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He was only a familiar dream, a oneiric face that smooths out his nights, making them mellow and sweet always, and yet Achilles loved Patroclus more dearly than his own life.
They were boys, him only older by a few years, his back already muscled and his shoulders wide, soon enough he will be able to grow a beard. Where Achilles was blonde and golden, Patroclus was dark and all harsh lines, crocked smile that bent and twisted Achilles’ heart.
It started when he first hit puberty, a fantasy that kept him awake blushing for hours after, gentle smiles and smiling eyes. Nothing more, they would just sit on the grassy cliff of Phthia and watch the sea groan and splatter against rocky shores. It felt like they had know each other for a thousand years and more.
Men, his preceptor had once told, were first made with two heads, four legs and four arms. But as hubris took over them, Zeus ripped them half and soulmates were born. Perfect halves that longed for each other eternally. Achilles had laugh at the silly story, but then Patroclus appeared in his mind, so real and perfectly visible, so palpable that it couldn’t be just a dream.
He remembers his nights escapades— because that is what the dreams were— with Patroclus. The way his southern accent stutters his name; rough syllables and smooth consonances— Ach-iii-les. The smile he adorns when the blonde says his name— Pa-tro-clus.
Each night they talk of this and that and that again, discovering things they already knew of each other again, like uncovering a old favorite book for the first time in years.
And then they would fall asleep in the dream, Achilles laying his head on Patroclus’ shoulder, his lap, his belly. Patroclus puts his hand in his hair, and plays with the smooth golden strands, petting him like a babe.
Never had Achilles felt unconditional love like this one.
Sometimes in the dreams, Patroclus teaches him things he knows, for he is four years older than Achilles, making him seventeen and already a man.
Achilles eagerly swallows each words that comes out of his friend’s mouth, desperately wanting to impress him.
He first teaches Achilles about the stars, then astronomy led to sailing, and then to geography and history of men. Achilles learns also about more hand to hand things too, like sparring, games of wrestling, and sometimes even, how to kiss right.
It started as simple pecks on the corner of Patroclus’ mouth, and since he was not encountered with defiance, the kisses moved closer and closer to his actual lips until one dream where the older boy took the lead for the first time and kissed him properly.
It was like the storms of summer, first electrifying, then nauseous— who taught him to kiss like that?— and finally Achilles learned to just block out all thoughts and like a madman in the rain to just enjoy the ride.
That morning, Achilles woke up sweaty and worn out, as if he did walked through a tempest, and his heart was still drifting on wild waves, and the rumbling in his stomach drunken him.
One day soon enough, his godly intuition predicts, he will meet this boy while truly awake, and love him until his world stops turning round.
“Kalos kagathos” he calls Patroclus when the night comes. Virtuous and Beautiful.
“Philatos.” Patroclus smiles, and Achilles blushes.
Most beloved.
