Chapter Text
Patroclus could hear the sound of a PE class outside the second floor history window.
He was distracted, the teacher had lost him in 1918 at the Paris Peace Conference and he couldn’t muster up the strength to listen again. It was only ten minutes into class, a new record low for him surely. His head felt fuzzy from staying up all night working on his English paper, and Briseis had to stick a pointy elbow in his ribs twice already to keep him from falling asleep propped up on his arm.
His pencil moved absentmindedly across the half-filled notebook page in front of him, his messy scrawl slanting every which way and hardly legible. For whatever strange reason, Achilles loved his handwriting, he said he found it endearing. Patroclus would beg to differ, but then again he had a shameful fixation for Achilles’ fine-boned hands that no one other than Briseis could know about, so who was he to judge.
Unwittingly, he found that he had stopped jotting down the occasional date and name that his half conscious mind registered and instead had begun to sketch a set of too familiar collar bones, well defined shoulders slanting down to lean arms, the start of an athlete’s torso. Patroclus fiddled with the cuff of his shirt and ducked his head. He had already filled two sketchbooks with his best friend and about half his art projects were subtly based off of some variation of Achilles doing something or another. Briseis told him he was creepy, he told her it was art. But it wasn’t like he could stop himself, or his hand for that matter from tracing the same jawline, the same Cupid’s bow, the same casual curl of hair that slipped out of the ponytail at the back of his head time and time again. It was always Achilles, always going to be Achilles. Achilles laughing, face tilted towards the sun; Achilles with his eyes closed, sleeping on the bed next to his; Achilles with his brow drawn, chewing on the back of a pencil as he flipped through his Latin textbook; Achilles checking his phone; Achilles perched on Patroclus’ bed on a Saturday morning wearing that infuriatingly big, soft as sin purple knit sweater he favoured that slipped off his shoulder all the goddamn time to reveal smooth golden skin. Patroclus found that he always needed a convenient cushion over his lap—shut up it was because the laptop was burning his thighs—whenever Achilles wore that sweater, which was much too often to be legal.
Sometimes when Patroclus snuck glances at him, their eyes would meet for one terrifying moment and Patroclus would feel his face flush rapidly while Achilles would just smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.
He loved and hated those moments in equal measure.
A sharp jab in the ribs made Patroclus scowl as Briseis tapped her pencil rapidly at his notebook.
“Essay test next Tuesday idiot” was written on the margins of his notes in her neat and rounded lettering, and he frowned and rolled his eyes scribbling back, “He doesn’t even teach!!!” with three exclamation points for emphasis.
“You don’t even listen!!!!” Came the reply with four exclamation points.
“Yeah like you do.”
Briseis nudged her meticulously colour-coded notes in his direction, a smirk on her lips before quickly whipping it away from Patroclus’ hands. He pouted and watched as she wrote something on a fresh sheet of paper.
“Not until you stop daydreaming about loverboy in class.”
Patroclus huffed, bending over the paper. “Was not, that’s weird.”
Briseis just smiled secretively, pointed to her ear, then at their teacher before turning away. Patroclus folded his arms across his chest and felt the rapid fluttering of his heart through his uniform shirt.
His mind was suddenly less fuzzy.
_____
Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles for old money and new money simply didn’t mingle.
Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles until the day his father disappeared off the radar and ran away to Switzerland after his mother died. It was something about some scandal or another that Patroclus could barely remember. All he could recall was the face of a grim police officer who had squatted down next to him, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and told him something he was too dazed to hear. The next thing he knew he was being whisked away to the local orphanage, ten years old and utterly alone.
Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles until a wealthy senator’s wife decided that the best way for her husband to win the next election was to open a foster home, to start a little charity project to show just how loving and kind and caring the family was. And so Patroclus, along with ten other handpicked boys, moved into a villa that resembled his father’s old family mansion. Peleus and Thetis, the senator and his wife, were nice enough whenever they were actually around, not that anyone cared that they weren’t, for it was the senator’s eight year-old son that was the real hit amongst the children. Day in and day out, nine boys preened and strutted in front of him to get noticed, to be his favourite plaything, and orbited him as if he were the sun and they the nine planets. There weren’t ten planets in the sky, and so Patroclus never vied for his attention.
Patroclus was fine alone, happy even to be perpetually stuck in that awkward zone between mediocre and excellent. He was above average in just about everything: height, build, features, and marks at the proper private school he and the other boys were sent to. It suited him, his ten-year-old self liked it that way. The real question was why he caught the perfect Achilles’ elusive attention.
Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles, but the Fates had made an exception.
