Chapter Text
I know nothing about you. I don’t know your name, who you are, where you live, what you do… You’re unaware that I long for you, and that every night I lull myself to sleep, thinking that I’m cradled in your arms and you in mine.
It had been months, at least. Every day, except for weekends, Achilles would go through all the phases of love and all the stages of grief in a span of moments.
Starting as he walked in, Achilles’ heart raced, seeing the man maneuver around people, taking extra care not to bump into anyone, and find his seat. Always the table closest to the large window, only enough room for one occupant. Based on his frequency of coming to the same cafe, never failing to be alone, Achilles inferred his act of loneliness was not feigned. But how? If half of the people he interacted with were as enamored by him as Achilles was, he would never be alone.
Warmth grew and spread inside Achilles as he watched his routine, the same every day. Out of his worn leather bag came a notebook, and pen, placed right in front of him. Next was a book, whatever he was reading at the time, but never a computer, phone, or tablet. He meticulously placed these things before he’d order his drink, an Americano that was doctored with far too much sugar once he’d received it.
Achilles’ feelings shifted as he continued, his fine lips blowing on his drink to cool it down, slender and well kept fingers placing trusses of long, curly, dark hair behind his ears, his large doe-like eyes dancing around the room. But as desire grew, lust grew faster, exploding inside Achilles whenever one of those beautiful digits would slip between his lips, sometimes resting there, sometimes licked to grasp a page, always alluring and so subtly erotic Achilles made himself look away.
Longing replaced lust, when after Achilles crossed his legs to hide his hardness, the feeling of intrusion sank in. Let me in your world, he wanted to say to him, let me read with you, write for you, worship you, let me make you come. The man hardly 20 feet away from Achilles might as well be in another continent, on another planet, for he was in a world all his own. Dutifully he sat, never distracted by the noises, set on his work, never procrastinating by people watching as he sipped his drink –the reason he’d never noticed Achilles pining so earnestly over him, over his body, his worn books, his scent, his mind.
Grief settled quietly as Achilles relished in all he didn’t have; the quiet moments with him, knowing how his face looks when he orgasmed, how he liked his tea, which biscuits he preferred, did he wear pajamas? Or did he prefer to sleep naked? What body wash did he use? What did he look like as a boy? Just as sweet and kind? Did he have siblings? When did he first have his heart broken? These questions were left unanswered as Achilles allowed his coffee to grow cold, the world festering as he realized his state.
He ordered another coffee. He must be a student, Achilles thought, which led him to wonder why he’d go in the opposite direction of the university library, to this cafe, which was always teeming with people. Achilles had never seen him on campus, or anywhere, besides here. Achilles knew this because he sought him out everywhere, giving himself slight heart attacks with every shaggy-haired svelte frame he encountered. But as if he were an apparition, the elusive angel was only to be seen in one cafe, five days a week. Despite his regularity, he never spoke to the baristas, and the other regulars never paid him mind, besides Achilles. If not for his ever present skepticism, Achilles would almost believe he was seeing things, a hallucination of a lover from a past life.
Achilles grieved for him as he watched; he was writing with a great concentration, every so often setting down his pen and taking a sip from his drink while reading over what he’d just written. Slowly Achilles accepted his fate, as he did every day, and a sense of relief came to him. There would always be tomorrow.
Except, today was still in authority, and as fate would have it, the man broke his routine. After taking a languid sip, and gently raking a finger over what Achilles knew to be sweet, slightly sticky, coffee flavored lips, he lifted his head from the notebook. And that’s when Achilles’ world flipped, when his sweeping gaze landed so timidly on him, so soft that it wouldn’t have been felt if Achilles was not already looking at him. His long eyelashes weighed his eyelids down for a blink, and for the briefest second him and Achilles held eye contact. And in that second, Achilles was in love again. The moment was gone just as quickly, the man smiling shyly and ducking his head, and Achilles wanted to reach out, to grasp the moment to have forever. Had he known this whole time? Did he want me to watch him? Was he imploring me to come to him, be with him? Was this an invitation?
He didn’t look up for the rest of his stay, and Achilles was too starstruck to think of anything else, not after the lad left or while Achilles stumbled home, or when he climbed into bed that night and grabbed his aching cock, searching for the relief Achilles knew he’d only have with him. He rolled the moment around in his mind, concluding it was indeed an invitation; he never even made eye contact with the baristas, let alone a stranger. Achilles wanted him, and soon, Achilles would find out if he wanted him, too.
—
The initial shock kept Achilles away for days, it was nearing Wednesday and yet he couldn’t convince his stagnant feet to carry him. His mind kept volleying the possibilities of such an interaction, waging from a simple acknowledgement, I see you, or the opposite, an uncomfortable please stop staring. Achilles knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away for much longer; the implicit thrill in the prospect of winding himself up and through the mysterious cafe devotee was eating away at any resolve he thought he had. Perhaps, Achilles thought, his incessant silent beckoning had somehow finally managed to manifest itself, and his desires were heard. But instead of living with his convoluted fantasies, he devised something that was just shy of a real plan.
