Work Text:
Achilles cannot breathe.
Or, at least, it does not feel so with the collared shirt on. Tugging at it does not make it any better, when he goes to adjust it in front of the mirror by the front door, as it still lies in the same uncomfortable place just under his neck, and it is still just a bit too tight to be considered comfortable.
He undoes the top button, but now that leaves more of his chest on view. His brows furrow, looking at himself.
Would Pat think it’s okay? He did say they were going to a nice restaurant, but Achilles considers most of the restaurants from this time to be nice - certainly nicer than hunting and killing your next meal on Pelion, here you don’t have to wait for your food to be caught in the trap - but you don’t necessarily see nicer clothing in all of these said establishments.
(Besides, he is sure the restaurant he frequents named Taco Bell is not the establishment Pat had in mind to take him when he suggested going out for dinner.)
He shifts the collar again, tugging at it, but it does nothing. The collar hangs open, showcasing perhaps just too much skin. Too much for a first date, anyway.
Not that it really feels like a first date - all of these firsts with Patroclus are never firsts for Achilles.
Pat, Achilles forces himself to think. It’s Pat, short for Patrick. Not Patroclus.
He must not forget, because even though it is his Patroclus from this time - he knows it is, he can feel it in his blood, running underneath his skin, that pull that Patroclus always had on Achilles that could always direct him - this does not mean that this Pat knows it.
None of them usually do.
There’s a knock at the door, then, and Achilles does not know how he has lost track of time, but he’s here. He glances back at the mirror one more time, and with one final sigh does up the top button, and opens the door.
Pat is smiling at him when he answers, hands in his pockets, casually leaning to the side. Achilles doesn’t say anything at first, any words of greeting fleeing from him when he sees Pat standing on his doorstep because he is exactly as he remembers him. Tall, his wavy brown hair slicked back and out of his face, black button-down shirt tucked in with the top button of his collar left open to expose his tanned collarbone - should Achilles have done that instead? The smile he wears, his teeth shining through. Gods, he looks just like him.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is just as rich and deep as Achilles remembers.
When Achilles looks back up, the smile Pat is giving him is more amused than before. It’s then that Achilles realizes he’s been staring without making a sound.
Gods damn it.
“Hi, yes, sorry,” he stumbles, feeling his face heat up, his tongue tripping over any words his brain can manage to conjure. “Sorry, I just- You look very nice tonight.”
Pat only smiles, like this is all very charming. Achilles does not find it so - this whole interaction so far has been mortifying.
“Thank you,” he smiles. “Told you I clean up well.”
Oh, Achilles had never doubted that for a second.
“Yes,” Achilles smiles back, unable to help himself, “You were right.”
Pat’s grin only widens at that, and he extends his hand, as if to take Achilles’. “Shall we head out?”
A deep breath, in and out, trying to calm the nervous flutter in his stomach that says you are going to mess this up. He takes Pat’s offered hand, so warm and soft in his own, and allows himself to be led.
“You look very nice tonight as well,” Pat tells him, heading towards his car parked on the street. He has not pulled his hand away.
“You think so?”
“Of course, you always look wonderful. Although…”
Pat pauses, stopping them in the middle of the road. Achilles watches as he reaches up and undoes the top button of his collar, and feels like his heart stops when his fingers brush the skin of his neck.
“There,” Pat says with a self-satisfied smirk. “Even better.”
The shirt hangs open now, exposing his chest just a bit now, but he no longer feels like he is suffocating in the stifling shirt. He sees this Pat’s eyes roving over him appreciatively, and he can’t help the flush that paints his skin with heat.
Pat only chuckles, and leads them to his car.
~
Achilles was not supposed to live.
He went to Troy knowing this - he would die there, and he would die young. Patroclus came with him, young and alive and so filled with sorrow, but he came despite it all.
Achilles had loved Patroclus for a long time since that day on Skyros, when his fate would be proclaimed, but that day something had shifted inside of him - when Patroclus had nodded through his tears and his sorrow, saying yes, yes, I will.
He felt like his heart would burst, and out would pour light like a hundred urns pouring out the sun. He loved him. He was unequivocally in love with him. He did not know how to express this change. They laid together that night, and it felt like a sacrament, like a promise and a vow.
Never shall they be parted, not even when the seas dry up and the sun burns out and the dirt turns to dust under their feet. Not even when the Gods wither away, and the last star in the sky is snuffed out. Two souls in one body. It was during these days that Achilles believed if he tried hard enough, he could forge them together as one, like he feels they are meant to be.
He would kill for him. He would die for him. He would give him everything.
Patroclus was never meant to give him his own life instead.
Achilles' own soul was ripped out of him that day, torn apart and shredded, bloody and bruised and defiled. He could not breathe, and his heart would no longer beat. They brought back Patroclus - a corpse covered in blood - and Achilles felt like dying.
The men would not let him slit his own throat. They would not let him starve himself to death. They would not let him climb the walls just as Patroclus had done in hopes of finding Apollo waiting for him at the top, ready to throw him to the ground as well.
Paris’ arrow was straight and true, guided by the divine hand of the Sun himself, and pierced him in the chest, straight through his heart.
Still, even then, Death had not come for him. This is your punishment, aristos achaion, a voice had whispered to him, you will have your reward for the damage and death you have caused. You will live immortal.
Achilles could not bear it. He screamed, and wailed, and begged for them to change this, to bring Patroclus back or to let him die and meet him in Hades. The blood poured from his chest, and his heart did not stop beating.
The voice did not return.
~
Achilles cannot remember how much time has passed until he sees him again. Years, decades, centuries - it is all the same to him, passing in one blur before him.
He prays for death every night, and he is never answered.
He sees it one day, an indeterminate time later, after he had left Troy and all its riches. It is a small village, just on the corner of Greece. Achilles does not remember why he is there in the first place, but that does not seem to matter anymore.
A tuft of brown hair, never lying quite flat behind his ear. Slender ankles he knew better than his own. A strong jaw, stubble barely covering his skin - he looks younger than Achilles remembers him being.
Achilles thinks in that moment that maybe he has died, and just never noticed, because Patroclus is standing there in front of him, turned to the side, not noticing from the distance.
Achilles had almost collapsed that first time. He had rushed over to him, the tears already steady and flowing, and latched onto him. He pleads forgiveness, and his heart aches, but mostly he just says, “Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus.”
Patroclus does not return this embrace. He pushes Achilles away, a shocked and confused look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice has an accent that Achilles does not remember, “but I think you must have me mistaken.”
Achilles does not understand. “What?”
Patroclus had taken a step backwards, like he expected Achilles to attack him. “My name is not Patroclus. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”
No. No, no, no, that can’t be right. Achilles blinks, wiping clarity into his eyes with the back of his hand, and Patroclus still stands there before him, his face cautious and wary. It is still him. It is exactly as he remembers.
