settling into the grass.
“What are you doing here?” Her accent curves subtly around her words, so much like Cassandra’s. He had neglected to notice, their conversations so sparing since having met. It feels odd to know so little of someone Patroclus knows so well.
“I’m just waiting for Patroclus.”
She nods again, looking back down at her splayed textbook and cluttered handwritten notes beside her.
“He talks a lot about you,” Briseis says, not unkindly, but it is unexpected. Spoken as a simple statement of fact.
“Oh,” Achilles pushes a hand through his curls, “um, does he?”
“Yes,” she says with a gentle laugh and she looks steadily at him. Her stare draws forth his memory of her gaze on Patroclus in the bar his first night back, warm and enamored. Something like jealousy and resignation settle heavily upon his chest and it aches to breathe, to think of giving up what he has.
Achilles looks up, the leaves of the bitter orange tree above them have begun to yellow. He dislikes watching everything lush slowly wilt and die each year. Finally, he says, “he’s been my best mate for ages.”
Briseis smiles, her mouth quirked, like she knows something Achilles does not.
It is an early weekday when Achilles slips from bed, careful not to wake Patroclus still sleeping beside him.
His curls fall in his eyes and his lips part with each gentle exhale. He is beautiful in the blue of dawn and Achilles watches him for a moment, realizing he cannot remember the last time they did not share this bed since he got back.
The sun has not risen yet, the fingers of dawn draping a blanket of quiet upon the city. The traffic is just beginning to swell, alive and humming as he jogs easily to the national gardens.
He cannot feel the cold as he runs and runs, he has missed this, the unrestraint and exertion. His body is busy and his thoughts are wandering.
His athletic promise had warped the pleasure of it, as though it were a currency or a measure of worth. It was these pursuits that had defined him, and just as quickly he began to resent them.
Patroclus is perhaps the only soul that ever saw the shape of Achilles in that gilded and gifted boy he had been made into with the burden of promise. Patroclus saw through it and reached for the boy crushed beneath it all. Achilles runs and he thinks about how much he loves Patroclus, and he runs more, and in the clarity of brisk wind and the rising sun, Achilles knows that he will always feel this way, it will be Patroclus, this overwhelming feeling, forever.
His feet carry him home to Patroclus and it is thoughtless, each step guided by a deep and innate pull at his soul that has existed since they first met. He remembers that moment, Patroclus’ eyes downcast. Achilles remembers wanting so badly to gain his attention. Nothing or no one’s regard or praise mattered anymore, if it ever had.
Achilles reaches their apartment and knows he is home because Patroclus is awake and that gaze Achilles craves is bright and precious upon him.
He is still soft with sleep and when he smiles at Achilles, it shapes itself into a yawn.
“Did you go for a run?” He asks as he fumbles with the coffee pot and Achilles’ hands find his waist.
Achilles nods and he is deviously quick when steals a sip from Patroclus’ mug. He scowls and Achilles laughs, can’t help but lean in to steal the frown from his mouth too.
They stand in the shabby kitchen and kiss tenderly and unhurried, and Patroclus’ hands always tangle in his hair and tug and Achilles isn’t sure if it’s been hours or minutes but he wants every morning for the rest of his life to be exactly like this, forever.
They finally draw apart and Patroclus is quiet, eyelids fluttering and a little breathless. Achilles is still holding his face delicately in his hands and he brings them away, clearing his throat.
He’s afraid, maybe he’s pushed too far.
“I’m gonna shower,” He says quietly and Patroclus nods, staring resolutely at the cup cradled in his hands.
It’s as though something has shifted, sudden and sure, but Achilles cannot place it.
“Join me?” He asks tentatively and Patroclus looks up and smiles.
It’s a clear, cool evening, unseasonably warm. The sounds of the city are loud from the ajar window, humming traffic and chatter of passersby below.
Achilles is reading, trying with fierce desperation to focus on a book borrowed from Cassandra. It’s something in English which he doesn’t much care for, Patroclus’ English has always been better than his own.
