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The House of Hades is quiet, but it is a busy quietude. Shades whisper and wander. Quills scratch parchment. There is a constant, ubiquitous rushing as of a river—the Styx surely, thinks Achilles, peering down the hall at a rippling crimson pool set into the floor there.
“Your post will be there,” says Hades, indicating an innocuous corner by some sort of artifact collection. “More importantly, you will be responsible for— now where’s he gone— BOY.”
He manages to thunder the word without exactly shouting it, the luxurious House resonating with his bass tones. After a moment, someone slips out of a nearby door, and from his garb Achilles knows instantly this must be the son Lord Hades spoke of—though he’d expected someone rather younger.
“I’m here, Father. Just thought I’d duck into the administrative chamber to try and—”
“Never mind that. It’s time you learned the bearing of the gods, and to assert yourself. For this…” And here he looks to Achilles, who steps forward with a nod. “...I have employed the greatest of the Greeks, or what became of him.”
Achilles swallows the sudden bitter taste in his mouth, choosing to ignore that last. “Hail, prince,” he says, as Hades’ son turns. “We’ll start with the spear, as I’m told—”
And then their eyes meet, and Achilles’ voice catches in his throat.
It’s his god.
The one he saw in his dreams, halfway through his disastrous shift at Troy. Three dreams—or visions, perhaps, though Achilles had convinced himself over time that they meant nothing. Lustful fabrications of his sleeping mind, and nothing more.
And yet here stands Zagreus, heir apparent to the underworld, looking much as he did before.
So it would seem that in a dream, Achilles fucked the son of Hades.
“Hello, sir,” he says, drily polite, without a hint of recognition in his eyes. “Yes, Father’s shown me the basics with the spear, but—”
“Make conversation on your own time,” rumbles Hades. “I’ve better things to do. To the courtyard. Go.”
Achilles goes, his mind racing, Zagreus on his heels. It makes him uneasy that he, Achilles, still has access to memories of— the slick grip of the young god’s body, the taste of his skin, his voice crying out in pleasure —while Zagreus seems to know nothing of it. Has he simply forgotten? They exchanged words, in those dreams, but even Achilles himself has forgotten them, mainly recalling the searing flame of desire, and sating it so passionately that he’d cried out in his sleep, or so Pat—
—ah…Pat.
They were simply not meant to be reunited in death, it seems. Pat died, and in a way is dead to him still, and Achilles shall never see him again. For all eternity.
Achilles glances back at Zagreus, and feels…nothing in particular.
This is just as well, he thinks, stepping into the courtyard Hades showed him earlier. The flagstones are surprisingly warm, as if heated by the beating heart of the earth. Achilles goes to a rack of spears, finds the two best balanced ones, and tosses the better to Zagreus.
“We’ll start from the ground up,” he says, and takes his stance. “Do as I do.”
Zagreus obeys without question.
It becomes apparent soon that he is a fast learner, which in turn makes Achilles seem like quite the teacher—though Lord Hades is disinclined to voice approval for…anything at all. Still, this, he thinks, is better. Better to feel nothing, and have no temptation to take advantage of his new ward. And besides, how could he even think of being with someone else?
And so…it’s just as well that Zagreus has forgotten.
It isn’t until much, much later, taking the Infernal Arms from their chthonic chains, that Achilles recognizes Varatha. Varatha, in its turn, recognizes him. And he understands.
It isn’t that Zagreus has forgotten.
It simply has yet to happen, for him.
Achilles almost, almost withholds the Eternal Spear from him. But…if Zagreus wants to escape from his father’s realm, he will need every possible advantage. And by now Achilles would do anything, for Zagreus.
So he leaves it in the courtyard, and tries not to think about the consequences.
A vivid dream, this. The lush verdure is cool under the soles of Achilles’ feet, a welcome respite after a long day on the battlefield, the humdrum horrors of war under the brutal beating of the sun. He inhales, and notes scents reminiscent of his days on Mount Pelion, of things living and green. Gleaming, moss-hung statues tower all around, elegant and alien all at once, and there’s music in the air, although the tune eludes him.