(How much time has passed since Troy? Achilles does not remember, but surely…
He does not remember dying, so perhaps this is not the fields of Asphodel where he has found him.)
“Patroclus,” he says, his voice thick and heavy, “Surely you know. You must know me.”
Patroclus only bit his lip, taking another step back. “I’m sorry, stranger, but I do not. You have me mistaken.”
No, no, that can’t be it. It is Patroclus, Achilles can feel it in his blood, the connection that has always been there, tugging at his very soul, reaching for its other half.
“No, that’s… Patroclus, please.” Tears have filled his eyes again, because this is not right, and he cannot let him leave. Not again. “Please, it’s me. Achilles.”
Patroclus shows no hint of recognition. Achilles takes a step towards him, and Patroclus jolts back. That alone makes his heart hurt more than it has in a while. “Patroclus, please.”
Patroclus opens his mouth to speak, but another voice in the distance interrupts him. “Petrus,” it calls, and another man is standing on a hill just down the path they are on, waving Patroclus along. “Come along, we’re all leaving now.”
Patroclus turns then, sparing Achilles one last glance as his feet move. “I’m sorry,” he says once again, and then he is gone.
~
A soul reborn. Patroclus must have drinken from the Lethe, then. A chance of rebirth, but all memories are left behind to the river.
Achilles does not know if he can stand it - all versions of him unknowing. What he does know is that staying away from him hurts more than lost memories.
He knows that he cannot stay away.
~
The restaurant is nice - nicer than Achilles has experienced in this modern age before. There are chandeliers in every corner, twinkling and shimmering with light, and the floors look like to be made of marble. Their reservation was set for seven-thirty, or so Pat tells him, but he already feels like he is set to meet the king.
(Or president, he supposes, in this case. There aren’t too many kings around anymore.)
They are seated near the window, overlooking the city lights, a silent chaos in front of them as people swarm by and cars zoom past. It is something Achilles will never really get used to - so many people in so little space.
There’s a candle lit by the hostess on their table, and the glow from the light makes Pat’s skin glow like gold. Achilles is handed a menu, but he can’t take his eyes off of him.
(He looks so similar to how he did, back then, in Phthia, even more so in this light. They are secluded, away from the rest of the restaurant guests, and it feels like they are just the two of them back in Phthia, heads bent together in the dining hall.
Every version of Patroclus has looked similar. Some have longer hair, or lighter skin. Some are shorter, or taller, or have freckles littered all of his body while others have skin as smooth as honeyed milk.
But this version, here, somewhere in what is called America, almost four-thousand years since they first lived… this one makes him look twice. The way he moves, the way he speaks… it’s like he was back where they belong.)
“Do you know what you’re getting?”
Achilles hasn’t even so much as glanced at the menu yet. “Uh, not really,” he says, picking up the menu, feeling his face flush once again when this Pat gives him an amused smirk, and Achilles knows he’s been caught staring once again.
“Have you ever been to this place before?” Pat asks him.
“No, I haven’t really heard of it until tonight.”
“That’s okay. I’ve only heard of this place from a coworker, and they told me it was very much a reflection of American cuisine-” Pat says with with air quotations, a smile on his face, “though she also eats anchovies straight from the cans she buys as the supermarket and swears by it, so I don’t know if we can really take her word for this place. Although, considering how busy it is here tonight, it must be good.”
Achilles quirks an eyebrow at that, and now it is his turn to be amused. “You’ve never been here before?”
Pat spares him a glance over the top of his menu. “I’ve heard it’s good. But no.”
“And you decided it would be a good idea for a first date?”
Pat gives him a teasing grin. “Oh, that’s what this is? I thought I would serenade you and buy you expensive food just as a friendly gesture!”
Achilles grins back, unable to help it. “Of course, that’s only a gesture friends would make.”
Pat chuckles, his grin glowing in the candlelight. It makes something familiar ache in Achilles’ chest.
“I don’t know,” Pat says, “I know it’s kind of a gamble, with neither of us being here before. But I thought, if there’s anyone I’d like to have an adventure with for a night, you’d be a pretty good choice.”
Achilles' grin softens at that. “Really?”
Pat’s grin softens to match his own. “Yes. You’re okay with that?”
Achilles would have taken anything, really, if it meant this Pat would give him a chance. But hearing this makes his heart leap.
“Yes,” he nods, his voice going soft.
The server grimaces when Pat butchers the name of the plate he orders, and Achilles doesn’t even attempt it - he just points at the menu at something, he isn’t quite sure what he ordered. Pat only laughs when he tells him.
What comes out on their plate is some sort of glob of something masquerading as food. There’s a clump of… what was it he ordered?
“Duck liver, sir,” the server tells him when he asks, and Achilles immediately regrets asking at all. It does not look at all like any sort of meat he has ever eaten, if the small, shriveled up circle of food can even be considered meat. There’s a smear of green paste across his plate that Achilles guesses is supposed to make it more appetizing. If so, it does not succeed.
When he looks up at Pat, he is glaring at his own plate as well.
They glance up at each other, and the expression on Pat’s face makes Achilles chuckle. He looks just about excited to eat whatever this is supposed to be as he himself is.
“Well,” Pat says, taking a rather long sip of his wine before picking up his fork and knife, “ Bon appetit, I guess.”
~
They end up getting dinner at a food truck a few blocks away, greasy and delicious.
“So much for that,” Pat says as he balances his hotdog precariously in his hands, smearing mustard on his cheek while trying to take a bite. “I’m so sorry, I totally thought that restaurant would have been better.”
Achilles doesn’t mind at all. “It’s alright,” he tells him, “I guess it serves us right, trying to be as fancy as that.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but Patroclus doesn’t really laugh. “I really am sorry. I did want to take you somewhere nice tonight.”
“Who says this isn’t nice?”
Pat gives him a look at that. “Achilles. This is a food truck.”
It’s not about the food, Achilles wants to say, I just want to be with you.
But this is still, technically, a first date. Was that too much for a first date?
(Even though they had met a few times through mutual friends in this lifetime, and have already come to know each other over a period of time. Everything already feels so natural, Achilles is half afraid that he will end up saying something stupid and scaring the other off.
He’d done so before, in the past, after all. He let the memories get the best of him. He’d started believing whichever version of Patroclus that was in front of him was his.
He’s had more failures than successes. He’d never had to court Patroclus before - they simply were. This time, he does not want to mess up again.)
Pat is watching him, surrounded by a nervous sort of energy that makes Achilles think that he doesn’t know what the other is going to say.
Achilles himself does not know what to say. He bites his lip. “Can I be completely honest with you?”
“Of course.”
“I was quite excited for tonight. And it wasn’t necessarily just for the food.”
It’s as close to what he’s feeling that he’ll allow himself to say.
Pat gives him a shy smile at that. “You mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
Pat ducks his head at that, and Achilles can see the way his face turns pink despite the way he tries to hide it.
“I’m glad you think so,” Pat says, taking another bite of his food, smearing the mustard on his cheek that he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I do. You’ve- ah…”
“What?”
“There’s mustard on your face.”
Pat’s eyes widen, and he laughs. “Shit, where?”
Achilles tries to point it out on his own face, but Pat misses it completely, causing Achilles to chuckle.
“Do I have it now?”
“No, to the left… my left.”
He ends up smearing it farther across his face, and he frowns in feigned frustration, his brows furrowing. It’s a look Achilles had forgotten that he’s missed.
“Here,” Achilles says without a second thought, and reaches up to wipe it off Pat’s cheek with his thumb.
Pat freezes, and his eyes are watching him when Achilles pulls his hand away.
Shit.
(Was that too much? Maybe that was too much, shit, what is wrong with you?
He still doesn’t know you yet.)
“Thanks,” Pat says, and when Achilles meets his eyes, he’s still smiling, softer than before.
It makes something flutter in his chest.
~
They get ice cream near a stand that borders a park in the city. Neither of them are ready to go home yet, and so Pat suggests taking a walk through.
This era’s sweet foods are far different from what Achilles is used to - the sugars are artificial and so so sweet that it makes his teeth hurt. He’s not a fan of ice cream, but he buys both himself and Pat a cone, as Pat had paid for their dinner at the food truck.
Achilles gets some on his nose, and Pat laughs before wiping it off.
There are not many people walking through the park at night, and so they are left alone, walking down the moonlit trails, the sweet and soft voice of Pat filling the air. Their arms brush as they walk beside each other, and Achilles wonders if he could get away with holding his hand or not - first date , and all that.
They pass by a busker with a guitar, and that is when Pat grabs his hand, warm and soft, left uncalloused from easy work.
“May I have this dance?” He asks, a devilish smirk on his face.
(His Patroclus would never have - not in public, lest it tarnish his name during the war. It makes his pause for a moment, blinking with the unexpected.
Pat is Patroclus, but they are not the same. Then again, they are both different people now.)
Pat wraps an arm around his waist in a poor imitation of a waltz that doesn’t quite match the beat. Achilles steps on Pat’s toes more than once, not used to the dance after so many years, but Pat only chuckles, amused.
Achilles feels like he’s falling in love with him all over again.
And so, of course, it had to start raining, soaking both of them in seconds.
They run back to Pat’s car - which is parked on the other side of the park - and by the time they actually get there, they are both drenched to the bone.
“Oh, your shirt’s all wet now,” Pat pouts, wiping rainwater from his eyes, his dark curls wet and heavy, plastered to his face.
Achilles shrugs. He never loved the shirt in the first place. “It’ll dry.”
Pat only smiles, brushing his hair back from his face. The time displays on the dashboard when he starts the ignition, bright and green in the dark. “Shit, is it really that late?”
It’s been hours, though it feels like the time has flown away from him. Surely it was only half an hour, right? And not a few hours since Pat picked him up?
Pat turns the radio up as he pulls away from the street, leaving the park and the city behind them.
~
It’s past midnight when Pat pulls back up to Achilles’ place. Neither of them move at first. It seems like neither of them want the other to leave just yet.
“Tonight was great,” Achilles says, breaking the silence.
Pat bites his lip at that, uncharacteristically nervous compared to the rest of the night. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Even though the restaurant was a bust? And your shoes are probably filled with rainwater?”
It’s true, his socks are fairly damp and his feet do make a weird squish when he takes a step, but that’s beside the point.
“Really,” he says, “I had a really great time.”
The smile Pat gives him then is relieved. “I’m glad,” he says, “and I promise that next time it will be better.”
Achilles freezes at that. “Next time?”
(He can’t even count the amount of times he never got the next time. He’d said the wrong thing, acted the wrong way, and let everything else he felt get the better of him too many times.
He’d stopped expecting a next time to ever be a possibility.)
“Yeah,” Pat says. “I had a great time. I’d love to go out with you again sometime. Soon?”
Soon! Achilles feels himself nod rather than telling himself to agree. “Yeah,” he says, and is surprised that his voice doesn’t crack with shock. “Yeah, I’d love that.”
Pat’s smile grows, turning into a grin that Achilles didn’t know he had missed so dearly. “It’s a date, then.”
It’s a date. Achilles can hardly believe it.
He’s still grinning when he walks through the front door, and even longer after Pat has left.
~
Two dates turn into three, which then turn into four, and then five.
By the sixth, Pat’s friends from this time greet Achilles with warm smiles, claiming that it has been too long before they’ve met Pat’s boyfriend.
Achilles had given Pat a somewhat surprised look at that. Pat’s face had turned so red, it looked like he had been out in the sun for far too long.
(He remembers that look from Pelion, when the both of them had been much, much younger. He always loved making that look appear on his face.)
“Your boyfriend, huh?”
Pat’s blush had deepened, and he’d rubbed the back of his neck when his eyes dropped to his shoes. “Well, I- uh-”
Achilles had to stifle a smile, trying his very best to obtain the facade that he was unaffected. “Unless there was some other charming, tall, handsome man you’ve been seeing as well.”
Pat had given him a pout at that. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Are you? Trying to get rid of me, then?”
His blush had deepened - impossibly - as he tried and failed to hide the grin forming on his face by ducking his head. “No, God, you are so mean.”
“Now, now,” Achilles had said in return, feeling an uncharacteristic rush of confidence the longer he saw Pat stumble in embarrassment, “is that any way to talk to you boyfriend?”
Pat had glanced up at him, his face still red, and laughed.
Boyfriend. It was a word to get used to. The last time he had met Patroclus was years before a relationship like theirs would be deemed acceptable. The last time, they had never called each other boyfriend, or lover, or husband. They could only be with each other behind closed doors.
This day and age is different, and Achilles finds he does not mind this aspect of this time at all.
Weeks turn to months, and time slips in between them. Achilles spends days and nights at Pat’s apartment, and Pat spends mornings and evenings in Achilles’ house. A small collection of possessions gather at each one’s place. A sweatshirt that smells like Pat. Hair elastics of Achilles’ that have mysteriously gone missing, only to show up on Pat’s wrist.
It is domestic in a way Achilles never thought he would ever have. Even back in their own time, they never really had this type of happiness. Achilles was supposed to die, and it loomed over them every minute of every day. This is different.
Pat dances with him in the kitchen when his favourite song comes on over the speaker. Pat calls him in the late hours of the night when he can’t sleep. Pat holds his hand in the park, and kicks his feet against Achilles’ under the dinner table.
