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“Damn you, Odysseus” he mumbled. Because of him he’d had to stay and ‘talk’ for an hour longer at that damn council.
What a waste of time, time he could have otherwise spent productively (and by ‘productively’ he meant ‘with Patroclus’).
Achilles stretched his sore limbs as he swiftly walked towards the tent he shared with his beloved.
After an entire evening spent in a council meeting fighting Agamemnon and his arrogance, finally they (but really ‘he’, since the other kings were cowards) had convinced him to give Chryseis back to her father.
Predictably the pompous peacock had raged about it, swearing Achilles was going to pay.
He wasn’t too worried. What could he do to him? He was Aristos Achaion, he was untouchable.
Anyway, because of the entire evening with Agamemnon, he longed to hold his beloved in his arms. Just the thought of that made him smile.
He opened the tent’s flaps and entered, fully expecting his love to be settled in bed already. After all, it was a bit late and Patroclus was often busy in the Healers’ tent, saving lives every single day. Exhausting work.
He frowned when he saw he wasn’t there.
‘That’s odd’ he thought. He turned around and quickly walked back to the Healers’ tent.
He’d probably stayed there working late, or maybe he’d fallen asleep.
He took a deep breath and mentally reminded himself that there was no need to panic: it wouldn’t be the first time his beloved fell asleep there; he’d carried him back to their tent many times, not having the heart to wake him up.
“Machaon, have you seen Patroclus?” he hurriedly asked when didn’t see any sign of his beloved.
“No, Prince Achilles. He left about half an hour ago” and Achilles was already turning to leave when the older man added “He expressed his intention to collect some nocturnal herbs in the woods near the camp. He should be there right now”
Achilles nodded in thanks and ran outside the tent, sprinting towards the woods.
His heart was frantically beating in his chest, a shiver running down his spine.
Patroclus was by no means weak but he was also stubborn, and refused to carry weapons with him.
Who knows what sort of dangerous animals lived in the woods, and only his philtatos was trusting enough in the good-will of others to venture there alone at night.
His brain produced an (unwanted and unneeded) image: his Patroclus, at the mercy of some beast, unable to defend himself, calling out to Achilles for help.
His vision turned red.
If anyone had so much as harmed a single curl of rich chocolate hair on his beloved’s head, he’d make them beg for death before ending their miserable existence.
He ran even faster, quickly reaching the edge of the woods (they didn’t call him ‘swift-footed’ for nothing, and he was indeed grateful for this godly ability, especially now).
He searched for fresh tracks, putting to good use all the skills he had learnt on Mount Pelion all those winters ago, when he and Patroclus were still innocent boys under the supervision of wise Chiron.
They would spend hours exploring the woods there, always searching for something new to thoroughly study.
Achilles remembered he loved their excursions, since he could stare at Patroclus for hours without the fear of getting caught because the other boy was usually so captivated by the nature that he rarely noticed when Achilles openly gazed upon him as if he were some mysteriously breathtaking picture he could never completely take in, always finding something new to observe and memorize.
He’d made it his personal mission to count all the freckles which adorned his beloved’s nose, cheeks, shoulders, arms, sides, legs; he always noticed when new ones appeared on his smooth bronze skin because of the time they spent in the sun.
He’d memorized all the colors in his beautiful eyes: deep pools of cognac with swirls of honey and a light dusting of chocolate. His eyes— they were enchanting, they were molten gold.
Patroclus was divine and Achilles would worship him as such.
He could fill thousands of pages with poetry describing his philtatos: his radiant smile, which always made Achilles’ heart soar; the way his eyes lit up when he saw pinecones (he always loved them for some reason, and got really excited when Achilles brought him a really big one); they way his cheeks flushed when Achilles complimented him, and he’d look down and smile softly while closing his eyes.
This and this and this.
All these thoughts —these memories— flashed through his mind as he desperately searched for his beloved.
He followed the trail deep into the woods like a bloodhound, his senses heightened.
His heart stopped, his blood chilled, every single nerve in his body tensed when he heard it.