He returned to the cafe, earlier than when his boy usually showed himself, and wrote a note. No one else ever sat at that tiny little table; for in the summer the sun beat down upon it mercilessly, and in the winter the heavy condensation on the windows from foggy mornings would leave your coat wet. He had no reason to worry his message would slip into the wrong hands, and with only a short amount of time before his future lover showed himself, his plan was almost foolproof. On a slip of paper, he wrote just a simple passage, careful not to be too gratuitous but enough to make the man act, to spark something inside him.
I don’t know your name, or who you are. But I see you every day, and you thrill and excite me to no end. I would love to get to know you.
He ended the note with his number, despite never seeing the man with a phone. He weighed the piece of paper with a sugar canister, and left with just enough time to see the man in question walking down the street, like a ghost who’s scheduled to haunt a particular table for a few hours. Achilles waited under the facade of lighting a cigarette until he went inside, the door wafting the faint scent of vanilla towards him as it swung open and closed. Today Achilles was granted no such luxuries as a look or a smile, but that would all change in time. Under the cover of a bustling sidewalk, Achilles stood in front of one of the large plate glass windows situated on either side of the main door. He saw just enough; the man walking up to the table, seeing his note, reading it, and Achilles’ favorite part, folding it back and putting it in his jacket pocket. Achilles left promptly after; his mission was complete. He felt relieved, excited, but also terrified: the ball was in his court. Achilles could continue to daydream unabashedly from afar, but there was a finality in the notes of rejection; if he decided not to contact Achilles, to not acknowledge him, that would undoubtedly ruin his dreams. The continuation of their relationship, whatever it may or may not be, was at the hands of the stoic celestial body from which he had barely heard two words uttered. But after deciding that today he would be an optimist, Achilles liked his chances.
—
He knew better than to expect to hear from his acquaintance -if he could even call him that- immediately, but that in no way stopped him from jumping at every notification he received, his heart racing every time his phone rang. What could he truly expect? He had crossed the line, from his fantasies into the entirely too real scenario of playing with a real person. There was a thrill in that, like the excitement one gets when opening a new piece of technology that requires you to sit down and figure out how it works, each knob and each menu setting; but still bypassing the tutorials so you could find your own way around it. However, there was no manual or tutorial to lean on if Achilles was to find himself hopelessly lost.
It was late when Achilles’ phone lit up with a new message, late enough that he’d already retired for the evening after indulging in enough late night television to make him sluggish. He almost didn’t check it, for a moment forgetting the day’s events, but his brain caught up quickly enough. He knew it was him, the string of numbers unfamiliar to Achilles staring at him from his screen, and his stomach lurched at the sight. Immediately, he put the device down, his fingers and toes tingling like he was standing on a high precipice, adrenaline making his palms sweat. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his hands on his pajama bottoms, and steadied himself before picking up the device again. He hadn’t been this suddenly anxious in years; as if he was about to open an acceptance or rejection letter from his top choice university. In many ways, the feeling was the same -this was an acceptance or rejection letter. There was one side of him that didn’t even want to know the conclusion, who was content with the knowledge that he did reach out, no dreams were crushed. He could continue safely in his dreamworld, for there was no rejection there, no heartache. But another side of him, a bigger side, would never allow the message to be left unread, and he knew it would be absolute torture until he finally opened the message. Achilles sat perfectly still as the battle waged on in his mind, when finally, the other side won and it was decided. He carefully unlocked his phone, paying no mind to the cold sweat forming on his nape, and nervously tapped on the new message.
Achilles tutted as he read, once, twice, three times, deciphering the tone, voice, any distinguishing personality in the short string of words. They read,
Well, you’ve intrigued me.
No greeting, no polite uncertainty. It was rigid, but somehow inviting, letting Achilles know he wasn’t as impossible as one would assume. A man who would barely entertain small talk with baristas had stunned Achilles into a loss for words. He could already tell there was a game being set, and he was more than willing and ready to play his turn.
Achilles contemplated how he could reply; Can I taste you? How did you know the note was for you? Have you watched me too? None seemed to fit; there was a universe full of possibilities, but each one seemed too forward or not forward enough, too emotional or too plain, too deep or too superficial. Finally, he settled on,
You’ve intrigued me as well.
But of course, as soon as his finger lifted from the “send” button, he hated it, and locked his phone in frustration. However, Achilles hardly had time to ponder on all the ways he had made the gravest mistake with his choice of words before his phone lit up again. There was no hesitation this time, he was far too eager to see what was sent to him.
I was wondering when you would finally reach out. I was beginning to think you never would.