Achilles is so happy that can hardly believe any of it is real at all.
But then again.
Pat shows up at his place one time wearing one of his shirts. Achilles knows it is one of his shirts, as it is just slightly too small on Pat, hugging the muscles of his arms in a way he had only been able to imagine until now.
Patroclus was wearing one of his tunics when he got back from the bloody fields of Troy one night. His hair was damp, as if he had just washed it, and the hem of the tunic was stitched with blue thread. The linen had a wine stain on the sleeve from the previous night that Achilles had yet to clean. Patroclus hadn’t noticed.
“Achilles?”
Achilles shook his head, trying to shoo the images of before away. They didn’t matter here - not anymore. “Hm?”
Pat was giving him a slightly worried look, brows furrowed as if he was concerned. “Are you okay?”
The wine stain was dark, and Achilles had just returned from the battlefield. There was still blood on his skin. When he closed his eyes, he saw red, spilling in every corner.
The stain on the sleeve of his tunic - the tunic that Patroclus had most likely not even noticed was not his own - sends his heart beating faster in more ways than one.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he’d said, the words leaving him automatically, unthinking. He watches as Pat’s concerned looks turns to a frown.
Pat’s wearing his shirt. The fit is just a bit too small. When he lifts his arms up, the skin of his stomach peeks through. There’s a birthmark on the left side, so jagged and pink that it looks like a scar, but this Patroclus has never been to a battlefield, nor has he held any weapon with the intent to kill another man.
Patroclus is wearing his armour when he leaves. Achilles straps him into it himself.
Achilles is sending him off to his death wearing his clothes.
“Achilles?”
Achilles blinks, and Patroclus is in front of him. There is blood stained on his cheek, smeared and splattered. His hair is matted with crimson, leaking from his head where Hector had tried to bash it in with the butt end of his spear before Menelaus pushed him back. His eyes are white, like a ghost.
He’s looking at a ghost.
A hand reaches out to him, and he jerks backwards to feel the touch against his skin. Patroclus’ mouth turns to a frown, blood bubbling up in the corners, spilling over his lips. “Achilles? Honey?” He asks, and the voice is so calm and smooth.
He can’t look. He scrunches his eyes closed, curling into himself. Pat’s hand hovers close, unsure whether to touch or not.
(And why should he know what to do? Achilles himself doesn’t know which would be better, and he’s been alive for over a thousand years. Pat and him have been dating for six months, and never once has this happened in front of him before.
Never has Patroclus appeared to him with Pat around.)
“Hey, hey, Achilles.”
Pat’s voice had been as smooth and calm as it is now. He had placed gentle and warm hands on Achilles’ shoulders, grounding him, pulling him away from the battlefield and back to him, where he knows they are safe.
“Patroclus-”
“Ssh, it’s okay. I am here, and you are with me.”
“You… you were out th-”
“I was here. I had been with Machaon for most of the day. I am not hurt, and neither are you.”
He had smelt of yarrow and rosemary - clean, and soft, and safe. The scents of blood and iron were left behind, and the sounds of screaming horses and dying men are left behind when Patroclus speaks to him, words of comfort and relief.
When Achilles opens his eyes, Pat has returned. He looks frightened. His hand is hovering between them, unsure of what to do. His mouth is open like he wants to speak, but does not know what to say. There is confusion behind his eyes, and an overwhelming sense of concern.
Achilles blinks, and he can feel a burning behind his eyes. “Shit.”
He can’t look at him like this. There are tears burning behind his eyes, and he can’t stand this. He always hated that look on Patroclus’ face, and he wishes he didn’t recognize it as well as he does. He turns away, burying his face in his hands. “Shit, shit.”
(He’s ruined it now, hasn’t he? Pat will wonder, and what will Achilles tell him? He’s frightened him, and rightfully so.
This was bound to happen eventually, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his own echoes through his head.)
“Achilles. Darling.”
Pat is still here, for some reason. He hasn’t left. Achilles doesn’t move from his spot. He doesn’t respond - can’t respond.
“How can I help?”
What had Patroclus always done? When the war became too much, and the faces of the dead wouldn’t leave his head?
They were made of the same, yearning to be made one once again, like Achilles thinks they must have been, when the Gods created the world.
Achilles blindly reaches for him, pulling him towards him. Pat goes with him, and wraps himself around him. Holding him tight. Grounding him. Pulling him back down.
He barely stifles a sob into his shoulder. Pat only holds him, running soothing hands across his back, brushing back his hair, whispering words of reassurance and relief into his ear.
And it’s like he’s back in the tent at Troy, like Patroclus is still here with him.
~
He tells him that he was in the army a long time ago. It is not really a lie, but not really the truth either.
Pat had been quiet the whole time, listening. He had taken Achilles’ hands in his own, his thumb running circles across his palm.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Achilles doesn’t know what to say. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Pat had frowned at that, like he didn’t agree, but Achilles knew better.
“Pat, I’ve… I’m not a good person.”
“Don’t say that.”
“No, really, I’m not.”
“Achilles, don’t. I know you. Whatever happened in the past does not make you bad now, and I highly doubt you ever were to begin with.”
He doesn’t understand. “I’ve done bad things.” Horrible, sickening things. He knows he has. “I hurt a lot of people. I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have chosen to, but I did.”
(Oh, if only he could go back, and tell them no, I will not go.
If only he could have run away with Patroclus. None of this would have ever happened.)
Pat had looked like the very words made him want to cry. He had pulled Achilles close, and did not let him go.
“It wasn’t you,” he said. “I know you now, and I know that whoever you were before is not the same person you are now. I know you would not have done those things by your own choice. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I don’t- I’m not-”
“Achilles.”
Pat had taken his face in his hands, wiping away his tears, looking at him with such fondness he felt like he would burst.
“Achilles,” he said, “you are perfect.”
And he means it. Achilles can tell that he does. He can hear the utter sincerity in his voice - he would know it even if he were deaf.
Pat holds him, and Achilles lets him put him back together.
~
Time passes. Achilles spends more time at Pat’s apartment than his own home, always wanting to be near him, even if something in his mind screams at him that he shouldn’t.
Pat is gentle with him. The more time that they spend together - the longer it goes on, with Achilles falling more and more in love with him every minute - the more he can see.
The way he tends to the small balcony-sized garden outside with such care. The way always has coffee waiting for Achilles on the counter when he wakes. The way he traces his fingers over Achilles’ hands when he holds them.
It is so like his Patroclus - and yet nothing like him at all. Achilles watches all of these things, and each time it is like he has been transported back to when they had first lived. Whether with the easiness they had at Phthia (which no longer really exists), or the tender playfulness of Pelion, or the intensity of Troy.
Achilles cannot help but see all of these things, and his heart aches for something he is not really missing. Pat will notice, and glance at him with a bright smile.