A faint cry.
Patroclus
He took off as fast as his divine legs permitted and still it wasn’t fast enough.
“Spread your legs, pretty boy. Tonight you’ll know what it feels like when a real man fucks you” he heard a gruff-sounding man say, immediately echoed by laughter.
They spoke in Argolic dialect— Agamemnon’s soldiers.
His rage surpassed his fear as he neared his beloved. He’d make them regret ever being born.
“Hold him down!”
“N-No” he heard a weak protest promptly followed by a hard slap.
“Achilles!” one of the soldiers exclaimed when he saw him. Sheer terror crystal clear in his voice.
What Achilles saw made his blood boil even hotter (if that was even possible at this point).
His philtatos, on the ground, being held down by two men as a third tried to get between his legs. Bruises were already forming on his neck (as if someone had tried to choke him), wrists, ankles and face. Blood was pouring down his nose and a red hand print was starting to show on his cheek as well.
Somehow his sword was already in his hand when he drove it into the neck of the first man that foolishly approached him. The other two had scrambled to their feet, but he was quick to dispose of them as painfully as possible.
Later on he knew he’d regret killing them so quickly, but right now his main concern was Patroclus.
He threw his sword to the side, he wouldn’t be needing it anymore (and even if he did, he was so angry he’s probably be able to rip the person apart with his bare hands), and kneeled next to his beloved.
“N-no, no, no—” Patroclus tried to push him away, thinking he was one of his assailants.
He looked so weak and confused, and Achilles realized he’d probably been drugged.
“It’s me, love, it’s me… shh, you’re safe now, I promise, you’re safe, I’ll protect you…” he gently cradled his head in his hands, carding his fingers through those soft curls.
Patroclus looked dazed, his eyes glassy and unfocused. And when they finally focused a bit on him, he willed his appearance to be as comforting as possible.
“‘chilles?”
“Yes, it’s your Achilles…I’ve got you, love… shh, it’s okay” he soothed him, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead.
Tears were now running freely down his beloved’s cheeks and sides as he let out all of his fear. Achilles wanted to bring him to see a healer as soon as possible, but he needed Patroclus to calm down first.
His beloved’s hand trembled as he weakly reached out for him. Who was he to deny him?
He leant down more to get even closer and took his love’s hand in his own, squeezing a bit to reassure him.
He panicked slightly when Patroclus choked on the blood and tears running down his throat. He needed to see a healer immediately.
“My love, I’m going to carry you back to our camp, alright?” he said while snaking his hands underneath his body.
Patroclus was beyond incoherent by this point (thanks to the drugs in his system, no doubt) and only mumbled some gibberish in response.
He gently lifted him into his arms, carrying him bridal-style. He made sure his grip was secure as he didn’t want to hurt him or —to his utter horror— drop him. He also made sure his head was leaning against his chest, not wanting to strain his neck.
He quickly walked back to their camp, ignoring the corpses around him, alert just in case there were any more dangers.
He burst into the Healers’ tent and cried for help.
“Place him on that bed! Quickly!” Machaon exclaimed, immediately focusing on Patroclus, who in the meantime had lost consciousness.
“Podalirius has already retired for the night, so you shall assist me, Prince” and in this situation he didn’t mind being bossed around. He’d do anything, anything at all, to help his beloved. Also, if he helped he could make sure his Patroclus got the best cures: he had been a student of Chiron, after all.
He was reminded of the time Patroclus fell into a ravine and broke his arm. The fear he’d felt then was nothing compared to the sheer panic he’d felt when he saw his Patroclus being held down by those men—by Agamemnon’s men.
His anger burned hot, but he forced it down for the time being. Right now Patroclus needed him.
“What happened to him?” Machaon asked.
“Some men, they-they attacked him in the woods. I suspect they drugged him.” From how his voice cracked one could assume he was frightened, but really he was just trying to contain his rage.
Machaon nodded and ground some emetic herbs into a liquid paste.
“Grab a bucket” he said as he administered the herbs to his Patroclus.