And then, overlaid on those faint, sweet noises: battle.
Achilles would know the sound of a spearhead meeting armor anywhere—will likely be hearing it in the back of his mind even into old age. Or, well. However much life he may have left. He follows the noises to an ornately-crafted gate, the opening mechanism of which he can’t seem to discern. But in the way of dreams, he no sooner thinks of this than it slides open, doors retreating into the ground with a grumble of machinery.
Beyond it, he can see the fight. A young warrior, unarmored, dancing like a flame around three shield-bearing shadows. His form is impeccable, his speed perhaps rivaling Achilles’ own—a thought Achilles would simply not allow were it not undeniable to see.
And in his hands….Varatha.
Achilles watches it flash and sing, stealing thick, black blood from its foes until one by one they disintegrate into plumes of blue smoke.
Hm. Odd.
Then the warrior looks around, panting, and his gaze catches on Achilles. A jolt of alarm— a challenge?— but, no, all the fight seems to go out of him instead. Instead, in fact, he trots in Achilles’ direction like a dog recognizing his master.
And Achilles, relaxing a fraction, has time to take him in properly. Richly and outlandishly dressed, with a crown of flame-bright perpetually-cindering laurels and a pauldron of three grotesque, doglike skulls. And his eyes—one green as a leaf against the sun, one a liquid blood-red on a night-black sclera.
A god, then.
A god…carrying Achilles’ spear.
He ought to kneel, probably. Were it Athena or her ever-hungering brother, likely he would. They impel it; their existence is an expectation of it. But despite his fearless gaze, this god it seems has no such expectations. And Achilles, for his part, finds that he likes looking down upon those bright eyes.
“Hail,” says Achilles, for want of anything else to say. His eyes hang on Varatha, puzzling over its presence here, in the hands of this strange deity.
“Achilles!” His eyes flicker up and down. “But you, er…”
“I…what?” Achilles looks down at himself. He’s in his armor, dressed for battle even in his dreams. “You seem to know me, but I don’t believe I know you. Have you been watching me from on high?” Wait—more importantly: “Why do you have my Varatha?”
“Oh, I.” The young god waves the spear about with an aimlessness that belies his obvious skill. “You know. It was sort of…bequeathed to me.”
“Your teacher can’t have been much good,” Achilles observes. “Or you’d think more about where you’re pointing it.”
The god blinks, and then, surprisingly, laughs. Light and clear, as if at some private joke. Achilles does not typically enjoy being teased with things he doesn’t understand, but he finds he bears it more easily when it comes from an attractive face.
…A very attractive face.
A very vivid dream, indeed.
Mouth still shut, he runs his tongue over the knife edge of his teeth. “...Why have you come to me in my dreams, O god?”
“—up, Achilles, up. Come on.”
Morning light. Tent. Achilles tosses off the blankets and rolls onto his other side, squinting at Pat.
“Kiss?”
“No,” says Pat, most disloyal of lieutenants, unforgivably treasonous. “Assembly. Come.”
Achilles’ eyes find Varatha in the corner, the varnished ash like gold, the bronze head sparkling like summer lightning as light plays across it. “No man but me can wield my spear,” he murmurs. This is true, as far as he knows. And yet…
A snort. “Oh, I’ve handled it once or twice, I think.”
“I meant—never mind. Look, have you ever heard of a god with mis-matched eyes? One red, one green?”
“I haven’t.” Pat kneels, handing him a bowl of water. “Drink, and I’ll kiss you. I simply don’t want to taste last night’s wine, that’s all.” Dearest officer, honors and prizes be showered upon him.
“He came to me in my dreams last night, bearing Varatha.” Achilles sips, and then gulps, realizing suddenly how thirsty he is. “Handsome thing. Small for a god, but well-built. Good thighs.”
“Good thighs? Achilles.” Pat’s smiling now, catlike. “This sounds like rather a different kind of dream than I expected.”
“It…” Wasn’t. Achilles isn’t sure how to explain it convincingly, the way it felt like a real thing and not simply a conjuration of his own slumbering lust. Like speaking to someone real, with a mind separate from Achilles’. In the end, he decides not to try. After all, some of that lust had seeped in regardless. “...didn’t get far enough for that,” he finishes, and then hums happily as Pat’s lips press against his.
“Well,” says that soft, familiar mouth between kisses, “I suppose we can’t have you going to assembly all worked up…”
“I dreamt of you last night, sir.”
Achilles pauses, bottle of nectar halfway to his lips. The lounge buzzes around them. “Oh?”
“Not you now,” Zagreus continues, sitting back with his own bottle. “You in the past, I think. You didn’t know me, but you recognized Varatha.”
“Mm,” says Achilles. Something is shouting in the back of his brain, but he can’t quite bring it into focus at the moment, through the pleasant haze of divine drink. “Must be that wall scroll in your chambers, getting into your head.”
“Must be,” Zagreus agrees, and tosses back his head to gulp the last of his nectar. Achilles watches his throat move—the flexing line of it—and then, suddenly, remembers.
Oh.
But perhaps—he hopes beyond hope, straining to remember, to convince himself—even if the first dream somehow connected them beyond time and space, perhaps the following dreams were simply his imagination.
He can’t be with Zagreus. He simply can’t. That hasn’t changed.
But.
To say he feels nothing for the lad is no longer…accurate. And sometimes, when Achilles lies awake in his quarters, one hand easing down to touch himself, his mind strays treacherously to…
Zagreus is saying something.
Achilles clears his throat, guilt seizing his chest. “Pardon?”
“It’s just…within Elysium, I happened on a shade. It’s your Patroclus.”
“You again,” says Achilles, amiably. The god nods, wiping sweat from his brow. Even in dreams, it seems, battle is hard work. “And you have my spear again, I see.”
“Honestly, sir, I’m not sure it’s anyone’s spear,” says the god, and sticks it point-down in the earth, taking a seat. “I think it just…goes to whomever it pleases.”
“You speak as if it had a mind of its own,” Achilles muses, neglecting to mention the times in battle when Varatha has thrummed in his hand, red-gold with Trojan blood and greedily drinking more. Even so, the god catches his eye with that crimson one, and seems to glean something from his gaze.
“...You’re a soldier, aren’t you, sir? You must be fighting a lot yourself, right now.”
Achilles scoffs. “An understatement. You haven’t been watching me, then, or you’d know.”
“No, I haven’t…er…it’s complicated.” The god hesitates, staring up. Achilles follows his gaze, and finds the sky a pale, shining green, swathed in iridescent mist. If it is a sky at all.
“Where are we, anyway?”
“Elysium.”
Achilles absorbs this. The underworld. “You’re…dead, then?”
“Just sleeping, sir,” says the god, with a crooked little grin. “Dreaming. Same as you, I assume.”
“Then why are we here in—”
“It’s complicated.”
A pause, as Achilles considers this, and the intriguing creature next to him. Respectful and coy in turns. Shapely and fine-featured. A god. A god, with burning feet and jewel eyes and a clever tongue.
His mouth waters.
“Alright, there?”
“...Simply not used to being interrupted,” says Achilles. This is not entirely true; the other Greek captains have long since lost any sense of formality with him off the battlefield, their companionship both a blessing and a constant irritation. And Pat, of course, can speak whenever he pleases.
“Oh,” comes the reply, contrite. Contrite! “I apologize, sir.”
“You can’t really be a god,” says Achilles impulsively. The maybe-not-a-god puts his head on one side, an odd little smile crossing his face.
“What makes you say that?”
“The ones I make offerings to, who step down from Olympus to see me at times…I doubt they would call me sir.” He almost shudders to think of how they might react, should he request such treatment.
“Well, that’s the Olympians.” A dismissive little wave. “I think there’s nothing wrong with having manners, no matter who you’re speaking to.”
“Even to the point of submitting to a mortal?” Though of course Achilles is not mortal, entirely. But some dishonesty may be excused; the question itself is not innocent, entirely.
And no more is the polite young god sitting next to him, who looks askance at him with cheeks touched pink and says, “Even…to that point. Sir.”
Achilles wants to bowl him over and bite his lips red. Wants to wrestle with him in the soft grass, each pinning the other in turn—though Achilles will win, even against a god. Wants to hold him in place and show him how good it can feel to be taken. Oh, he’d look good being fucked, this god. He’d look good beneath Achilles.
But Achilles can have patience, whatever his friends would say to the contrary. And so instead he reaches out and cups the god’s cheek, and waits a moment to see whether he will pull away. He doesn’t. His chest rises and falls faster, his eyelids falling heavy. Achilles strokes his cheek with a thumb, his jaw with a finger.
“It’s good you know my name already, however it came to you,” he murmurs. “I’d like to make you scream it.”
“Oh, gods,” says the god, a longing blasphemy, a masturbatory degradation.
“My god,” Achilles answers, a prayer, and leans in to—
“—’chilles. Achilles.”
He’s hard.
That is his immediate and frankly only concern. Fortunately, Pat seems to have similar priorities.
“If you’re going to hump me in this heat, the least you can do is wake up and make it good,” he mumbles, lifting one leg to allow Achilles between his thighs. “There, go on…”
“I almost had him,” grumbles Achilles, and then groans as Pat’s legs press together again, slick with sweat, squeezing him. “Oh, beloved…”
A hand finds his wrist, guiding it around Pat’s hip. Achilles doesn’t need the encouragement—the position is familiar, the task easy even in this blind darkness.
“Had whom?” Then–a soft, shuddering breath as his hand starts to work. Pat was already half-hard himself, worked up over Achilles’ own sleeping arousal, no doubt.
“The god,” Achilles grunts. “The one—I dreamed of before, he—”
“With the good thighs?”
“Not as good as yours, I’d wager.” Achilles thrusts between them, and again. Can’t hold back—leans in, working sharp and fast now, thinking of the god on the grass, taking his cock. “Fuck.”
“That’s right.” Hips rocking into his hand, voice sleepy, transported. “There. There. Oh— he must be pretty, Achilles…”
“Want him.” The still heat of the tent is intolerable, the flaps hanging limp without wind, their bodies clinging and sliding together. Achilles can smell both of them, sweat and sex. Filthy and heavy and good. “Want to—share him—with you—” The thought is almost too much; his hand tightens on Pat, and the answering moan is sweet as honey in the thick air.
“You’d like—to fuck a god with me?” Gasping now, too. Achilles likes it when he gasps, when his lovely words break into noises. “A magnificent prize indeed—!”
“He’d like it,” says Achilles with certainty, thinking back to that face, dazed and flushed. “Ah, you should see him—bends at the slightest touch—”
“Only you,” Pat starts, and then his breath catches, rushes hard and fast, and Achilles forgets all about the god in favor of this: his hand, Pat’s body, the familiar quick, delicate movements that seem to finish him best. And finish he does, voice fluttering high in the still darkness as Achilles spills between his thighs.
They roll apart, panting, each naked and spread-eagled in vain hopes of some breeze to cool their sweat-burnished skin.
“...What were you saying?” Achilles breathes after a while, his lips slow, his mind fading. Patroclus hums.
“Only you, best and brightest, would have the audacity to dream up a new god wholecloth…and immediately decide to fuck him.”
“Hey, sir,” says Zagreus.
Achilles blinks. From his trajectory, surely the prince came from his chambers—and so must have been visible all the while as he approached, but…
Well. Some guard, Achilles.
“Pardon me, lad, I was…miles away. And you should be in Asphodel by now. What brings you back here?” Achilles glances proprietarily up and down the hall, noting a cluster of shades near the administrative chamber and little else. “Nothing much to report.”