When they first kiss in this time, they are not on a beach on a warm summer’s day, the waves lapping at their feet. It really isn’t anything special.
They are sitting on the couch in Pat’s apartment, some sort of show streaming on the TV, the setting sun casting them in an orange glow.
Pat is scrolling through something on his phone, not really paying attention to whatever it is they were watching. He was looking for something, or waiting for something. Achilles doesn’t have to ask, as he already knows, really.
(A job had opened up at a clinic nearby, and he had applied, not really expecting to hear a call back, but applying anyway.
Achilles is glad he did. It was another thing that Pat and Patroclus have in common - they always seem to underestimate themselves. The hospital that Pat works at now was not a good environment, from what Pat had told him. Anything would have been better.)
He refreshes his email again, and frowns at how it is still empty. It’s not a look Achilles has ever cared for.
He grabs his hand then, the one holding his phone. “You checked just a few minutes ago.”
“I know,” Pat says, sounding like a sigh. “I just thought they would have gotten back by now.”
“And I’m sure they will,” Achilles reassures, “they’d be stupid not too. You’re amazing, and more than qualified.”
Pat had put his phone down in favor of holding his hand instead. This coaxes a smile from him. “I think you might be a little biased in that account.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t make me wrong.”
Pat had only looked at him, that fond smile that Achilles is so used to gracing his face. He shifts, making room. “C’mere. Distract me from it, then. What’s this show about?”
Achilles had huffed, but acquiesced, laying his head in Pat’s lap per his request anyway. Pat’s fingers leave his own to comb through his hair, something he’s found the other enjoys immensely.
“I’m not sure,” Achilles tells him, his voice growing softer with each pass of the other’s hand. He wasn’t exactly paying attention to the show either.
Pat only hums above him, and Achilles starts to feel his eyes grow heavy.
(Patroclus used to do this, sometimes, as they were falling asleep. Achilles never told him that he loved it. He never needed to.
It seems like that has not changed now from then, either.)
The sun dips below the horizon, below the skyscrapers of the city surrounding them, and the city lights glow to replace it. The TV lulls in the background, and Pat runs his fingers through his hair in gentle passes, combing and soothing out any knots. If Achilles could stay like this forever, he would.
“Achilles,” Pat’s voice chimes in, a mumble.
Achilles leans over, slotting his eyes open to see that Pat is watching him, unbearably fond. “Yes?”
He doesn’t say anything right away. His fingers pause for a moment, and there’s a look in his eyes as if he were debating with himself.
Then, he leans down, and kisses him.
It’s a bit awkward, as Achilles is leaning on his side, and the angle isn’t quite right. Achilles wasn’t expecting it, and this Pat’s aim is rushed and maybe not as accurate as he could have been. Achilles would swear his heart stopped beating if he didn’t know any better.
Pat is biting his lip when he pulls away, nervous, unsure if he’d done the right thing or not.
The smile is slow to come to Achilles’ face, but once he realizes it, it is a thing he cannot stop. He reaches for Pat and pulls him back down, and he can feel Pat smiling against his lips when he kisses him again.
~
Achilles sees Patroclus, sometimes. It is usually when he is asleep, when he is dreaming and the ghost of him appears in his mind. Sometimes he is bloody. Sometimes he is not.
This time, he is awake when he sees him.
Achilles is looking for something, eyes shifting through the crowded bookshelf in Pat’s apartment. He doesn’t hear Pat up behind him, his careful footsteps on the hardwood floors.
He does feel when a strong pair of arms wrap around his waist, careful as not to startle him.
Achilles can’t help the smile that comes to his face.
He was looking over some sort of maps on the table in his tent - something Agamemnon, or Odysseus (he can’t remember who) gave to him. A raid for next week, a village that was better guarded than the rest. As commander of the Myrmidons, he would lead them.
He hadn’t heard Patroclus enter the tent. He had wrapped his arms around his waist as a greet, pressing himself against his back.
“Hello,” he hears, mumbled in his ear.
Achilles doesn’t turn around - not yet. “Hello,” he returns.
“What are you looking for?”
“Weaknesses,” he replies, when Patroclus asks him. “But, maybe a reason to step away from these damned maps before my eyes start to cross.”
Patroclus hums, feigning interest. “And what have you found so far?”
Achilles sighs. “Nothing, yet. I wasn’t sure if you’d have the book they mentioned.”
Pat had a large collection, so the possibility he would have the book recommended by a friend earlier was relatively high, but he’d come up short so far.
Pat only hums, tightening his grip across his waist. “What’s it called? I can see about getting it for you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t even know if I’d like it, to be honest.”
“Well, do you think it would be worth the risk?” Patroclus asks him.
Not really, but Achilles can’t really come up with any more ideas as to how to crack the fortress presented to him. “No,” he answers, not really focussing much on the maps anymore, with the way Patroclus’ mouth is pressed against his shoulder, his breath warm and even against his skin. “But I can think of something else that I don’t want to risk right now.”
He feels Patroclus chuckle, the sound reverberating against his back. “Oh? And what would that be?”
Oh, how he wants to turn around, press him against the bookshelf, and kiss him until neither of them can breathe any longer. The things he can do to him, Achilles can hardly believe it.
He turns around them, ready to do just this, but he pauses.
Pat’s smile drops when Achilles halts, brows furrowing in confusion.
Patroclus had left him, then, and retired to another room to clean, leaving him alone. A council meeting was called, and when Achilles finally returned in the late hours of the night, Patroclus was long asleep. They never really made good on his suggestion that night.
“Achilles?”
It’s not Patroclus, as Achilles was halfway expecting when he turned around. Pat’s arms unwind from around him, sensing something is wrong, and Achilles can’t even say what. He just stands there, looking at him like he was something unexpected.
“Is everything okay?”
How close he was to saying his name; Patroclus.
(He doesn’t remember. He never does. If he brought up another man’s name now, months after officially dating, he cannot imagine it would go over well, understanding as Pat may be.
How long can he keep doing this? Pat doesn’t remember, and Achilles can’t seem to let Patroclus go.)
“Yeah,” he says, and tries not to cringe at how forced his voice sounds. “I’m fine.”
Pat frowns, but doesn’t say anything more.
~
Pat doesn’t ask him. Maybe he assumes it’s something to do with his past - the traumatic past of the military life that Achilles refrains from talking too much about.
Pat wouldn’t understand anyway, even if Achilles did choose to tell him. He would think he’s lying, or deflecting. He wouldn’t actually believe him, he’s almost certain of it.
None of this deters him. Pat takes him on dates - out to dinner, or the movie theater. Sometimes they stay at home, content in each other’s company.
He is unbelievably happy.
And yet, when he sleeps, he dreams of Patroclus.