“We need to get rid of the toxins in his system and this will help. Since we don’t know what they used, we can only hope it will be effective”
He placed the bucket by the pallet and sat down next to Patroclus. His beloved had regained consciousness—thank the gods—but still looked dazed. He let out a low groan in protest.
“Love? Can you hear me?” he asked loudly.
“Mhh” was the response he got. Good enough… for now. At least he was awake, was breathing, had a heartbeat.
“You’re going to be okay, philtatos” he said, and winced when it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Patroclus.
His love blinked slowly. Suddenly he turned to the side and threw up into the bucket the contents of his stomach. Achilles pat his back reassuringly, brushing his hair away from his face.
“There, there, you’re doing so good, love” he said softly, not caring if Machaon heard him.
Their love had never been private. It wasn’t something they were ashamed of.
In fact, it was a rare sight not to see them touching in some way or another when they were out.
His Patroclus threw up one more time before leaning back onto the bed and sucking in a deep breath. His eyes were closed because of the strain.
He gave a low moan in protest.
“I know, my love, I know…” he said.
In reality though he didn’t know, and that scared him. A lot. He had no reassurance. Even Machaon, as skilled as he was, couldn’t promise him Patroclus would be perfectly well after this. He could only hope and pray to any god that would listen to help his beloved.
Soon another wave of nausea caused his love to throw up, again and again, until finally there wasn’t anything left in his stomach.
His Patroclus looked so unwell and tired. His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes wet, and his body looked limp and exhausted, as if even moving a finger took enormous strain.
“The worst has passed. His bruises should heal just fine. Make sure he rests and is well hydrated. I will check on him tomorrow to see how he is recovering” Machaon said, looking relieved.
He thanked him, and carried his love back to their tent, placing him gently on the bed.
He was sleeping now, too exhausted to do anything else. Achilles though could not rest just yet. He cleaned his Patroclus up, changed him into a fresh chiton and pressed a cool rag to his bruises.
He looked so peaceful now, Hypnos had been kind to him.
He was so beautiful, always. The only thing he never wished to see again were the purplish bruises on his body and the tears in his eyes.
He knew then that the image of his beloved, sprawled on the ground, bruised and bloody, unable to fight back against people who would harm him would haunt him for a long time.
His blood boiled and he clenched his fists. The fact that those vile pieces of scum had resorted to drugs to subdue his love angered him. They knew they would never be able to overpower him in a fair fight, so they turned to their cowardly methods to—to—
He suppressed the urge to punch a wall… or someone. Patroclus needed sleep and he certainly didn’t want to disturb him (besides there weren’t any walls available and the only person near him was his beloved, and punching him was never going to be an option. He’d rather die than hurt him).
He took a deep breath. Patroclus was safe, no one could hurt him anymore. He’d be there to protect him.
He settled in bed, taking care not to crowd his beloved too much. He pressed a gentle kiss to his head.
He was asleep soon after.
°°°
The next day he woke up pretty early.
His sleep had been awful, full of terrible dreams in which he arrived too late, in which he couldn’t save Patroclus, in which his beloved wouldn’t wake up; and he’d never see those beautiful eyes light up in mirth again, he’d never see that bright smile which was reserved only for him.
Dreams in which Patroclus was lost to him forever.
He quickly checked on his philtatos and let out a sigh of relief when he saw his beloved was alive, sleeping next to him.
In the early morning light he looked better than last night. His bruises were in stark contrast against his bronze skin, but he didn’t look pale and sickly anymore.
He carefully got out of bed, not wanting to disturb his Patroclus.
Machaon said he needed rest and Achilles would make sure he got it. He knew his philtatos well, and he’d most certainly play down his injury, dismissing it as soon as possible.
He set about making breakfast: bread, honey, olives, figs, etc., and fresh water. Usually they would drink wine, but he didn’t think that would be good for Patroclus at the moment (he could have some but he felt guilty drinking wine while his beloved couldn’t).
“Achilles?” he heard his philtstos call out to him from the bed, sounding unsure.
“I’m here, my love” he said as he approached him.