“I just, er.” Something’s bothering him. The way his eyes dart about, his weight shifting from foot to foot. “I thought I’d take a nap, and… Look, you know—that dream I mentioned having, a while ago…?”
Damn it. Achilles schools his face to perfect smoothness. “Yes, lad?”
“It—” Struggling, the tips of his ears turning pink. Achilles does not open his mouth to assist. He doesn’t want to be asked, doesn’t want to lie. Can hardly think of a lie, between sudden, searing recollections of that third dream.
In the end, he’s spared. Zagreus, ordinarily so calm and direct, grins self-consciously and says, “—You know, it’s probably nothing. Erm. I should get on with the whole…escaping thing.”
Achilles nods, his non-existent heart hammering, and prays to—some other god, Aphrodite if she will favor him this once—that this will be the end of it. That he will be spared from the meddling of his own youthful passion, which could ruin an already-delicate relationship.
But when Zagreus next returns, he does not speak of dreams.
Instead, he pleads to be allowed to alter the terms of Achilles’ contract. To reunite him and Pat. And Achilles, in his shock and fear and longing, forgets entirely about that third encounter.
“Been a while,” says the god. Achilles, who dreamt of him last night, raises an eyebrow.
“Has it?”
“Well. For me, anyway.” He sits down with a thump , seeming somewhat dejected—an impression which only grows stronger as he glances up at Achilles. “I suppose you’re with Patroclus now, as well. In your time, I mean.”
“You know Pat?” Achilles’ eyes sweep over their surroundings. Elysium , the god had said. A little thought nags at him, but the implications are too huge and unpleasant to consider now. “You…know both of us,” he corrects himself. “And yet we don’t know you.”
“You will,” says the god, smiling softly. And then, blushing again, “You’ll—we’ll be friends, I mean.”
“Friends.” Achilles takes a seat next to him, on plush moss and tender grass. It’s so beautiful here, so quiet.
His god’s voice would ring out clear as a bell, in this air.
“So, we oughtn’t…” A pause. The god plucks leaves from the shrub next to him, tearing at them between thumb and forefinger, not looking at Achilles. “I just think, we probably shouldn’t…because you wouldn’t approve, you see. The Achilles I know, that is.”
Achilles tuts sharply, frowning. “What do I care for him? I know what I want now.”
“Mm.” The god sprinkles shredded leaves on the ground, rubs his hands on his thighs. Achilles itches to touch them too. “It’s just…he has— you have your Patroclus, so…”
“I do,” Achilles agrees. “And he’d like to have you also.”
The god’s head, tipped forlornly aside, whips around now. Both eyes bore into him, disbelieving. “What? But I thought mortals—?”
“We like to share things, he and I,” Achilles explains, and does not miss the little noise that answers that sentiment. “And you…” He licks his lips, looking the god over brazenly, making it obvious. “...it would be a shame not to share you. You tell the Achilles you know; remind him of what I’ve said here. He’s a fool if he hasn’t taken you already.”
“Blood and darkness,” breathes the god, a strange new curse, uttered with appalled reverence.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? They say soldiers forget how to make love, but we haven’t, he and I. You’d enjoy being ours.”
He says it with certainty, and the god confirms it with a gasp, then covers his mouth with one hand. Achilles edges closer, slow, as a lion stalks a deer, fighting the urge to pounce.
“Wouldn’t you?” he says, and takes the god’s wrist, uncovers his mouth. Traces his lips with a thumb. “Let’s hear you say it. Shall I dirty your divinity, mount you here on the ground? Or will you curse me for my insolence, O god?”
“Oh,” says that lovely mouth against the pad of his thumb. “Oh, fuck—”
“So you can be impolite as well. Good.” Achilles sits back all at once, in an attitude that would be casual if not for the cockstand he makes no effort to hide, legs wide, head on one side. “Then, tell me what rudeness you desire of me. Now.”
“I want—” The god swallows. “Achilles, I…”
“Good start.”