~
The seasons change. Pat is doting, and careful, and gentle with him. A year passes, marking their first anniversary. Pat takes him out for a nice dinner - tried and true this time, unlike their first date all those months ago.
Pat is giving him knowing looks all throughout the night - the ones that would cause heat to travel through his body, and would make him feel a little lightheaded.
They end up skipping dessert.
When they make it back to Pat’s apartment, Pat presses him against the back of the door, and shoves his tongue down his throat.
Achilles is breathless when he pulls away, Pat finding the sensitive spot on his neck to attack instead. The room closes in on both of them, and time slows to a halt. There is not a world that exists in which Pat is not here with him, his hands roving underneath his shirt, sucking bruises on his neck, across his jaw.
He hasn’t had anything like this in so long, Achilles has almost forgotten what it felt like. Everything is much too hot, and both of them are wearing far too many clothes for his liking.
“God, Achilles,” Pat mumbles against his neck, his breath hot and heavy against his skin, “I want you so bad, baby.”
Achilles didn’t know he could even make a noise so high-pitched as the one that escapes him at that.
Pat pulls away then, his pupils so wide it makes the rest of his eyes look black. His skin is tinted red, and his mouth is swollen already, with how many kisses he’s already bestowed upon Achilles. His voice is already rough when he asks, “is that okay?”
Is that okay?
Achilles replies by grabbing the collar of Pat’s shirt, and kissing him so fiercely that it makes the other gasp against his mouth.
Clothing is lost on the way to the bedroom. Achilles will later find his shirt tossed haphazardly in the hallway. Pat’s pants are left in the doorway of the bedroom, and somewhere along the way, they both lose their socks, though neither of them will remember actually taking them off.
Pat groans low and deep when he enters, and Achilles has to bite his lip at the feeling of him against him, around him, inside him.
“Oh, oh, Pat-”
“Achilles, god, you’re good, you’re so good-”
“ Pat-”
“So beautiful, so good, so perfect-”
The room is dark, the moonlight shining in slivers between the curtains, and when Achilles forces his eyes open to watch him, he sees Patroclus.
Beautiful, beloved Patroclus. Sweat beading on his forehead, making his skin glow, a crazed, lust-filled look on his face, almost like he was dazed. The air is hot around them, like when they were in Aulis during the storm, and it’s like they never left.
“Oh,” Achilles gasps, and he can feel the tears well up in his eyes just as Patroclus nudges against that sweet spot inside of him, and cannot tell whether is it the rush of pleasure that wracks through him or the fact that he’s here with him once again that makes it so. “Oh, Pat.”
Patroclus is watching him as well, his mouth parted, little gasps and groans leaving him with every push and pull. “Achilles-” he gasps out, “Achilles. I’m close.”
He feels the tears slip from him, mingling with sweat, and feels the warm knot in his abdomen tighten. He nods his agreement, moaning, “Patr- oh. Yes, please-”
A hand tightens around him, and Patroclus groans low and deep as he finishes. Achilles feels a spread of warmth, and is falling off of the edge with him.
He doesn’t realize that he calls Patroclus’ name as it happens.
Patroclus collapses on top of him, his breath heavy and laboured. “ Achilles…”
Achilles breathes with him, and finally, he is whole once again. “Patroclus.”
~
Patroclus is running his fingers through Achilles’ hair again. Sorry, Pat is running his fingers through Achilles’ hair again.
Once his heart stopped racing, and the sweat started to cool between them, and the haze of pleasure washes through, Achilles knows that what he saw was not real. Patroclus is not with him - not really, not like before - but Pat is. He takes a damp cloth to clean up the mess, discarding it somewhere on the bathroom floor before returning to bed, limbs shaky, to pull Achilles close to him.
Achilles allows his eyes to slip shut, letting tiredness win over everything else, and Pat’s fingers are soothing against his scalp.
Pat pulls him close, his touch unbearably tender, like he would break him if he was any rougher. His breath is warm against his skin, and Achilles can feel the kiss he presses to his forehead.
“Achilles,” he whispers into his hair. “Achilles, I love you.”
That makes him pause. His breaths seem to stop, and he feels himself tense. His eyes slip open only to find Pat is watching him from across the pillows.
He looks nervous, and catches his lip between his teeth. Any words Achilles might have had are lost to him.
“I…” Pat starts, hesitating. His fingers are still caught in his hair, smoothing it out. “I do. I know you might not believe it, but I love you. I just want you to know. You don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready. I just wanted to tell you.”
Achilles doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing he can say, any and all words stuck in his throat. He can feel that telltale pressure behind his eyes, and Pat in front of him starts to swirl.
Because it’s Pat. It’s Pat, who has done nothing in his world to deserve Achilles and the horrid memories he keeps. It’s Pat, who does not remember the warm waters of Phthia, or the rose-quartz cave on Pelion, or the scorching sands of Aulis, or the bloodstained fields of Troy.
It’s Pat, who is not Patroclus, no matter how hard Achilles might try to convince himself that he is. That he might be, if given time.
(None of them remember. Pat will not remember either.
Everytime he looks at him, it’s like he’s looking at a ghost.)
Pat’s thumb brushes back tears Achilles didn’t know had fallen, sorrow filled on his face. “It’s okay,” he says.
But it’s not. Achilles can’t look at him - not like this. He shakes his head, turning over, pressing his palms to his eyes as if that could stop him from seeing anything at all. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.
“Achilles, it’s okay. It’s okay, baby, it’s fine. It’s alright.”
It’s not, and what’s worse, there’s nothing Pat can do to make it better. He feels Pat’s eyes on him when he sits up, the covers pooling at his waist.
The bed squeaks and the covers rustle when Pat sits up, leaning against the headboard. It’s quiet for a while, but Achilles’ eyes are still wet. He still hasn’t said anything.
The silence stretches on for what seems like forever.
Then Pat asks, “It’s someone else, isn’t it?”
His heart drops at that. He swallows, shaking his head. “No.”
A moment passes, agonizing. He can’t tell if Pat believes him or not.
“Achilles,” he says, “who’s Patroclus?”
He freezes, like every muscle in his body has seized at the sound of his name. He hasn’t heard it spoken out loud in so long. His head whips back to look at Pat, who is still biting his lip. “Wh-what?”
“You say his name in your sleep sometimes,” Pat says, his voice growing soft, and his eyes fall to his lap. “And you said it tonight. I know it wasn’t me you were thinking of.”
It’s like his heart has suddenly leaped into his throat, cutting off his air supply. He never thought… he wouldn’t have said it in front of him, would he?
Oh Gods, what does Pat think of him now?
“Pat-”
“I really am in love with you, Achilles,” Pat says, cutting him off. “And I just… you don’t need to say it back right now, and I don’t want to try and make you feel guilty or bad about it, but I just… I want to have a life with you. I need to know that you want that too. With me. ”
He’s shaking his head before Pat can finish. “That’s not it,” he says, and he wipes at his face before turning around to face him.