_____
They were sitting in their room after school, a bowl of freshly washed figs on the floor between them. The two of them had shared a room since Achilles announced to his father at dinner that Patroclus was moving in with him, no questions asked, when Patroclus was thirteen and Achilles was eleven.
Achilles is sixteen now, and Patroclus was tempted to move out. He couldn’t justify the way his eyes would trace and trail across Achilles’ silver-lined features at night when they left the curtains open, couldn’t help but feel disgusted at himself for thinking about long, slim fingers, golden skin, and soft blonde hair when Achilles was in the shower and he had some time to himself. Achilles is underage, Achilles is underage, Achilles is underage became the mantra he would chant in his head whenever Achilles climbed into his bed because he “couldn’t sleep”. You’re like a big brother to him.
Patroclus had brought up moving out one afternoon, citing age and the boundaries that must come with age as excuses, but the look of genuine hurt and confusion that had crossed Achilles’ face was enough to get him quickly backtracking.
Moving out never crossed his mind again.
They are sprawled on the floor now, blazers thrown carelessly over chair backs and ties loosened. Patroclus with his sleeves rolled up was reading half-heartedly about redox reactions, while Achilles had picked up three figs and was juggling them, round and round, fingers dancing across the tender purple flesh.
“Agamemnon ’s hosting a party this weekend.”
Patroclus hummed in response, still scanning the page.
“Catch.”
He looked up just in time to catch a fig that Achilles had tossed his way. “You wanna go?” The fruit was warm in his hand.
“Yeah, with you.”
Patroclus turned the fig over and over, Achilles' response echoing in his ear. He could feel the heat of Achilles’ hand that lingered still, and the air felt thicker as Achilles stopped juggling to watch Patroclus bite into the fig. He didn’t know what to make of the weight of Achilles’ green eyes on him, and as his tongue swept across his bottom lip to chase the sweetness of the fruit, Patroclus knew his eyes tracked the motion.
“You just want me for my ID.”
Achilles smiled, his eyes never leaving his face,“Nah I just want you for your street cred. Best of the Myrmidons yeah?”
“You’re captain of the lacrosse team, not me.”
“You’re the MVP.” Achilles placed a fig back in the bowl and raised the other to his lips.
“Mhm, and who chooses the MVP?”
Achilles swallowed, throat bobbing, and it is Patroclus’ turn to stare. “The coach,” he said nonchalantly.
Patroclus threw his eraser at him, “Fucking asshole”
He dodged nimbly and grinned. “Learnt it from the best.”
Achilles laughed as Patroclus tackled him, going straight for the spot beneath his ribs. They tussled on the floor, Achilles slighter frame as slippery as a fish, wiggling and kicking out of Patroclus’ hold with tears of laughter in his eyes. He used his superior speed to flip Patroclus onto his back, pin his wrists with his hands, and bear down on him to keep him in place. Patroclus stopped struggling against his hold as Achilles leaned down, strands of blonde hair that had escaped in the scuffle falling onto Patroclus’ face. His breath was sweet when his lips brushed the shell of his ear in a whisper.
“Please, Patroclus, come with me.”
Patroclus closed his eyes. I’d follow you to the end of the world.
_____
Achilles had been lonely. He was the senator’s son, the product of a marriage between a political powerhouse and family with too much ambition. His grandfather on his mother’s side had been the vice president once; it wasn’t for love. His father hoped to live up to his father-in-law’s legacy, his mother hoped her son would surpass it. She wanted his name in the history books, wanted eternal glory.
He simply wanted a friend.
As young as he was, he had no shortage of sycophants, for he was bred to ooze charisma despite how volatile his moods could be. Yet the faces that came and went, that praised him endlessly only made the hole in his chest gape wider. When he first saw Patroclus sitting in a corner while the other boys crowded raucously around him, he knew there was something different about him. And so he trailed curiously after Patroclus when he came back from school one day and sought him out from where he sat underneath a willow tree. He stood in front of the other boy and stuck a small hand out at him, a smile on his face.
“My name is Achilles, I want to be your friend.”
_____
“The black or the green?”
“Green,” came the automatic reply. Patroclus was sitting on his bed, fiddling with his phone as Achilles took out shirt after shirt. “It brings out your eyes.”
If Patroclus was honest with himself, he'd probably admit Achilles didn’t need a shirt to bring out his gold-flecked doe eyes. If Patroclus was really honest, he'd say Achilles didn’t needed a shirt at all, but a half-naked Achilles would ruin him. He scrolled aimlessly through his mailbox, his texts, afraid to look at all the skin on display as Achilles changed. It was dangerous, for his eyes would always linger too long on his leather-clad ass, and he’d always want to reach out and stroke his hand down his back, to touch. His phone on the other hand was safe, it didn’t have lean muscle that rippled whenever it moved, and it certainly didn’t play three different varsity sports.