Patroclus was looking up at him with wide, doe eyes and Achilles felt his heart burst in his chest, a wave of absolute love surrounding him.
The man in front of him was his entire world.
“How do you feel?” he asked while sitting down next to him.
“My throat is sore and I feel dizzy, but other than that I’m just dandy” he said, wincing slightly.
“Here, have some honey” he said as he offered him the golden viscous liquid.
He also offered him the rest of the food he’d prepared, but his beloved only ate a few olives and a tiny bit of bread crumb, since the outer part of it was too rough on his tender throat.
“My love, have some water as well please” he asked. Fortunately his Patroclus didn’t protest, and drank it.
“I feel much better now, thank you” and Achilles knew it was mostly (if not completely) for his benefit that Patroclus had said that.
(‘You always do tend to worry’ his philtatos had once jokingly said)
Despite this, the soft smile on his beloved’s face seemed genuine so he relaxed slightly.
“Are you not going to eat?” Patroclus asked him, silently mocking him for staring at him (a few minutes had passed and he still hadn’t even touched the food).
Achilles rolled his eyes, but lowered his head when his own lips betrayed him and rose into a fond smile.
He heard his philtatos laugh softly, and when he looked back up at him he was trying to cover his mouth with his hand. His efforts were in vain, since Achilles could see the joy and laughter in his eyes (his shoulders were slightly shaking as well but that was irrelevant).
All of his embarrassment immediately faded into the background.
He’d gladly ridicule himself if it meant his beloved would laugh.
“Ugh, you’re doing it again” Patroclus said, snorting. He did seem a bit annoyed, but the blush coloring his cheeks said otherwise.
“What?” he played dumb.
“The thing you do when you look at me like I’m some divine being that is wholly beautiful and perfect”
“But you are, my love, light of my life, fire of my loins” he grinned at his love, wiggling his eyebrows in mock suggestiveness.
He adored when Patroclus was in a playful mood (like now), as he always got so sassy yet somehow remained absolutely adorable and Achilles simply loved it. After last night they both needed some light-hearted banter.
His beloved rolled his eyes good naturedly, but winced slightly when his head throbbed. Instantly he was all over him like a mother hen, but Patroclus brushed him off.
“I feel fine, my love, truly. I just wasn’t thinking” he said, patting at his hand reassuringly.
Achilles sat down again.
“I swear, Agamemnon will pay for what he tried to do to you” he said.
“Agamemnon? What does he have to do with…?” he trailed off, gesticulating meekly, and Achilles didn’t push him.
He understood it was hard for his love, for both of them, to acknowledge what had almost happened.
They were reluctant to use the word ‘rape’, even though they both knew perfectly well that was the true nature of last night’s events.
“The men that attacked you, they were his soldiers, and were probably following his orders. Otherwise they never would have dared to even look at you wrong”
Patroclus nodded slowly.
“They ambushed me, and before I knew it they were forcing something down my throat… after that my memories are quite hazy and I don’t—I don’t remember much…” he said warily, a silent question carefully weaved in his words.
Achilles chose his next words even more carefully. He didn’t want to cause his beloved any unnecessary discomfort, to put it mildly.
“I arrived before they could do anything. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there to protect you before”
“This wasn’t your doing, Achilles” and his beloved said it with such conviction that he basically had to force out his next words, no matter how much it pained him. His Patroclus deserved to know the truth, all of it.
“But it was! If I hadn’t provoked Agamemnon into returning Cryseis… It should have been between us, but he’s a coward and hurt you to punish me. I’m sorry, philtatos, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—I underestimated his vileness” he looked down in shame.
A warm hand gently caressed his cheek.
“My Achilles, please look at me” Patroclus asked, his voice tender and soft, and Achilles couldn’t refuse his beloved.
He looked up into those pools of molten gold and lost himself in them.
“I’m not mad at you because this wasn’t your fault. You would never hurt me. I was attacked because Agamemnon is a resentful and malevolent blowhard, not because of you.
The men were suffering and dying because of the pestilence, and you did what needed to be done to save them.”