He’s content to study Patroclus over the top of the water-stained pages instead, a handsome furrow of concentration heavy on his brow as he examines various medical diagrams. His lips are parted slightly, glistening from where he’s wet them with a swipe of his tongue.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Achilles isn’t quick enough to look away when Patroclus glances up.
Patroclus frowns slightly, ever averse to the attention, “what?”
“Nothing,” Achilles says hastily, shrugging and schooling his expression. He returns to his novel, turning the page and focusing determinedly on the first sentence.
It’s sudden and unexpected, Patroclus’ slender fingers close around his wrist and Achilles glances up. A soft exhale passes his lips when he finds Patroclus’ face just inches from his own. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, something full and warm that Achilles wants to know but cannot place.
He takes the book from Achilles’ hands and places it carefully on the table beside them, returning his touch to Achilles’ face with wandering fingertips. He touches the high slope of his cheek, the soft, freckled skin beneath his eyes. Patroclus tucks a lock of hair behind Achilles’ ear and grins, “hey.”
“Hi.” It’s nearly a whisper lodged in his throat.
It’s a heady feeling, Patroclus’ hands on him. He first learned it in their moonlit bedroom back in Phthiotis, humid breaths and eager fingers. He had been so terrified Patroclus would never touch him again, knowing all at once that Patroclus was all he would ever want.
Then Patroclus is kissing him. He kisses him sober and softly. The kiss doesn’t follow any reunion or breath of sorrow. He simply turns to Achilles on their sagging, second-hand sofa and smiles. Achilles’ smile is half-formed on his mouth when Patroclus’ lips cover his own.
Achilles makes a noise of surprise, muffled against Patroclus’ lips and he’s suddenly tasting his laughter.
He had stopped smoking as he promised Achilles months ago and he tastes like peppermint tea and that mango flavored chapstick he loves.
“Patroclus.” Achilles says breathlessly, hopelessly and he really means everything he can’t say.
Patroclus guides the kiss into something careful and slow, his touches lingering and idle along Achilles’ skin.
Achilles slips gentle hands beneath Patroclus’ shirt, he palms the path of his chest and rucks up the fabric to mouth at his skin. He gently pushes Patroclus back towards the arm of the sofa. He laughs high and bright when Achilles scrapes his teeth carefully along a dark nipple, pushing at Achilles’ shoulders and complaining half-hearted and breathless.
Achilles laughs against Patroclus' stomach, kissing him sweetly there and nosing along the sloping ridges of his abdomen for only him to know.
Achilles pauses, kisses softly below his navel. He glances up towards Patroclus and his breath catches in his throat, flushed and bright and so perfect. Achilles murmurs, “God, look at you.”
Patroclus’ flush darkens, and he squirms slightly, “c’mon, Achilles.”
Achilles lets it pass. Patroclus dislikes any remarks about his appearance, even flattery. Patroclus had always thought himself plain, berated into a dislike of himself. Even despite Achilles’ increasing insistence otherwise.
Patroclus’ gaze is steady upon him and so full of softness. It makes Achilles’ chest ache, brimming and leaving little space to breathe.
“Can I?” He reaches for the waist of Patroclus’ jeans.
Patroclus bites his lip and nods.
The taste of him, the weight, the hushed whimpers, and moans are Achilles’ favorite.
He’s slow, deliberate. He mouths Patroclus through the fabric of his boxers and teases with steady hands pinning his hips. He kisses and nips at the tender creases of his thighs as he tugs his clothes away slightly. He earns a sharp tug at his hair when he sucks a bruise, Patroclus groaning his name, breathless. Achilles admires the mark, a secret little reminder of his touch and tongue against Patroclus’ skin. Something that lingers and won’t let Patroclus forget him.
Patroclus trembles when he’s finally undressed, shivering with anticipation of Achilles’ mouth.
It’s a slick, soft heat that envelops him and he tips his head back in a sigh.
Achilles could return to this again and again and never have his fill, never be close enough to satiate that deep ache. It’s maddening, not enough and too much. He cannot let this go, he’s afraid of what he will do when they finally wise up and quit it. He learned to love Patroclus so long ago it’s a part of him. He’d lose himself too.
Patroclus whispers praise, broken apart by sweet moans and breathless chants of Achilles’ name.
His jaw aches and it’s exactly like loving Patroclus, persistent and sore but Achilles craves it.
Patroclus touches Achilles’ forehead, brings his curls away from his face before his fingertips wander to his lips, where they are joined. Achilles moans softly and looks at Patroclus with his intense gaze, jewel green and steady.
Patroclus closes his eyes, it is always Achilles’ expression, content and clouded with pleasure that undoes him.
Achilles wonders if Patroclus knows, watching his dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. He wonders if he can see in his eyes the things Achilles cannot say, if Patroclus turns away because he doesn’t want to see it laid so bare or because he’s terrified he feels the same.
It will never change, Patroclus could end this all right now and Achilles would die with that devotion in his heart and plain on his face.
Achilles draws back to tease the tip of Patroclus’ cock, where he’s so sweetly sensitive. He tenses, back drawn taut and Achilles’ fear is realized quickly.
“Stop, Achilles.” Patroclus’ fingers tug sharply, tangled in his hair, “stop.”
Achilles pulls away immediately, wipes his swollen mouth with the back of his hand, and feels panic surge in his chest.
“Patroclus, I’m sorry. I-” His hair is falling back into his eyes and it’s okay because Achilles is close to tears.
“Hey, hey,” Patroclus smiles, warm like the sun, and he’s tucking Achilles’ hair behind his ears again like he has done a million times before and will do a million times again and Achilles will let him. He reaches up to hold Achilles’ face and kiss him quick, “It’s okay, I was just gonna come.”
“Oh.”
Patroclus strokes his jaw lightly with his thumb, “and I want you to fuck me.”
“Yeah, okay,” Achilles says, a little dazed, and his fingers close around Patroclus’ wrist to keep him there, gently touching his face.
“You sure?”
Achilles nods, “you’re just so…” his words fall away, he’s unable to find anything suitable to bring language to his feeling. He loves Patroclus so fucking much it swells in his chest and makes it impossible to breathe.
Patroclus waits, an anxious expression carved out on his brow.
“You’re everything, Patroclus.”
Patroclus is startled. Achilles can feel his pulse quicken beneath his fingers clasped around his wrist. Patroclus laughs shakily, his eyes alight and lips formed into a small smile, “yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Patroclus kisses Achilles, words half-formed on their lips that taste sweet on their tongues. They sigh softly into each other’s mouths, the careful juxtaposition of relief and uncertainty. They stand at the precipice of it and tremble with the fear of falling.
“You too.” Patroclus whispers.
Nightmares had long plagued Patroclus as a child, the cold fingers of fear stealing him from sleep and jolting him awake.
Other nights he wouldn’t sleep at all, afraid to cross into the realm of sleep where the dreadful dreams could reach for him.
He had always been terribly apologetic when he woke Achilles across their shared bedroom, tears thick in his voice and chest heaving.
The longer he lived with Achilles, awoke to search for the shape of him beneath the covers, the more the bad dreams seemed to dim. As though banished by Achilles’ soft assurances and his warm body beside him when he crept into Achilles’ bed.
He may have outgrown the frightful imagery from his youth but the sleepless tendencies remained. Patroclus surfaced fretfully from restless sleep when troubled or especially anxious.
Tonight, he tosses and turns until Achilles murmurs his name beside him. He stills, the shine of his eyes is caught in the light that has crept in through the gap in the curtains.
Tomorrow promises his final university exam, the culmination of years of meticulous studying, diligent research, and a lengthy internship.
Achilles pulls Patroclus close and he goes easily, tucking his face against Achilles’ shoulder. Patroclus exhales warmly against his skin, Achilles’ hair catching on his eyelashes.
“It’s going to be okay,” Achilles promises drowsily, slipping a palm beneath the hem of Patroclus’ shirt to rub soothing circles along his back. He can still feel the anxious thrum of his heart beneath his fingertips, but his embrace seems to allay the worst of it.
Achilles is incredulous at Patroclus’ stubborn doubt in his own abilities. Confidence lends itself easily to Achilles, but it is Patroclus who has earned it through care and skill.
