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Patroclus has grown used to the comings and goings of the shades through his mournful corner of Elysium. He’d even, over time, grown used to the comings and goings of the young prince. The sound the damp grass made as it sizzled beneath his flame-licked feet was blatantly distinctive, and though he’d loathe to admit it, Patroclus was starting to look forward to the sound of it.
If Zagreus had noticed the endearment in his dismissive ‘stranger’, the Prince had been merciful enough not to say anything.
The sound of the old, tired mechanism forming the door to the glade hardly gets so much as a raised head out of Patroclus. His gaze stays on the river Lethe passing silently through, and just the same as ever he wonders if the river will claim him today, or tomorrow, or however time works here.
Until something about the brush of the approaching footsteps strikes an old, tired chord in his battle-worn heart.
I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell.
Footsteps that would beat the ground always just a few paces ahead, footsteps that would come back into the shared tent whisper-silent after a long war hard-fought, footsteps that ran wild through the woods until two boys collided in each other’s arms, carefree and unburdened and alive.
I would know him blind.
Patroclus doesn’t dare turn around. Doesn’t dare risk this dream stuttering to an end. The gentle scuff of footsteps reach the top of the stone stairs, and the catch in his visitor’s breath feels like a song he hasn’t heard in so long- feels like coming home.
By the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth.
The steps stop right there. Patroclus’ breath stops with them- and for a long moment, it is silent.
I would know him in death-
And then Patroclus turns. He knows those steps, he knows those breaths, and he knows the golden spills of hair falling over broad shoulders, knows the ocean blue of those sad, exhausted eyes.
-at the end of the world.
It takes Patroclus a long time to finally get his feet under himself, but even as he fumbles to stand after so long, he doesn’t find it in himself to tear his eyes from those of the man he longed and yearned and pined for.
For the first time in what he thinks must be decades, Achilles stands before him.
Patroclus wants to run to him, wants to punch him in the face, wants to tell him what a damn fool he was- they both were.
But all he manages is his name. Soft and pained and poured full with all the love between them that the war took.
“Achilles-”
Achilles doesn’t even need to speak. His tears spill over and the sound he makes is supposed to be Patroclus’ name- but it's just a soft sob as he breaks into a run- clears the grass between them before Patroclus can even take his first step.
The sound of his approach is music Patroclus would do anything to dance to again. He opens his arms, and any other reunion would have been a graceful fall into the other, a tender kiss, the perfect ribbon on an ideal romance.
But Achilles and Patroclus have waited too long to make this beautiful.
The old soldiers collide with a solid thud- and Achilles is Aristos Achaion, Best of the Greeks.
Patroclus is knocked clean off of his feet in an instant. Flattened into the grass as Achilles buries his face into Patroclus’ chest.
“Philtatos- my most beloved- Patroclus-”
And for the first time since they were kids, Patroclus feels it.
They are Gods at the dawning of the world, and their joy is so bright they can see nothing else but the other.
“Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.”
- Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles