Chapter Text
Each night he’d greet me with a lazy “hello,” a strum of my mother’s lyre, a bite from a fig. And each night I, unremarkable, would take to my pallet, and it was such on this night too. We had shared this room for five weeks when Achilles, in his direct and easy way, said to me, “Patroclus, why do you wear your hair so short?”
I looked over at him, his back to me as he washed his face over the basin. His own golden curls, free from their leather tie, hung over his caramel shoulder. I felt the blood in my face warm. I did not want to tell him, as he would certainly mock me for it.
But he turned at my silence, and I had no choice but to share.
“My father’s men shaved it upon my exile,” I said simply, bluntly.
Achilles did not laugh, nor did his expression show the pity I had most feared. Instead, he looked at me quizzically—questioningly. “When you killed the boy.” It was not an accusation.
“Yes.”
“Why, though?”
I frowned. It was such an odd conversation, and I neither knew how it came about, nor what sort of conclusion Achilles wished to draw.
“I...to shame me, I suppose.””
Achilles’ expression did not change. He stared at me a few seconds longer, then turned again to the basin, above which a polished bronze plate showed his reflection. He seemed to be thinking, from the hanging quality of his silence. I finally looked away and made to doff my tunic when Achilles turned back around, resolute, and with his chin in the air.
With all the princely authority he could muster, he pronounced, “Patroclus, you are to cut my hair.”
I stared, certain that I had not heard correctly. As my dumbfounded silence stretched out before us, some of Achilles’ resolve seemed to slip away, though not for a lack of effort. It was almost comical—the boy prince faltering under the ludicrousness of his own order.
I shook myself. “Why?” I spat.
I feared it came out too forceful, as Achilles’ gaze finally broke from mine, and he looked to the rug at his quick feet. Still, he seemed to gather himself, tilt his chin higher, puff his chest out farther, and look me again in the eye. “You are my sworn companion, are you not? I shall not bear shame that you do not know, and you, likewise.”
As I stared in disbelief, Achilles turned on his heel and made for the door.
“Where are you going?” I said, still sitting like a stone upon my pallet, one arm tucked inside my tunic.
Achilles looked round, brow raised slightly, in surprise or confusion. “To fetch shears. I won’t be a minute.”
“But—“ I started, but he was out the door before I knew what to say.
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He returned, as promised, within a few minutes’ time with shears like I had seen before in infirmaries and nurses’ quarters. I examined the blades as Achilles placed them in my hands—two bronze knives crossed and joined at the end. I squeezed them, and as they closed, the metallic scrape rang through the silent room.
Achilles didn’t seem to notice my study, as he was undressing himself and pulling the hard, wooden chair in the corner to the center of the floor, back to me. He sat.
When I didn’t move from my bed, he turned to look at me expectantly.
“I...Achilles,” the name which I had so seldom spoken still felt odd on my tongue, as though it didn’t belong there—as though I were unworthy of such an address. Nevertheless, I swallowed my doubts and spoke my mind. “Achilles won’t I be to blame when your father sees? Won’t he be angry?”
He looked rather perplexed. “Perhaps he’ll be angry. But why ever would he blame you? You are doing this on my orders, are you not?”
That was true. That one doubt was thwarted. But the rest…the golden, god-like curls did not belong upon the stone floor. They were…him. Or a part of him, rather. The radiant light that seemed to come from Apollo himself, planted in the boy sitting before me.
Again, Achilles took notice of my silence—my hesitation. But now his regal demeanor was gone as he said my name in little more than a whisper, “Patroclus.” And I looked at his face in profile, his back still to me, his golden hair still falling about his shoulders. Suddenly he wasn’t princely, and we were just two boys sitting in the lamplight.
“Patroclus,” he had said, and it stirred a little life in me. I looked again at the blades in my hand, and got up from my bed to stand behind him.
The curls seemed to have no start or end, and no destination for that matter. I chose a strand at the back of his head—there was no other way—and held it in my fist as I cut through the fibers. It seemed a crude cut, sitting at the back of his neck, rather than trailing partway down his spine like the remaining locks.
At the release of the scissors, Achilles’ hand jumped to the back of his head where the strand had been, felt the ends of it, and shook his head.
My insides twisted, suddenly fearful. “Was that too much?”
This time Achilles twisted his whole torso so he could look at me properly. His eyes seemed to plead to mine as he shook his head again and said, “No, shorter, like yours.”
I gaped as he turned back around. Shorter? I looked at the clump of hair, still in my fist. Separated from the other boy’s head, it looked dull, like old brass. I sighed and tried to focus. Feeling my own hair for reference, I dropped the first strand and picked another off of Achilles’ head. My hair had grown in the few months since I had left my home, but not so much that it would sit in any style fit for a prince. But I knew that Achilles would stand his ground on the matter, and so I moved the shears up closer to his scalp before closing the blades.
On and on, one lock after another, I continued my work for what I felt could have been the whole night. The yellow locks fell to the stone floor and turned brown like autumn leaves. I concentrated on my work—finding the strands, making them even—until the last one hit the ground. I closed my eyes, still not daring to look at the boy before me. I took a breath and opened my eyes to the floor, covered in brassy curls. Slowly, I looked up at Achilles’ feet, his strong legs, his knees, his groin, his chest…
His eyes were closed when I found them, and he was wearing an expression of utter ease—almost bliss. He was…striking. The hair, short and wavy, gleamed in the candlelight, and his boyish features seemed sharpened as though carved from marble.
He opened his eyes and I could feel myself blushing. I averted my eyes again to the floor as Achilles stood and made his way once more to the mirrored plate above the basin.
“Patroclus, come,” he said.
I took a step forward, but came no closer.
“Stand next to me.”
I obeyed, looking into our reflections—I, simple and sheepish, and Achilles, a handsome god.
“We are one and the same now, Patroclus. We shall grow our hair together, and until then we will wear it still as a mark of dignity.”
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I drifted to sleep amidst visions of Achilles’ sharp, handsome features, and awoke to them in the half-light that preceded dawn. The sweet scent of salt lingered upon his flesh—he had been to see his mother. But he was not bearing the same, sullen expression that usually accompanied her visits; rather, he wore a smirk as he unfastened the cape at his neck.
“What happened?” I said, squinting as I propped myself up on my elbow. “Is your mother well?”
Achilles did not respond to the latter question, but instead ran a hand through the patch of waves atop his head and said, “She threw a fit. She hates it.”
I rolled my eyes so that he could see, but, as I rolled over to steal a last hour of sleep, I couldn’t help but smile.