With careful coaxing from Achilles, he claims a few hours of troubled sleep. His breath wavers, humid against Achilles’ throat. Achilles touches each knob of his spine, the rise and fall of the taut skin beneath his hands. He loved to count the freckles across his skin at the beach back home and imagine constellations where they were more densely speckled across his shoulders and chest.
His breath, his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin seem to hold the universe, vast and delicate, somehow so tangible. Achilles just has to reach for it. He is scared of the heavens crashing down upon him, slipping through his fingers to leave him with empty fists.
He kisses his hair and promises again that it will all be okay. Even if he can’t be sure, he has never doubted Patroclus.
Achilles insists upon accompanying him to the university, kissing him quickly that morning to quiet any further objections.
When their train arrives at the station, people pour from the doors and hurry in different directions as they wait to board. Achilles watches the flurry of activity around them and thinks about how completely crowded and terrifyingly empty the city is all at once. Patroclus prefers the anonymity of it, being swept away in the bustle of intersecting lives, not a care given to him.
It is maddening for Achilles. The feeling of being unable to stretch his limbs, caged and forgotten in the commotion. No one so much as looks in his direction and it is so lonely for the boy who had been taught to be self-referential, his worth always decided by the attention he attracted.
They sit at the far end of the car, thighs pressed together and stares fixed ahead as the train sways through blackness.
Achilles’ hands are folded in his lap when Patroclus slips his palm between them, to steal the weave of fingers and squeeze tightly.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes so earnest and expression serious. Achilles nods.
Patroclus doesn’t let go, not even when they reach their stop and no one in the busy city cares.
As they walk the short distance to the university Patroclus looks over, and as though he knows what Achilles had just been contemplating, he says, “I know you don’t really like the city, but I don’t know what I’d do without you here.”
Patroclus squeezes his hand, tightly like a wordless promise. Achilles silently promises everything in return.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you either, Patroclus.”
Spring drifts in slowly, the winds warming and the trees beginning to shake away death to bloom again. Achilles idles through the gardens on his way home, marveling at the trees, lush green and soft pinks. He has just finished his guitar lesson and feels weightless with it, content in the sunshine.
He pauses along his path when his phone sounds with a text from Patroclus. His exam results have been posted. Achilles merely glances at the message, his heart lurching into his throat, before he breaks into a run, taking the short distance back to their flat in easy strides, even with his guitar slung heavily on his back.
He takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into the apartment. Patroclus looks up at him from where he’s sitting rigidly on the sofa.
Achilles asks, “did you look yet?”
“No,” Patroclus’ face is dim with fear, apprehension apparent in his posture and shaking hands, “I was going to wait for you.”
Achilles hurriedly props his guitar case against the wall and sits beside Patroclus, nodding to his computer open in his lap, “alright.”
When he shows no inclination to move, Achilles takes his hand in his own and smiles to encourage him to take a trembling breath. His fingertips dig almost painfully into Achilles’ palm, biting crescent impressions into his skin.
Patroclus cautiously clicks to view his results.
It takes just moments to read and all at once he’s shouting and laughing with relief. Achilles throws his arms around him and Patroclus tries kissing him but he’s smiling so hard their teeth clack and Achilles tells him how proud he is over and over against his lips. Patroclus deserves to hear it every day until he is exhausted with the words and knows it is the truth.
He shoves Achilles playfully when he refers to him as Doctor Menoitiades and shakes his head in giddy disbelief.
“I did it.”
“Fuck yeah, you did,” Achilles says and kisses him hard.
Later, after they’ve called their friends and Achilles’ mother and father in turn, Patroclus is sprawled atop Achilles on their cramped sofa, drowsy and comfortable against him. Achilles is holding him tightly when Patroclus tells him in a murmur, “I don’t want to practice with his name."
“Hm?”
“My dad.”
Patroclus’ breath swells beneath Achilles’ splayed fingers, his tee-shirt soft and his skin so warm through the fabric. He gives a gentle exhale and it shapes Achilles, carves him into something all for Patroclus.
They’re drunk on champagne and excitement and Achilles knows he shouldn’t but he says anyways, “then take mine.”
