Work Text:
Achilles can count around twelve heads, which is not as comforting as he had hoped it to be.
Those twelve heads have eyes attached to them, therefore, it is safe to assume they also have a nose and a mouth. Therefore it is also safe to assume they are attached to a body. Therefore, it is true to say that Patroclus’ students are in fact real, living people and not a concept that only existed when Patroclus talked about them.
“This is Achilles,” Patroclus is saying, making Achilles stand up straighter. Right. That’s him. He’s the guest for this class, because somehow he got talked into it. “He is one of the finest Olympic athletes. You can ask him whatever you want—”
He trails off when his phone vibrates. Glancing at his phone and then at Achilles, he offers him an apologetic grin. “Apologies, class. Head teacher meeting happening right now. I shouldn’t take too long—twenty minutes at worst.”
“No,” Achilles accidentally slips out. Patroclus cocks his head at him. He’s sure all those twelve pairs of eyes are trained on him as if staring at a lab experiment. Achilles clears his throat. “No, you shouldn’t worry. You can be gone for as long as you want.”
“...Excellent, then,” Patroclus says with a voice that implies he can see through Achilles and he is very amused by it, even as his stance betrays nothing of the sort. “If you need anything, Zagreus is around the hallways. Just call him for extra help.”
Achilles is not going to do that, because he’s the best of athletes and would surely not be defeated by a bunch of twelve year olds. Patroclus pats his shoulder as he walks past him, which is the closest thing to an omen Achilles has ever experienced. The door closes behind Patroclus, and it’s just him and the children.
Achilles stares at them. They stare back. When the non-verbal communication that he had so desperately hoped would happen with just his eyes doesn't happen, he turns his attention to the board. Math equations. He must have arrived right to interrupt their Math class, and don’t children hate this subject? Shouldn’t that mean they are glad for Achilles to arrive?
Most importantly, how does one talk to children?
“You seem to be doing Math,” Achilles starts, trying it out. The kids nod. Not a single word is uttered. “Is it… hard?”
One girl takes mercy on him. “I mean, it’s fine. The teacher makes it easy to get.”
Ah, finally! Common ground. “Patroclus always makes everything easier,” Achilles agrees with a smile, relaxing ever-so-slightly.
A boy cocks his head. “He teaches you about equations, too?”
Well. No. Did Patroclus not mention that they’re married? Have these kids entertained the thoughts that Patroclus is a bachelor and available for everyone, when Achilles is right there? Not that any twelve-year old would care that Patroclus is single.
“He doesn’t,” Achilles hurries to explain. Then, not quite sure whether to expose everyone to his marital situation, he carries on with what he knows he’s meant to do: he was meant to be asked questions about his job. He gingerly takes a seat at the teacher’s table, overly aware of how he’s not the teacher and Hell might open underneath him for taking this seat. “So, I have been invited to give a… talk. Does anyone have any questions?”
A hand goes up. Achilles nods at the boy. “Yes?”
“How old are you?”
Well, not those questions. He supposes it’s harmless, all in all. “Thirty.”
“Ohh, cool,” the boy nods. “I thought you were older. Like forty-five. I guess you’re young!”
Achilles licks his lips, suddenly hyper-aware of all his features. “Right. I’m glad I could be younger than what you anticipated. Anyone else?”
Another hand goes up. A girl looks at him innocently. Achilles fears the worst.
“Does it bother you that your feet are always mentioned with you?” she asks, genuinely. “It’s always like, ‘Achilles and his light feet.’”
It did not bother him until right this very second, where he realizes a lot of headlines do include details about his feet. He doesn’t know what to make of it. His eyes roam the room, trying to process the question. “I suppose it’s not… terrible. I have gotten a few medals thanks to them, lad. They could say worse things.”
“Can you show us your feet?” a boy asks him. “So we can see if they are light.”
Achilles would rather do anything else but that. “No.”
Has it been twenty minutes already? Achilles glances at the clock. It’s been around five minutes since Patroclus exited the room. How come time passed by so slowly inside a classroom?
“Do you know Fortnite?” asks another boy.
Achilles can feel the monumental weight that the question carries. He figures if he answers something deemed as wrong by these kids, it might affect the next fifteen minutes of his life. So very carefully, like he’s a prey about to be jumped, Achilles says: “I don’t know what that is.”
There is a choir of gasps filling the classroom’s previously almost serene state. Achilles becomes aware of how noisy twelve kids can be all at once, as suddenly they stand up and crowd Achilles like personal space was never a thing to exist.
“Can we take out our phones?” A kid asks earnestly.
“No,” Achilles answers firmly.
“Why not?” asks a girl. “Teacher always lets us use our phone to show him things.”
“Does he?” He frowns a little. That didn’t sound very Patroclus-like, but at the same time, he had never been with him when he was teaching. Perhaps he does. “Are you sure?”
All the kids nod at the same time. “We wouldn’t lie!”
He considers giving up briefly and calling the other guy—Zagreus?—to come to deal with this while he went downstairs to the cafeteria and ordered the blackest coffee to exist. Unable to make an argument with enough evidence, Achilles sighs very deeply and says, “No. I am not your teacher, so I cannot let you use your phone in class.”
“You’re so boring,” a girl says in a tone only a twelve-year old could have. It hurts more than losing a competition. “Teacher Pat would have let us.”
And since when is Patroclus Pat to these kids?
“It’s fine, we can just explain without a phone,” another boy perks up easily. “So Fortnite is a battle royale kind of—” he freezes immediately. “I already lost you, didn’t I.”
“Yes. Sorry. You all go—” Achilles gestures vaguely. “So fast.”
“Oh, okay, we’ll slow down,” a girl answers. “So there are a hundred players and you have a map, and also you choose where to be dropped—”
It continues on and on without any offers to elaborate on context, which leaves Achilles more confused than before. They inexplicably start dancing, which surely has to be related to the game, but Achilles has no idea when the dances started to be relevant to it, but it’s a little too late to ask now. He watches horrified as the kids start arguing against each other, their little high-pitched voices growing louder, until suddenly he can no longer hear his thoughts.
Achilles, someone who has never in his life had to quiet down children nor is equipped with the teaching methodology to keep them quiet, slams his hand on the desk. Gently. “Silence, everyone. Sit down.”
The kids all stare at him like they entirely forgot his existence. They quiet down for a second, where they’re still standing, and Achilles’ is filled with a sense of dread so fast it’s alarming. Has he gone too far? Has he unleashed too much anger at these kids? Do they see him as a threat now? He begins thinking of apologizing, although he really doesn’t want to, but wouldn’t want to put Patroclus and himself in an awkward situation with these kids’ parents, until the silence is broken by a boy simply saying:
“Among us. Ex dee.”
Achilles has no idea what that means, but the whole class bursts into laughter again. He’s never felt as hopeless as he does right now. Perhaps this is just what education has come to? Ignoring everything the children say to maintain your sanity? He has been taking Patroclus for granted. If Achilles had to withstand this every day for eight hours, he would go insane. Just like he has right now. The world laughs around him as he falls further into despair.
The door opens, Patroclus walking in like a savior, and once he takes a look at Achilles’ face his eyes widen in alarm. “Did they torture you?”
Kind of, he doesn’t say.
All the kids see Patroclus and immediately quiet down, hurrying to take a seat and acting like they had never ruined Achilles’ mental health in record time.
So Achilles doesn’t acknowledge it either. Just walks over to Patroclus and says, “I need a drink,” and walks out of the classroom in search of the strongest coffee they have in a school cafeteria.