“I do want—” A held breath, and then he pants, as if he cannot bear it all. He crawls closer, one hand on Achilles’ bare knee, entreating. “...both. Both of you. I didn’t dare even think it before now, but—would you really…?”
“In a heartbeat,” Achilles says easily, and this time lets his mouth fall open as he licks his teeth, touching the hard points of his canines, letting the god see. “We’d eat you up. We’d take turns all night and you’d still be begging for more in the morning.”
A soft whimper. From the burning in his eyes, the god cannot be so shy as all that; rather, he is made shy by that pesky reticence, that certainty that the men he knows would never debauch him so.
“You’d like that,” Achilles says again, burning also, close to breaking. Ah, patience, worst and most painful of the virtues.
“I’d like that,” breathes the god, fervently.
“You’d like what? Say it.”
“I—all of it? Anything?” He looks a bit wild himself, pent-up, yearning. “Anything you want to do to me, I—please—”
When someone so lovely clasps his knees and begs, Achilles cannot refuse. He dives forward, knocks the god back, presses him into the soft earth with his wrists pinned and growls, “This, then?”
“Yes,” gasps the god, and whines as Achilles pushes his legs back, folding him in half, still clothed, grinding at him through his thin, soft leggings.
“This?”
This yes is slurred, but the god makes up for it by nodding dizzily.
“Anything, you said.” Achilles fumbles for the fastenings of his corselet, and finds, in the way of dreams, that he is already naked. “We haven’t time for all the things I want to do to you.”
He is robbed of the satisfaction of tearing at the god’s clothes as well—they melt away in a blink, leaving him beautiful and naked, sprawled out, pinned down, chest heaving.
“Sir,” he says, arching up, his neck a long, flexing line. Achilles bends down to bite it, tasting sweat, smelling something spicy. Hearing the crackle of the god’s laurels, burning away at an alarming rate now. “Gods—sir—!”
“What did I tell you?” pants Achilles, pressing between his legs with rough fingers, pleased to find him already open and slick—in the way of dreams, and what a dream. Slides two fingers inside to the second knuckle, and crooks them, pleased by the noise he gets in response. Withdraws his wet hand. “You know my name. I demand you use it.”
“Achilles,” the god manages, and then, “Gods—fuck me—oh, I’m sorry—when you see me again, when we meet—” and then his words melt into a tight little groan as Achilles splits him, fills him, makes his burning toes curl in the air. “Godsyou’rebigsir—!”
“Forget him,” Achilles commands, ignoring this slight against his physique. “The Achilles you know is a fool. Say that, now.”
“‘S a fool,” the god repeats, unthinking, and then shudders as Achilles pulls back, pumps into him again. Hissing his satisfaction at the burning clutch of the body beneath him.
“And disrespectful,” he adds, finding a rhythm, his voice guttural with pleasure. “A god so near him, longing to be taken, and he denies that god? Has he forgotten the importance of offerings? The value of divine favor? Then I worship you in his place. I hope it is—” Snapping into the god once, hard, making his eyes roll back and his breath jump high. “—acceptable—!”
“‘S good!” the god gasps, and then, seeming to remember what was asked of him, “Achilles—!”
If Pat were here, he’d torment the god in that particular way of his, finding the places he most likes to be touched and gently driving him wild. Achilles has less skill in such things, less of a knack for gentleness.
He tries, however, bending down to mouth at the god’s neck again, pawing at his chest. And the god, it seems, is easily pleased—bucks and moans under his touch, reaches up clumsily to return the favor, moaning into Achilles’ mouth. His lips are soft, his tongue moving with purpose, and Achilles suspects—though he is committed now to this course of action—that the god’s mouth would be just as good as the rest of him.
His voice echoes through the glade as Achilles picks up speed, echoing in the sweet silence of Elysium, a choir of ecstasy. Were they not alone in this dream, everyone would know by now. He is not quiet, this god, does not hold his pleasure; he tells the sky who is fucking him, he moans it to high heaven. Were this not a dream, they’d hear it even on Olympus.