Patroclus is quiet for a moment, humming a little in thought, muffled against Achilles’ chest. He tilts his head to look at Achilles, his face is flushed from the alcohol and he says, “I’d like that.”
Achilles pulls him close against him with an arm around his waist and presses a kiss to his hair. He knows in the morning the suggestion will be long forgotten in the haze of drunkenness and he will keep loving Patroclus quietly and wishing he could give him his name, anything, if it would take away his hurt.
“Can I ask you something, Pelides?”
Clytemnestra has a sly strength about her, as though she could strike down any man that dared wrong her. She knew pain and wore it, held it to the light, saw the intricacies of it and remained unafraid.
She turns her face towards the sun, basking in the gentle warmth of spring before the heat bears down oppressively to signify summer.
Achilles often finds himself in her company after her morning lecture on Tuesdays, neither is keen on conversation with the other but it is pleasant enough to sit quietly together.
Achilles is watching the dark column of her throat bob as she swallows. She turns to glance at him from the corner of her cat-like eyes and there’s a pensive pout on her mouth.
He plucks at a thread of grass and shrugs in answer, “I guess so.”
She straightens slightly, her gaze set on him with the same intense curiosity that she had worn on her sharp face upon their first meeting.
“How long have you been in love with Patroclus?”
The blade of grass flutters from his fingers and sinks with the feeling in his chest.
“What?” He asks too loudly.
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the sky, “you’re really not as subtle as you think you are.”
Achilles frowns and Clytemnestra smiles, “you don’t see it, do you?”
He swallows roughly, feels uneasiness crawl up his throat and sour his tongue, “see what?”
“God, you’re a pair of idiots.”
“Clytemnestra.”
She pushes her hair from her face, satin in the sunlight. The expression of smug satisfaction quickly slides from her mouth, giving into something more serious, “Achilles, you came back last summer and it was like, I don’t know. Patroclus was still himself but so much brighter.” Achilles’ fingers curl into fists in the grass, “he talked about you so damn much I thought there was no possible way you could be that special, but he thinks you are. And then that thing with Bri-”
He sits up quickly, “what thing with Bri?”
Clytemnestra tips her head, as though to dissect his surprise, “he never told you?”
Achilles shakes his head, a feeling of malaise weighted heavily to his heart and dragging it down towards the pit of his stomach. They tell one another everything.
“Before you came back, Briseis told Patroclus that she had feelings for him, and he told her there was someone else.” Clytemnestra’s lovely, level tone sounds grating to his ears.
Achilles closes his eyes and the sun stains his eyelids a blinding red.
“Right.” His voice shakes slightly.
“It’s pretty obvious you’re that someone, Achilles, if you somehow didn’t know.”
Once Clytemnestra is out of sight, he breaks into a run, feet falling heavily against pavement the entire distance back to the apartment. He pushes through throngs of people and skirts through uneven alleyways, up the stairs, and into their flat.
There’s a headache forming bright and sharp behind his eyes when he falls onto Patroclus’ side of the bed. He closes his eyes against the burn of tears and presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids with an uneven exhale. He’s tired of wanting, it feels like a sickness that he cannot cure, this devotion he holds inside him.
There’s an anger burning intensely in his chest too, vying for escape. He’s ruined everything for Patroclus, just like he knew he would. Because he couldn’t stop, can’t keep his hands off him, can’t cut out the part that loves Patroclus because it’s all of him. He would always be reaching toward his other half.
He doesn’t dream when he slips into a troubled sleep, there is no light, not even the stars and there’s nothing, no feeling at all and Achilles knows this is what it will be like without Patroclus.
When he opens his eyes again the room is orange with low lamplight, the curtains drawn. He struggles from the labyrinth of uneasy sleep and he can feel fingers tangled in his hair, gently drawing the unruly curls from his face. The gesture is like a fingerprint on his psyche.
“Achilles.”
The tenderness sweet and deep in Patroclus’ voice makes him want to cry again.
He looks up at Patroclus, eyelids weighted with anxious sleep as he tries to focus on the concern set in his face.