“You aren’t even looking.”
“You always look beautiful.”
“But my hair is a fucking mess! It looks like something out of a horror film, or a chicken coop.” He was whining now, and Patroclus made a show of looking up from refreshing his Facebook feed.
“It’s fine, you’re fine. Just run your fingers through it a bit and maybe spritz on some hairspray, you’ll have the just-got-absolutely-ravished look down pat.” His eyes roamed over Achilles’ backside once again. He could wear a garbage bag and still look like he walked out of a wet dream.
Achilles pouted in front of the mirror, raked his fingers through his hair once, twice. “Good?” He patted at a non-existent bump.
“Yeah definitely, all the girls’d love it.” Patroclus stood and tucked his phone into his pocket, “You ready?”
Achilles glanced at the mirror one last time, then sauntered over to Patroclus and put his arms on Patroclus’ shoulders in one fluid motion. The height difference that was present only a year before had disappeared as Achilles’ growth spurt hit, and he once confessed that he liked it when he didn’t have to look up to talk to Patroclus anymore. Patroclus on the other hand knew it also meant that he could lean forward anytime now and his lips would be on Achilles’, just like that, which was possibly why he nearly fell back a step at their sudden proximity and only caught himself at the last second by gripping Achilles’ hips. He could do nothing but stare dumbly at the other boy as he ran fingers through his dark brown curls.
“Your hair’s always so nice, so effortless,” he murmured head tilted to the side as if transfixed by something as mundane as Patroclus' hair. He could feel the heat of Achilles' skin through the thin fabric of his shirt and he was looking at him as if he wanted to say something important, but a beat later what came out instead was “you smell nice”. He gave Patroclus’ hair one last tug before side stepping out of Patroclus’ arms and grabbing his phone and keys from his desk.
“Let’s go.”
_____
Achilles was sitting on the couch, drink abandoned on the table beside him as the girl in his lap attacked his neck. Her dark brown hair swayed from side to side as her hips moved against his, her dress riding further and further up her thigh with each rocking motion. Patroclus took a sip from a red cup and swallowed whatever vile concoction Odysseus had thrust into his hand when he had taken up his place beside the bar. He watched as the girl enthusiastically attached her lips to Achilles’ face now, thrilled to be Achilles Pelides’ girl of the night, but Achilles' half-lidded eyes were open and he was looking almost languidly at Patroclus. Patroclus could see the green even from where he was standing, could see Achilles’ hand on the girl’s waist, could see the way his hips shifted imperceptibly. He turned away.
“She is a catch isn’t she,” Diomedes had appeared next to him, gesturing vaguely with his cup in Achilles’ direction.
“Hmm?” He sipped at his drink, feigning disinterest.
“That hottie junior sucking face with Achilles over there? Deidameia I think, dance team? Heard she got her eyes on him since the start of the year.”
“Oh yeah, totally, nice hair.”
“Your boy, I swear Pat, he‘s been getting all the girls since he came to high school. Us seniors, we gotta step up our game. Last year here, you gotta treasure it you know? College girls aren’t so easy.” He smirked and clapped Patroclus on the shoulder, making his drink slosh slightly in his cup. “Must be nice having him as your wingman.”
“Yeah, yeah course.” Another sip. Your boy.
“Hope he’s not the only one to get lucky tonight,” Diomedes lowered his voice and leant in, “Agamemnon said he got some girls from that girl’s school across the road to come over.” He wiggled his eyebrows triumphantly, pumped his hips a few times and Patroclus laughed along.
“Heard they’re hot huh.”
“Oh yeah, that Euippe, tits so big they’re like beach balls.”
Patroclus rolled his eyes, "right yeah, beach balls.”
“See, now I gotta go and prove it to you, actions speak louder than words and all.”
“Good luck getting it man, hope your dick actually matches up to her tits this time!” He yelled after him, laughing as Diomedes turned around to flip him off as he walked into the crowd.
“Fuck you too dude!” Diomedes yelled back, barely audible above the pounding bass. Patroclus shook his head fondly and took a sip of his drink. When he looked back at the couch, Achilles and Deidameia had already disappeared. He knocked back the rest of his drink and pulled out his phone to shoot Briseis a text. He should’ve known not to come, should’ve known it’d just end with Briseis and him together in a room, passing a joint between the two of them, and making exaggerated noises to pretend they were fucking. But Achilles always asked, and Patroclus, well Patroclus could never refuse him anything.