“Oh sir—Achilles—oh please oh fuck—”
Always, all his life, the deathless gods have dominated him, demanded offerings. And yet none has seemed so deserving of worship as this one, who lies meekly back with legs open wide. “My god,” growls Achilles again. “Fire-footed, jewel-eyed—worthy of Varatha— You take my spear well—!”
The god half-laughs, but it spills almost immediately into a moan. One hand clenched behind Achilles’ neck on his hair, the other jerking between his legs, stroking at himself. He writhes and twitches, lost to it, and Achilles would snatch up his wrist again, make him wait, but who knows how much time they have? Better that they both finish fast.
“Sir, Achilles, I’m gonna—”
“Good,” says Achilles instead, eyes fixed on his face, greedy to see his expression. “Come for me. Come.”
“Ah, I, uh, Achi— Achilles—!”
His throat tightens on the word, roughens it with desperate ecstasy, and Achilles chases him as he peaks, fucks him through the clench of it as he arches, legs splayed, mouth stretched wide—and then pulls out quickly to come on his belly with a twitch and a jerk, laughing with breathless delight at the sight. A god! And what a god, desiring to be worshiped this way. Achilles could do it every day, blessing or no blessing. What a dream.
“I shouldn’t like to go without you,” he says, smoothing one splayed hand over the god’s chest again, dragging at the point of one peaked nipple. The god shivers then goes limp again, staring adoringly up at him. “Divine one. Surely the Achilles you know has not forgotten this… I never could, I think. Remind him, for my sake.”
“I—” The god pauses, biting his lip.
“Say you will,” Achilles commands, and sighs in open relief at the nod.
“...Good lad.”
He wakes up with the words on his lips, and spend spotting his bedthings.
“Welcome back,” says Patroclus, standing by the entrance with dinner and wine. Just bread and venison, it seems, but by the gods, it smells good. Achilles inhales deeply through his nose, still basking in the afterglow of a truly phenomenal orgasm.
“...You stood there and watched, did you?”
“Of course,” says Pat, smiling. “Oh, you were beautiful—how couldn’t I? But, hm…Great Achilles, coming untouched from a wet dream, like a youth…what would the others say?”
“They’ll say nothing, because no one will tell them of it,” says Achilles, pointed but cheerful. He has the sense, oddly, that this is the end of it. He tries not to feel too bad at that, but it drags at his heart a little, even as he fills his belly and gratefully downs the wine.
There are bright things, in war. Moments of laughter and pleasure, despite it all—the clawing attempts of tiny humans to pretend hell is bearable. Sometimes they feast, sometimes they dance. Rarely, to Achilles’ knowledge, do his fellow soldiers ever receive divine visions of attractive young gods begging for sex in the fields of Elysium.
If that is death, Achilles considers, perhaps he has more to look forward to than he imagined.
“Not so bad, is it?” murmurs Pat. “Now, anyway. Death.”
“Not with you,” agrees Achilles. He still hasn’t gotten used to the sight of Pat, how present he is, every detail of him precious and beloved—the way his smile crinkles his eyes, the graceful gestures of his hands, the way he flicks back his hair when irritated. Achilles is delighted to stand next to him in peace, and to fight at his side in service of their prince. What they do matters very little, because Pat is there. Everything is better and brighter by his side.
“You’re staring again.”
“I know,” says Achilles, not stopping.
Pat chuckles, rolling his eyes, then— “Ah, but that’s your ward approaching, no?”
It is—loping through the gate looking harried, but not much worse for the wear, for which Achilles is grateful.
“Stranger.” Pat is already reaching for his little basket of goods, meant to give him strength and stamina in the eternal battles of paradise. Instead, of course, he passes them on to Zagreus.
They would do anything for Zagreus.
“Would that I could give you more,” says Pat, seeming to read Achilles’ mind. The prince, however, waves away the gifts, looking between them with the most peculiar expression on his face.