He’s been letting his hair get longer, curling around his ears and falling into his large, dark eyes. His mouth is drawn into a frown and even that expression suits his face. Patroclus has always worn sadness, so long it’s become a part of him. Anything he touches turns to gold, something beautiful.
Achilles wants to reach for him, smooth the lines of worry from him. He’s always been reaching for him, as children, in the darkness and daylight.
Patroclus is always reaching back.
It’s his hand extended towards him, returning his reach that makes Achilles start crying, angry and selfish tears.
He wants to apologize, tell Patroclus how sorry he is for ruining everything, breaking the fragile prospect of a future for Patroclus because his hands are so careless and desperate in their affection. He’s sorry because he wants Patroclus for himself and he’s not sorry about that and he won’t ever be.
“Hey, hey,” Patroclus’ lips brush his nose, touch his forehead. He thumbs trailing tears from Achilles’ jaw and asks, “what’s going on?”
Achilles shakes his head in a fitful movement. His throat aches and his head is still throbbing. He wants to ask about Briseis, just say her name to see Patroclus’ expression and understand. He wants to ask why Patroclus would keep that from him. Ask if Clytemnestra is right, if he’s torn up everything perfect and ideal for Patroclus. He wants to tell Patroclus he loves him, to know if Patroclus loves him too.
“I’m fine.” He says instead, measured and trembling. He’s so afraid of what he might say and give away.
Patroclus frowns at his lie and leans down to kiss him gently and Achilles’ lips part without thought. He grabs Patroclus’ shirt, his fingers tightening into fists in the fabric. He clutches Patroclus against him, afraid to finally let go.
Patroclus closes his hands over Achilles’, “I’m right here, it’s okay.” He pries Achilles’ fingers open and kisses his palm in promise.
“I don’t know how to live without you,” Achilles trails into sobs, feeling the fear of it in his bones, weighted with the resignation he had fought against since Patroclus first touched him with intention.
I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to share you. I don’t know how to not love you.
Patroclus makes a noise, like thick sadness catching in his throat, “you don’t have to, Leas. You don't have to.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, his answer to all of it.
He gathers Achilles in his arms, shelters him in his hold like nothing else in the world exists beyond the circle of his embrace. It’s just them, it always has been. Achilles has loved him so long.
Patroclus holds him until dawn draws back the curtain of night. Achilles wishes he could pause time, keep the stars hung in the inky sky, fighting against the overwhelming lights of the city. In the daylight, his tears will be a nuisance, another part of him that is too much and too intense and too reckless.
In the darkness, he says Patroclus’ name and Patroclus whispers his name back.
Achilles is still held tightly in Patroclus’ arms when he wakes the following morning. Patroclus’ gaze is warm, settled gently upon him like his hands on Achilles’ waist. His eyes are familiar on him, and Achilles knows so deeply that all he wants is to be seen by Patroclus. To be wanted with the same intensity that he watches him. Before they fell into friendship as children it was always Patroclus watching, seeing Achilles in ways no one else had.
He gazes back, bleary-eyed and his chest aching.
“Achilles,” Patroclus says quietly and his mouth moves so sweetly with each syllable. He thumbs away the dried path of tears along Achilles’ face and his mouth curls in that soft, knowing way of his, “let’s go to the coast.”
“What?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
Achilles frowns a little, “today?”
Patroclus’ fingers are quick to smooth the expression from his mouth, his touch almost teasing on Achilles’ lips, “yeah.”
“I have my guitar lesson,” Achilles says and Patroclus laughs, quiet and fond. He has always said he admires that about Achilles, his honesty, how steadfast he holds to obligations. It was Patroclus leading them into trouble as kids, even if no one would believe it.
He presses a kiss to Achilles’ forehead, smiling against his skin, “I don’t care, come with me.”
Achilles agrees.
He lets Patroclus drive them to Sounio, head tipped against the window as the bright blue sea blurs to their right, the suburbs of Athens slowly giving into sprawling coastlines and rocky cliff sides.
Somewhere along Patroclus reaches over and takes Achilles’ hand from his lap, squeezing his fingers gently without ever looking away from the road.
Achilles imagines piecing together each of their little touches, like maybe it would all amount to something more, something he wants but will not reach far enough for.