Achilles drew his beloved into a tight hug and inhaled the unique and familiar scent that was unmistakably ‘Patroclus’, who in the meantime had buried his face in the crook of his neck and wrapped his arms around his middle.
“I’d let them all die if it meant keeping you safe…” he whispered.
“You don’t really mean that” and they both knew that was a lie.
“You’re my entire world, Patroclus. I don’t know what I’d do without you” he said, tears pooling in his green eyes. He shut them tightly and took a deep breath.
His Patroclus didn’t answer, and simply pulled him down to lay on the bed.
Achilles took his beloved in his arms, mindful of his bruises yet refusing to let him go even for a second.
The weight of his philtatos’ head on his chest, the warmth radiating from his body, the steady breathing which tickled his naked chest— they helped calm him.
Patroclus turned his head so his cheek was against his chest and looked up at him, silently checking to see if he was alright.
Achilles offered him a small but genuine smile, slowly carding his fingers through Patroclus’ curls. His beloved sighed in content and closed his eyes when his fingers brushed against that one spot just above the nape of his neck that always turned him to mush.
He focused on that special spot, massaging it with small circular movements, and was quite pleased when he felt Patroclus all but melt against his body.
He ran his free hand up and down his love’s back, tracing his spine and mapping out all the freckles he had there as if they were stars in a constellation (he couldn’t see them per se through the clothes his philtatos was wearing but he’d seen and traced them so many times he had them all memorized).
If he could he’d stay like this, with Patroclus in his arms, for all eternity.
As his body relaxed, his mind however focused on finding a way to punish Agamemnon for what he’d tried to do.
It would be painful and humiliating. He’d take revenge on behalf of everyone that the unworthy king of Argos had ever harmed, starting by his beloved.
He smirked as various scenarios appeared in his head, all very appealing to him (especially to the part of him that was divine).
He was distracted by a muffled moan and a light grip around his bicep.
He glanced down and noticed that his hand had somehow wandered beneath Patroclus’ chiton (a force of habit really) and had resumed its tracing, this time on his bare skin. His other hand was still in his beloved’s hair, toying with the curls at the nape of his neck and gently massaging his head in general.
His beloved wiggled upwards so that his face was nestled against Achilles’ neck instead of his chest; he resisted the urge to lower his chin when he felt slow hot air against his skin.
His hands had stopped moving when Patroclus shifted and he let them linger mid-air, teasing his love, testing his patience.
Patroclus, apparently, had other ideas since he lifted his head, only a centimeter or two (about an inch), and sniffed at him, wiggling his bum slightly.
He resisted the urge to chuckle. His love was absolutely adorable.
He indulged his beloved, never one to deny him anything. This time however he used both hands, caressing the soft skin on his back.
He felt more than heard the sigh of relief his love let out against his neck.
As time passed, his touches grew bolder and bolder, venturing farther south than before.
He gently kneaded Patroclus’ bum with his hands, loving the way his beloved complemented his touches with breathy moans and low sighs.
He wasn’t feeling particularly in the mood, and he definitely knew Patroclus wasn’t as well (he’d feel it if he were).
His touches weren’t meant to be sexual, but therapeutic. After last night, they both needed reassurance, physical reassurance (especially Patroclus), and this was the best way to provide it.
He closed his eyes again and returned back north to gently massage his beloved’s back, working out all the knots that had formed in his muscles.
Once he was satisfied, tiltilting his head, he pressed a kiss to Patroclus’ forehead.
“I love you” he whispered, rubbing his nose and cheek against his beloved’s head.
And if Patroclus had been awake he most certainly would have reciprocated with his own ‘I love you’.
“Please, never leave me, philtatos” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to his love’s head.
And if Patroclus had been awake he would have sworn never to leave him, to be with him, always.
“I’ll protect you from any danger, against any enemy. I’ll be your armor, I’ll be your shield. You’ll never have to fight, not for anyone, not for anything.”
And if Patroclus had been awake he would have smiled and pressed a sweet kiss to his lips.