He wants you, says the look Pat aims at him sidelong. Achilles shakes his head minutely, brow furrowed. He rejected his prince once, and when Pat all but invited Zagreus to be with them after their reunion, he simply said he’d think about it and ran off.
That door is closed.
“I’ve a message,” he says, now.
Achilles raises an eyebrow. “We’re both here, lad.”
“For which we can hardly thank you enough,” adds Pat, persisting rather rudely even after last time. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought of what we might give you?”
“I, erm.” This time, surprisingly, Zagreus colors at the offer. Achilles wonders, his heart sinking somewhat, whether he is only just now understanding it. “I’m not sure whether you mean— Look, I—” And here his eyes find Achilles. “I had this dream…”
“Oh,” says Achilles, and then, “Oh. Lad, I…”
“And the Achilles I— saw, he told me to tell you to—” Bright red now, struggling with it. “Well, he just said I ought to remind you…that….you liked it, I suppose. Rather a lot. Quite...quite a lot.”
“Liked what?” says Pat, raising his eyebrows. Zagreus looks to him now.
“He said you’d like to share me, sir.” Steady but breathless. “You and Patroclus. He—you—said you’d…like that. I’d like that. I…”
Patroclus is looking between them, light dawning on his face.
“It would have been wrong of me,” Achilles starts quickly, but—
“He’s your dream god?”
“Pat, please…”
“With the two-colored eyes,” Patroclus murmurs, reaching out to clasp Zagreus’ chin and turn his head this way and that. “Yes, of course…how could I forget?”
“Well, I’m sure—rather a lot happened, um…” Zagreus allows himself to be handled, though his eyes dart guiltily to Achilles. “And, as I say, if anything’s changed—”
“I’d been with you, but you hadn’t been…with me, at the time,” Achilles attempts to explain. “It seemed improper, and…Pat was gone, besides…”
“Pat’s here now,” says Pat, raising his eyebrows. Achilles gives him a long-suffering look, and is given no sympathy whatsoever.
“You don’t have to,” says Zagreus, staunch in the face of his own nerves.
“Oh, a difficult decision,” says Pat solemnly. “Terribly hard. Whatever shall we do, Achilles?”
“Pat…”
“We shall have to think about it, stranger. Of course, as I’ve said repeatedly, we’d do anything to thank you for everything you’ve done for us, but…” Groaning sympathetically. “...to offer up your lovely body like this…”
“Sir,” says Zagreus, in agony, still looking to Achilles.
“He wants to,” says Pat, gently.
“But—”
“We can wait, stranger. But trust me, if we start and give him some time to get warmed up, he’ll join in.”
“Ah,” says Achilles again, transfixed.
“Won’t you? Now that he’s no longer your ward, and you’ve both finished having your little tryst across time, and I’m here.” Pat wraps an arm around Zagreus’ waist, drawing him in with slow, irresistible gravity. Kisses his cheek, and Zagreus says “Oh…” so softly and sweetly that Achilles is struck by an unbearable urge to do so himself.
“That…is true,” he murmurs, and does it—bends down to kiss his prince’s other cheek, then his ear, his neck. “That’s all true, isn’t it, lad?”
“Hhh,” says Zagreus, twitching in Patroclus’ arms. Achilles stoops, nodding to Pat, who understands at once and turns the prince in his arms, holding him facing out. Dazed, bicolored eyes drift downwards, to Achilles on his knees, hands on Zagreus’ belt. He remembers his god’s pleasure, in those dreams, but he is certain it was not enough—merely a welcome consequence of fulfilling his own selfish desires.
This time, and each time hence, Zagreus shall have all he deserves.
“Sir, what are you…”
“You are my god,” says Achilles, pausing. “It is appropriate to worship on one’s knees.”
Zagreus shudders, a full-body movement, and Pat croons his pleasure at it, tugging at the prince’s clothes as his belt comes loose. And then, together, they take the rest of him apart as well.
What a dream.