Work Text:
Loneliness is a painful thing. A painful thing that one can get used to in a way that ensures the dull ache will never truly disappear. You do not learn to overcome it, exactly; you learn to bury it. You learn that it will not go away.
Patroclus had gotten used to this ages ago. The ache is deep-seated. It is a part of him now, and he knows that, for who is he if not this?
He is not alone here in Elysium, but he is lonely. There is a space in his heart that can only be filled by one who is not here, who will never be here. He tells himself he has accepted this but he knows he hasn't, not really. The river Lethe is right there, but he can't bring himself to welcome the river's blessing.
The Prince often stops by. Patroclus has learned to accept that, despite his initial distaste. The Prince has grown on him, forcing himself into Patroclus's life like a dandelion in a field of grass. Bothersome at first, but as it rapidly spreads its joy you can learn to appreciate it.
And he does. The brief interactions they share are pleasant enough. He is grateful that Zagreus hasn't completely given up on him, if nothing else. It's not like Patroclus has been particularly kind towards him. The same cannot be said the other way around. Patroclus doesn't understand, but he has learned to accept it and welcomes the visits.
(And when he learns of Achilles it takes everything in him to not grab Zagreus by the shoulders and shake him, demand to know how his beloved fairs, where he is, why he isn't here. He tries to contain himself. It nearly breaks him.)
And Asterius—the bull and his big-headed partner, Theseus. They were around often enough as well. Their interactions were less pleasant, but they've been around long enough for Patroclus to grow accustomed to their presence. Sometimes they can even be amusing in ways that he assumes Theseus doesn't intend. Patroclus prefers to observe from a distance.
The shades are here, too. Battle-hungry and arrogant—Patroclus can't help but scoff at them. They are prideful and they will do anything to show off their glory, being reduced to dust time and time again as Zagreus makes his way through. But they do not stop, and Patroclus doesn't even know if they can. They are lost in themselves. He tries to stay away from them most of all.
He is not alone. But he has never felt more lonely.
It is a day like any other.
He is sitting on the soft grass of Elysium and his mind is racing, as it always is, though it's a calm sort of sensation. He has many thoughts tumbling around his head but they have been there for so long that he has grown used to it, a buzzing that he no longer tries to swat away. He simply stares ahead, unblinking, a blade of grass caught between his fidgeting fingers.
How many years has he been here? It's impossible to know for sure. It's been too long—he knows this, at least. But what can he do if not wait?
He looks to the side at the river for a moment, calmly flowing beside him, drawing him in with its promise. He often does this. It would be so easy, he thinks, to forget it all. He's tried before, but he can never drink more than a few drops. He cannot bring himself to.
He still remembers the end vividly and it tears at his soul. It plays in his mind like a tragedy that is permanently embedded there, always performing for him when he closes his eyes. The sensations he felt—the fear, the panic, the dread, knowing what will become of his Achilles when he's gone. What has become of him.
He had changed so much by the end. He would listen to no one. I will not do this, Achilles had said. Do not ask again. The words ring through his mind like funeral tolls. That was not him, that was not the Achilles that Patroclus knew. But despite it all, it was still the Achilles that Patroclus loved so dearly.
He plucks the blade of grass he had been twirling in his fingers and brings it up to his face. He examines it with tired eyes, then watches it fall.
The end brought with it a pain like no other, and the lingering ache will never stop. But Patroclus refuses to forget everything good, everything wonderful about the man he loves so much, despite the torment the memories bring him. He remembers the figs and the olive groves, the promises, the hopes, the sacrifices. He remembers the gentle brightness of Achilles's eyes, the way he would look at him with a fondness that nobody else ever has. The way he said his name. The way he would hold his palm to his and grin wildly, kissing him with a giddiness that filled Patroclus's heart with a love he could not attempt to describe. He longs for that now, and the knowledge that he cannot have it breaks him. But he will not allow himself to forget.
He glances at the river again. Nails dig into his palms and leave angry marks, but the pain is dulled. I cannot forget. He turns away.
If he could not save his soulmate in life, then he will repay him by keeping memories he holds so dear in death. He can't cry, not anymore. He's past that. Now he simply aches.
A day like any other.
Until he decides to change it.
When the Prince comes this time, Patroclus asks something of him in a moment of determination. He is finished wallowing away in despair. He is finished living in the unknown. If he must exist like this, he will do so knowing he tried. He nearly forgets what it's like to try.
He asks him to relay a message. Risk it all. Zagreus is eager enough to pass the message along, and when Patroclus is left alone again, he simply has to wait. He doesn't know what he is waiting for. Perhaps he is waiting for the Prince to come back, forlorn or anxious, bringing him only a calm misery. Patroclus is used to that by now. It is best not to hope.
But he realises he is not quite strong enough to squash every bit of it.
Patroclus is used to waiting. Waiting for the wind to blow and the wounds to heal. Waiting for a war to end.
So he waits. He replays the memories in his head, the good ones. He closes his eyes and basks in the feeling of them, how they pluck at his heart like the strings of a lyre. He clings to those memories like a lifeline. This is all I have. Oh, to feel alive once again. He doesn't know how much time goes by—it's impossible to tell here, passing hours with endless thoughts.
The figs. Catch.
The olive grove. I feel like I could eat the world raw.
The promises. If you have to go, I will go with you.
The way he said his name.
"Patroclus."
Pa-tro-clus.
The voice is too close, too real. It is familiar in a way that makes Patroclus's chest constrict, hollowing in on itself. It takes him a moment to realise the sound wasn't a memory.
He opens his eyes, slowly, as if any sudden movements will wake him from whatever dream the Underworld has conjured for him. He turns his head, breath caught in his throat, and he feels a hurricane in his chest as the world around him fades away. Everything except for the figure standing shakily at the glades' entrance.
Patroclus cannot move for a moment, stuck in his disbelief.
"Achilles." His voice is a breathless, pitiful sound. He hardly recognises it, hardly even hears it. He does not care.
Achilles takes one quivering, hesitant step forward and Patroclus is on his feet. His knees feel weak. This feeling, it is one he has not felt in a long time. He meets his lovers' wide eyes and Patroclus can feel the tears forming like dew on a rose petal. Natural. Inevitable. Wonderful.
He can't remember how it happens but they are in front of each other now, and Patroclus reaches a tentative hand, still unbelieving, not wanting to wash this illusion away. His fingers gently brush against Achilles's cheek, soft and warm and beautiful, and Achilles makes a breathy sound, leaning into the touch with a desperation Patroclus missed so dearly. He is real, Patroclus remembers thinking, before he feels the refreshing feeling of tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Patroclus..."
And then they are against each other, Patroclus's face buried in Achilles's neck as they hold each other. Patroclus takes in a deep breath. He smells the same, like sweetness and leather and home. Face still like the sun despite the tears that stream softly down it, dampening Patroclus's hair, breathing life into him.
"I'm sorry," Achilles whispers, voice broken and pained. He aches as well, Patroclus knows. "I am so sorry."
"I love you," Patroclus says, because he cannot think of anything else, cannot form any other words. There is no need to. Now is not the time for apologies; Patroclus can hardly remember what he's apologising for. Achilles is perfect and all things beautiful. They hold each other tighter still. They are trembling like ocean ripples, warmed by the sun.
"I love you," Achilles echoes, as though they are the easiest words for him to say, dripping with love and care and complete sincerity.
Yes, Patroclus thinks. This is the man he knew. His Achilles. Aristos Achaion, best of the Greeks, best of men, but the Greeks do not know him—no, not like this. Patroclus's hands move to the back Achilles's head, fingers intertwining with the soft golden waves of his hair. He is the same. Patroclus can't help the laugh that forces its way out of his chest, freeing and exquisite, as though he is floating. He can feel Achilles grin against him, gracing his ears with a breathless laugh of his own.
After all the pain, the heartache and dread, the loneliness, Patroclus is not lonely anymore. Relief washes over him like the warmth of the sun. A light spilling between them, like a hundred golden urns.
Patroclus feels alive. Like he could eat the world raw.
They hold each other, and they simply are.