When he looks back, there are tears in Pat’s eyes. “Then what is it?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
(He can’t tell him the truth, surely, because Pat would never believe him, and it’d just look like he’s lying to not get caught. If he told the truth, Pat would leave him, not the other way around.)
“Achilles,” Pat mumbles, reaching for his hands. “You can tell me. Please.”
He swallows, blinking back tears that won’t stop from gathering in his eyes. He can feel Pat’s eyes on him, watching, expectant. Pat is holding Achilles’ hands in his own, rubbing soothing circles against his skin. Like from three weeks ago. Like from three-thousand years ago.
“I knew Patroclus in the war,” he says, his voice a little bit choked up. “We grew up together. We were best friends, and… and more. He followed me into battle, when I went. I…”
He looks up at Pat, who is still watching him, and it’s the same stare that Patroclus always had when he was worried about something. Achilles looks down instead.
“I loved him. More than I even thought was possible.”
Pat is silent, rubbing slow circles into his skin. It seems like he doesn’t know what to say.
“What happened to him?”
Achilles closes his eyes. “He died. Killed in battle. It was… it was mostly my fault.”
“Don’t say that.”
“No, it was. We fought beforehand. It was so stupid, looking back, fighting over a silly matter of pride. He went to fight that day, and I didn’t, and he never came back. If I’d been there-”
“Hey, no,” Pat says, and suddenly there are strong, warm arms enveloping him. “Don’t do that to yourself. It wasn’t your fault. He chose to go.”
“I asked him to.”
“And he still chose to go. There is nothing that can be done now to change the past.”
It is something he’d expect Patroclus to say. He is almost certain he had said those words to him before, in Troy.
The sound Achilles makes in response is half-sob, half-laugh. “You are so like him,” he chokes out. “You are just like him, Pat.”
Pat doesn’t say anything. He presses himself closer, enveloping him in warmth, achingly familiar. “It’s okay,” he whispers against his skin, “you’re okay now. It’s all okay now.”
It’s not. And it won’t be for quite a while - if it ever will be. Achilles thinks of the lies and the half-truths he’s told to Pat, and almost feels like he will be sick.
Pat loves him. And despite all that Achilles has told him so far, he still does.
Achilles doesn’t want to lie to him anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry, Pat. I’ve been lying to you.”
Pat’s hands pause at that, and Achilles feels him stiffen against him. “What?” he asks, pulling away, confused.
Achilles forces himself to look at him. “I’m not- I’m not who you think I am.”
Pat frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
He can’t breathe. It has been forever since Patroclus’ body was brought back to the camp, bloody and broken, and Achilles is certain he hasn’t taken a single breath since then. It’s like all the air in the world has been sucked out.
(In, and out.)
Achilles takes a breath, and tells him.
~
Patroclus is silent for a long time when he finishes. His face is frighteningly blank, and Achilles does not know what to make of it.
There, Achilles thinks, now you’ve done it.
He told him everything. Not a single detail was spared. There is nothing between them now that is unknown.
Pat is staring ahead of him, not looking anywhere in particular. Achilles can almost see the thoughts swirling around in his head like a maelstrom.
His throat is still scratchy when he says, “Pat?”
Pat doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make any sign that he even heard him. For some reason, that only scares Achilles more.
Surely he’d leave him now, after this. Either that, or think he’s gone mad.
“You must think I’m crazy now,” he says.
He is answered by a slow shake of the head. “I don’t know what to think,” Pat mumbles. When Pat’s eyes dart to his - finally - they look unbelieving. “You… you really are him, aren’t you? The Achilles from the legends. From the Iliad.”
“That’s… that’s one version of it. Yes,” he nods. How many times had his story been told throughout the centuries? Too many for him to count. Most of them wrong.
“So, when you talk about the war…”
“The Trojan war. Yes.”
Pat shuts his eyes, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. “The Trojan war. God, that’s- all of that was real?”
Achilles nods, miserable.
“And… and you think that I’m him?”
“You are,” Achilles tells him. “I can feel it. I’d always know you - him. Even in another life.”
“But…” The distress is clear on his face, growing and growing with each second that passes. “But then how come I don’t remember?”
Pat’s voice breaks a little at that, not understanding. Achilles’ heart breaks with him. He takes his hand, carefully, lacing their fingers together. “You never do,” he says quietly. “Every time I have met you, you never remember.”
“So every time you look at me,” Pat says, his voice hesitant, “you see him.”
Oh, how broken he sounds. Achilles can hardly stand it. He nods, knowing it will hurt him even more to say so.
Pat curses, folding into himself. Achilles doesn’t know what to do - whether he should stay and comfort him or not. He doesn’t know if such an action would be welcome anymore, after this.
“But I’m not him completely, aren’t I?” He sniffs out, his voice muffled from where he has buried his head in his arms.
No, he’s not. “No.”
“And that’s why you can’t… Why you sometimes…”
Achilles nods, even though Pat isn’t looking at him. “... Yes.”
Pat is silent for a moment, and when he lifts his head up, there are tears streaking down his face. He makes no move to wipe them away. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles.
It feels like his heart is breaking in two all over again. “I’m sorry, Pat.”
“Don’t. Just… don’t. Don’t say that. I just- I need…”
He lets out a shuddering breath, wiping at his face. Achilles waits for him.
“I think I need some time to think. About this. And us, I think.”
Achilles pales at that, suddenly growing very cold.
( No, no, no, he’s leaving me again, he’s pushing me away, he doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t want me anymore.
Not again, please.)
“Pat-”
“ Please, Achilles,” Pat croaks out, and his eyes are red and swollen from tears when he looks up to face Achilles. “Just for tonight. Just one night, that’s all.”
The way he asks, pleads. Achilles has hardly ever been able to deny Patroclus - in any life - anything. The last time he did, it cost him a life that was never meant to be lost.
He can’t let him go now, because this feels like the finale to a story he has heard too many times before. But if he stays, he knows it will not end any differently.
Heart in his throat, he nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
He finds his pants on the other side of the room, and his shirt discarded somewhere in the living room. He slips on his shoes sockless, not caring about where they could have ended up. Pat sees him out the door, boxers on underneath the housecoat draped across his shoulders.
He looks like he wants to say something as Achilles steps out the front door into the apartment’s hallway, but no words come out. Achilles watches him, and he doesn’t say a word.
Achilles can’t stand the silence. “I’ll… I’ll see you later, then?” He cringes at how awkward and misplaced the words sound.
But Pat nods his agreement. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, “I’ll call you later. Tomorrow. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Achilles somehow manages a tight-lipped smile that feels more forced than it should be. “Tomorrow, then.”