It’s a lovely day, the sun high above the distant islands and the breeze gentle. There are just a few others on the beach they’ve chosen, the weekday offering them respite from the impending waves of tourists and locals seeking relief from the crowded city as the weather warmed.
They walk along the rocky shore and the salty air helps to soothe the persistent heartache heavy in Achilles’ chest. The sea is a place of contentment and has been since his childhood.
Patroclus will pause every so often, stooping slightly to pluck at the rocks and present shells and frosted beach glass to Achilles. He smiles when Patroclus hands him a small, iridescent abalone shell, its interior shimmering in the sunlight.
“It’s beautiful.”
Patroclus knows they are Achilles’ favorite. He hesitates, nodding in response as he reaches to brush the golden, wind-swept strands of hair from Achilles’ face.
“Thank you,” Achilles says softly and Patroclus understands.
Further along the little sliver of deserted coast, they sit at the shore. Patroclus draws Achilles into his arms, his chest warm and solid against Achilles’ back as the waves crash and reach for their toes.
Achilles turns the shell over in his fingers, frowning at the little piece of the sea, and breaks the spell of quiet when he asks, “why didn’t you tell me about Briseis?”
Patroclus’ breath is familiar against Achilles’ cheek, his fingers curling against his stomach.
“I don’t know.” He deliberates for a moment, “I care about her a lot, I told her the truth. I guess I was afraid to tell you.”
“Clytemnestra knew. She told me.”
“Then you know,” Patroclus says simply.
Achilles swallows and he can feel Patroclus’ heart beating against the ridge of his spine. He looks out across the clear, shimmering water. He thinks of their youth, standing at the mouth of the sea and daring himself to plunge into the chilly waves. One swift foot in front of the other. He takes a trembling breath and asks, “am I the reason?”
He knows Patroclus’ answer before he hears it softly against his ear in a warm, anxious exhale, “yeah. Of course you’re the reason, Achilles.”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
Achilles says it suddenly, as though the words have slipped from their carefully guarded home in his chest and past his lips before he could catch them and bury them even further away.
He can’t take them back, he doesn’t want to, he realizes.
He looks out at the sea and the cliff sides, and realizes this is what feels like to have jumped, to have fallen. He waits for Patroclus to follow, to catch him.
“What?” Patroclus hardly manages it, his breath in his throat.
“I love you, Patroclus. I love you so much.”
“Achilles.“
Achilles turns to look at Patroclus, his brow drawn and eyes impossibly wide. The sun catches on his face, pouring down like honey. It makes his dark eyes rich in depth, catching on the lighter hues in his hair. Achilles can see the scar above his eyebrow, paler than his skin, where he’d fallen from their favorite climbing tree as kids. Achilles had held him with blood on his fingers and realized that it would always be like that, he would never let Patroclus go, even if it stained his hands. Achilles loves him so much, it’s raw and without reason. Achilles has never known not loving him.
“I know. I’m sorry. I know we agreed that we would never let this happen. I’m so sorry, but I can’t help it. I do. I just do. And if you don’t feel the same then we have to stop for good.”
There are tears shining in Patroclus’ eyes when he reaches and finally grabs hold of Achilles, catches him and breaks his fall, “do you remember the first time I kissed you?”
“Of course.”
“I think I’ve loved you even longer than that, but you were just so content by the sea and I looked at you and I just knew. I was so afraid.”
Achilles falls into Patroclus’ chest, presses his face to his heart and whispers, “I’m so sorry I ran away.”
Patroclus holds him there, “I know you are.”
“I’m tired of running, Patroclus.”
“I know.”
Patroclus tilts his face towards him and kisses him, soft and full of promise like that first time. Unlike the first time, they are unafraid.
They return to Phthiotis for the Easter Holiday. It is not so lonely with Patroclus beside him, as it had been months before. Achilles steps into their old bedroom, where he had stood and felt the emptiness settle so heavily upon him.
The bedroom is not empty now, it is full and brimming with light. Patroclus is sprawled on the narrow bed by the window, eyes closed as afternoon sunlight pours onto his face. His breath comes softly from his parted lips, and Achilles looks on, feeling drawn to him from somewhere full and boundless in his chest.