Achilles was stunned again. Completely speechless, and grateful he was already seated. Every instance spent inside that cafe was now being analyzed at light speed through Achilles’ mind, trying desperately to find the moments that had shockingly slipped through his fingers, when he was watching Achilles, too. A new warmth hit Achilles’ cheekbones like the effect of one too many glasses of wine, he couldn’t believe his luck. Just the thought of him studying Achilles intently enough to know that he would eventually reach out, and to be so confident that it was indeed Achilles who left him a note, aroused him so thoroughly, like his entire body was being caressed.
How do you know who I am?
He couldn’t resist asking, it was a question he now wanted to ask more than any other question he’d ever had in his whole life.
You’re not the only one who watches people at the cafe, I’m afraid.
Now Achilles was envisioning what he was doing in that moment; maybe he was also in bed, reading his book, wearing some faded t-shirt or nothing at all, the lamp from his bedside table casting him in a dim golden light, making some rogue strands of hair look red through illumination, his skin so soft and supple and begging to be kissed. Where did he like to be kissed? How tender was the spot behind his jaw and under his earlobe? What strange array of freckles was waiting to be seen on his back and stomach? Before letting himself get carried away, Achilles focused himself on the task at hand. He could almost laugh at himself; he had the subject of his desires at his fingertips and he was still daydreaming of him.
I want to hear your voice.
He knew this was bold, but he also knew from what he had received from his opponent that this was not going to be a small talk-filled conversation. Their volleying of question and answer would not suffice for Achilles; he had waited patiently for long enough.
Eager?
Achilles only had the chance to read the reply for a moment before the device in his hand began to vibrate with an incoming call, sending chills all the way down to his tailbone. All of the confidence that he had mustered suddenly vanished, and now he was uncomfortably aware of himself and his body, like an unbeknownst chill had just entered the room. Clearing his throat, which had turned so dry he could hardly swallow, he pressed the “answer” button.
“Hello?” He felt awkward and stiff, reminding him of times his mother would put him on the phone with distant relatives, who most likely were not too keen to speak to him either. How different these two situations were.
“Hello,” he parroted. Achilles immediately sat up straighter, his hands shaking slightly at finally hearing his close voice, his voice directed at Achilles, to Achilles, the undivided attention he so craved. The smirk in his voice excited Achilles, it was thick in a way that only arose from smoking too much, but still smooth, which made Achilles think he would probably have a good singing voice. The tone itself almost posed a question, are you ready to play? The answer to that, yes, very ready.
In lieu of reply, Achilles just sighed, dazed. He had the phone so close to his ear, and everything around him was so quiet he could almost hear his breath on the other side of the line, calm and even, like this was hardly bothering him.
“How did you know…” He wondered aloud. It wasn’t so much of the question how did you know the note was mine? but more so it was how do you already see me so clearly, am I so transparent? Achilles still hadn’t recovered from that previous shock, and once those words left his mouth he found himself already impatient for the lilt of the others voice, to hear his answer straight from his lips, into Achilles’ ears, and straight into his brain where he was sure it would stay engraved for the remainder of his life.
“I suppose I knew from the first moment I saw you. Also, my name is Pat, short for Patroclus.” Patroclus. A trip of three steps down the tongue, Pa-tro-clus. Such a fitting name for someone like him; was he Pat to his mates? Patroclus to his mother? Was Patty also used, a term of endearment saved only for grade school teachers and his grandmother on his father’s side? Achilles was sure already he was the favorite grandchild; who always made the highest marks and was the most polite at the dinner table.
And there it also was, the confirmation this was not some imagined attraction, that somehow, Patroclus had heard Achilles’ pleas, come to me, find me.
“I so hoped you would. I’m Achilles, also.”
“Hello Achilles.”
“Hello Patroclus.” Hearing his name being spoken to him by Patroclus was the height of any kind of pleasure, one that would only be surpassed by the future prospect of hearing what his name would sound like when moaned.
“It’s nice to finally talk to you, not just in my head.”
“I’d like to see you soon,” Achilles replied.
“We should get lunch.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. At the cafe.”
“Ok.”
“Is it weird I’ve dreamt about you?” Patroclus asked, and Achilles almost preened.
“No, I’ve dreamt of you for months. I’ll dream of you tonight.”
“As will I. Goodnight, Achilles.”
“Goodnight, Patroclus.”
The call was too short and too long for Achilles, and his whole body was on fire as he climbed under his unbearable sheets. But as it stood he still yearned for that voice, wanted to hear it for hours on end. In the whirlwind of his thoughts, I’ve dreamt about you, steadily flowed through his mind; thinking of every possible scenario of Patroclus’ dreams only served to raise his body temperature. But it wasn’t the obvious physical response that kept Achilles awake long after their call had ended, it was the sensation of falling, or melting; a sensation of losing himself to the warm and erratic feeling boiling in his chest. He gladly let it infect him.