Pat doesn’t say anymore - he doesn’t return the smile Achilles had tried to give him. Maybe it looks more like a grimace, as that is the look he is giving him.
Achilles turns to leave then, but a voice stops him before he can get very far. “Wait,” Pat says, grabbing his hand.
Achilles turns back, and that is when Pat pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his mouth - soft and fleeting. It is over much quicker than he would have liked.
“Tomorrow,” Pat mumbles to him.
“Tomorrow,” Achilles whispers back.
Pat lets go of his hand, then, and Achilles knows it is time to leave. He doesn’t hear Pat’s door close behind him as he walks down the hall, and opens the door to the staircase to leave.
When he gets home, back in the familiar and foreign corridors of his house, he weeps until daybreak.
~
When he dreams, he dreams of Patroclus.
He opens his eyes to bright blue sky, fluffy clouds roaming aimlessly in the endless expanse above. Here, the air is sweet, and warm. It smells like the freshwater stream nearby, like fresh grass beneath his fingers, like sunlight.
Then, over by the stream, is Patroclus. He is sitting on the bank, legs hanging over the side, watching the river run in front of him. He seems to know when Achilles notices him, because he turns his head to meet his eye. A quirk of the lip, his eyes dancing in the sunlight.
“Come here,” he says, and though he is across the way, his voice echoes through Achilles’ ears like he were right beside him.
Achilles was never particularly obedient in life, but for Patroclus, he will be anything. He sits next to Patroclus by the bank without another word, and feels an ache in his chest, like his soul is calling out to him.
Achilles knows this is a dream. He has not been back to Pelion since he left that fateful day, all those thousands of years ago. He has not seen Patroclus for a millenia.
Patroclus does not look at him. Achilles cannot look away. He looks exactly like he remembers, back when they were young and happy. At the way his hair curled behind his ears the longer it grew, or the freckles on his nose that would grow darker the longer he stayed out in the sun.
He misses him so much, like he is missing a limb.
“You know that I am always here,” he says, his eyes trained on the waters.
“I know,” Achilles says.
“And I am there, too. In him. You can feel it. You know it is true.”
He closes his eyes. He can feel the river flowing against his feet, and the warm soil soft beneath his hands. He can hear Patroclus’ breaths beside him, even and easy.
“He is not the same.”
“Are you the same as you were before?”
No, no he is not. Compared to Troy, he is unrecognizable.
“He does not remember.”
“Does that matter? He loves you. I love you. And he is there waiting for you.”
Achilles does not know what to say. Patroclus is right, as he often is.
(His Patroclus from before is not coming back - he cannot, since he died over three-thousand years ago.
But Pat is here. Pat is real, and warm, and gentle. Pat tells him that he loves him, and Achilles knows it to be true. Pat wants a life with him, and Achilles knows that a life with him will be filled with nothing but joy and content. It is the life they should have had, all those years ago.
But Pat is not Patroclus.)
Patroclus turns to look at him then, his eyes soft and filled with sympathy. “Achilles,” he says, “you have to let me go.”
Achilles hates to hear it. He hates even more to know that he is right. “I can’t,” he chokes out. I don’t know how.
“You can,” Patroclus insists. He takes Achilles’ hand in his own, and presses it against Achilles’ chest, over where his heart lay. “I am here - right here - always. And I am there, too. In him. The love that I hold for you does not change with his ignorance.”
He can feel him, his heart beating in his chest in steady pulses. Patroclus is holding him together, making him whole.
The sunlight brightens on him when he smiles, wide and beautiful. It is like he has joined the heroes of Elysium.
“Two souls in one body,” he says. “As long as you are here, so am I. You can let me go, and you can rest now. It is alright.”
His cheeks are damp, and Patroclus is fading in front of him. The trickling sound of the stream grows distant, and the grass beneath his hands starts to dissolve, leaving him bathed in an outpour of light.
“Go, my love,” Patroclus tells him. “I am waiting for you.”
He is gone then, leaving him behind.
~
When Achilles wakes, he feels no more rested than he was before. In fact, he rather feels he was hit by a bus, the way his limbs ache and his head seems to throb.
The sun is peeking through the curtains, demanding to be let in. The alarm clock on the bedside table tells him that it is late in the morning. He had slept in for far too long.
Though that doesn’t stop him from wanting to fall back into bed, and maybe not wake up this time. Gods, he hasn’t had a night that rough in a while.
(Where Patroclus is there, with him. Like they had never really left Pelion. Like the past three-thousand years were just some sort of cruel nightmare.
The words he had said to him echo through his head, vivid though the rest of the dream disappears like an echo.
You have to let me go.)
Maybe he should go back to bed. Maybe this time he will get lucky, and not wake up.
The only thing that stops him from lying back down is a sharp, urgent knock on the front door.
He frowns, and gets up to answer.
Pat is standing at the front door, pajama pants on with one of Achilles’ black t-shirts, his chest heaving like he’d run all the way there. “Achilles,” he says, like the word was punched out of him.
Achilles only frowns, confused. Why is he here now, after what happened last night? “Pat? What are you doing here?”
Pat is staring at him, like he’s looking at a ghost. “I- I know I said I would call you today, but I just needed to see you. I needed to see you. I…”
He hesitates, like his mouth is trying to catch up to his head. Achilles doesn’t know what is happening, or why. He waits, and Pat stutters, hesitating.
“I had a strange dream last night, after you left. You were there. We were… on a mountain?”
It suddenly feels like Achilles has lost his breath when he says it. No, he thinks, unbelieving.
“And, there was this cave nearby, and this, um… this horse-man thing-”
“Centaur.”
“Yes! That’s it, a centaur. He was around, showing us something with herbs, I think. We were there together. You looked much younger than you do now. Like a teenager.”
Achilles can’t believe what he is hearing. The only reason he is still standing is because he is gripping the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. That’s not possible, he thinks. There is no way Pat can be remembering.
(None of them had ever remembered anything before).
Pat is shaking his head, his eyes confused. “I don’t know. It didn’t make much sense, and I don’t really remember all of it. I just… I woke up, and had this urge that I needed you to know. I don’t…”
He can hardly believe it. Achilles doesn’t know what to say - if he even can say them. He watches Pat, frowning with confusion on his doorstep in his pajamas, not sure what to believe.
It can’t be, but…
What if it is?
He watches the way his brows furrow with confusion, and the faint freckles on his nose bunch together when he frowns. On the rapid-fire thoughts racing behind his eyes. On the way his hair turns to liquid copper when the late-morning sun hits it.
When Achilles looks at him, he thinks that he might just be looking at Patroclus.
Pat looks up at him then, searching for an answer. “Does any of that make any sense to you?”
All Achilles can do is smile.
~ the end ~