He leans down to press their noses together, feels Patroclus’ warm breath on his lips, and forgets the stillness of the house.
Patroclus stirs and smiles sleepily into the kiss, “Achilles.”
“Patroclus.”
Patroclus’ hands find his waist and bring him tumbling onto the bed beside him, Achilles laughs as he draws him tightly into his arms.
“Lay here with me a little while.” Patroclus’ voice is drowsy and full of affection, muffled against Achilles’ chest.
“Okay,” Achilles strokes his cheek, touches each freckle with a fingertip. His eyelashes flutter, casting long and soft shadows in the sunlight warm against his face. His mouth curls into a smile and Achilles moves to trace the shape of it. Patroclus moves his lips to kiss Achilles' fingers and Achilles tells him he loves him again and again; because they’re lying in the bed where Achilles first loved him and learned the shape of his smile against his own and he’s just so fucking happy.
The holiday is a pleasant blur, candlelit and warm. The day seems to finally slow when he takes the uneven path to the sea to seek out his mother.
It is the place he could always find her, sitting in the sand with her face turned towards the vast sky and hair tangling in the salty breeze.
“Hey, Mama.” He sits beside her, burying his toes in the fine sand and smiling gently.
She turns to look at him, her face has always had a certain severity to it, something that was easily mistaken for coldness, but her eyes always seem to soften when she looks upon him.
Those eyes are so dark and full of knowing, she cups his face with a tender hand and studies him carefully, “you look happy, my love.”
“I am.” Achilles says simply and it is the truth.
She tucks an errant lock of hair behind his ear, tangling and curling like her own. Her voice is deliberate and kind when she continues, “Patroclus seemed quite happy too.”
Achilles hesitates, searches her face before nodding, “we are.”
Thetis smiles.
“I love you, Achilles.”
She embraces him and she smells familiar, the sea and whispers of floral, like the Judas trees blooming pink by the house.
“I love you too, Mama.”
The seasons change quickly, summer settling upon the city in a thick cloak of heat. Achilles had once vehemently disliked it, summer in Athens. It was crowded and hot and the relief of the sea was miles away.
They’re lying on the floor of their flat, the floorboards are sticky with heat. The window carries a warm breeze and it feels cool on his damp skin. He is content, plucking soft songs on his guitar with increasing dexterity.
“Did you write this one?” Patroclus’ lips brush Achilles’ bare shoulder when he asks quietly into the tune he plays.
“Baby,” Achilles huffs, “Leonard Cohen did.”
Patroclus laughs at his incredulity and says, “sorry, I was a med student, not a music student,” before pressing his mouth to Achilles’ neck in a teasing apology.
Achilles tips his head down to catch Patroclus' mouth and kisses him sweetly, “no,” he says against his parted lips, “Leonard Cohen is a household name. It’s because your music taste is shit. You listen to Skiladiko unironically.”
Patroclus groans and shoves Achilles, “It was one time!”
Achilles grins, “yeah, it was one time I caught you.”
Patroclus pouts and Achilles kisses the sulking expression from his mouth and forehead. He draws back slightly to gaze at him, Patroclus’ frown gives into a smile and his curls stick to his forehead with a sheen of sweat. His skin is darkened with the heavy sun, nearly as dark as his large and gentle eyes.
Achilles realizes he has grown to quite like the lull of summertime in the city.
“Hey,” he murmurs. He sets his guitar aside, pulling Patroclus into his arms and his skin is so warm and familiar against Achilles’.
“Hm?”
“I wanted to tell you,” he starts, reaching to brush the hair from Patroclus’ eyes. He tries to speak again but the words catch in his throat. “I just-“
Patroclus brushes his cheek with his knuckles, soft and assuring.
“I just like it here, Patroclus. A lot.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Patroclus smiles and his fingers tangle in Achilles’ hair, guiding him into a kiss that is lingering and full and says everything that words cannot.
Achilles doesn’t know what he wants or what he’s going to do, but that’s okay. He has Patroclus and they will figure it out.