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The beautiful peplos draped over the back of the chaise renders Achilles speechless, which seems to give Zagreus the wrong impression.
"If it isn't to your taste, please don't feel like you have to accept it," he begins, his words tumbling over one another as they do when he's nervous. "I just thought... well, you looked rather wistful when you told me about your time on Skyros, sir, and perhaps I've made assumptions I shouldn't have, but—"
"It's quite alright, lad."
A woefully insufficient answer, but Achilles can't think of any way to express the jumble of emotions inside him when he looks at the garment presented to him. Doubtless it is of a fine make, woven of a pearly-white cotton that would have flattered any of the bronze-skinned maidens on Skyros, or indeed anywhere in Greece. It would likely suit Achilles, as well.
His throat feels tight, and he has to clear it before speaking again. "It's lovely. May I take a closer look at it?"
Beside him, Zagreus seems to sag in relief. "Of course. It's yours, Achilles. If you want it."
He does. How strange it is, that he should want so fiercely something that he has never dared to contemplate. Now that it lies before him, he finds himself at a loss for how to accept it. He glances at Zagreus, privately marveling at the lad's intuition. It has placed him one step ahead of Achilles in this revelation.
He realizes he's stalling when Zagreus smiles and nods his head toward the chaise, as if to say, go on.
"Thank you," Achilles tells him, belatedly, and approaches the gift.
Up close, it is even more beautiful. The dim light in the Prince's bedchambers lends the fabric a diaphanous air, and Achilles feels at once the need to touch it. It is soft, made to drape in a flattering manner without restricting movement. Gilded embroidery runs along the hem in elegant geometric patterns that catch the glow of the braziers. He rubs the fabric between thumb and forefinger, tracing the raised relief of the golden thread against his skin.
"I would have got one in the light green you and Patroclus favor, but I figured you'd appreciate some variety. And, well..." Zagreus chuckles, a hint of bashfulness to it, but then he continues, "I thought the gold detail would match your hair."
Achilles can't help a smile. "Did you? You've a good eye, lad. You needn't have found me any gift at all, yet you insist on spoiling me rotten, is that the way of it?"
"It's no more than you deserve, Achilles."
Not that long ago, Achilles would have denied such. He reins in the urge to do so now, though he still does not truly believe himself worthy of the kindness Zagreus lavishes on him, which is a gift in itself, offered without expectation of repayment or recompense. That is just as well, for Achilles could spend eternity attempting to repay him and still fall short.
"I must become more gracious at accepting your kindness, as you've so much of it to spare for me," he says, and lets the fabric slip through his fingers so he can pull Zagreus into his arms instead.
The lad seems surprised for an instant, but allows the hug and leans into it, tucking his face into the crook of Achilles' neck. Achilles presses a kiss to his crown, hoping to convey his fondness and gratitude with that gesture better than his words have managed so far.
Zagreus is smiling from ear to ear when Achilles lets him go, a warm flush upon his cheeks.
"You should try it on," he suggests, and takes a step back, toward the curtains that bisect this chamber from the hallway. "Take as long as you need in here. And... you could even wear it to Elysium, if you're planning to visit during your break. I'm sure Patroclus would like to see it."
He leaves Achilles alone with that notion, and the peplos is all the more daunting for it. So taken has Achilles been with the gift, he hadn't considered showing anyone else yet. But who is he to share this with, if not Patroclus?
The wall scroll with Achilles' likeness adorns the Prince's chambers still, and he glances at it as he begins to remove his clothing. Gone are the days he would have so boldly rallied an army to battle, as the scroll depicts, yet that man is as much a part of him as the person he remembers being on Skyros. Masquerading as a maiden in the king's court had begun as a deception, but the Fates have always had a way of twisting lies so they become truth.
When Achilles folds the fabric of the peplos and drapes it around his body, it feels right. It feels like recovering something precious long presumed lost. Even without consciously thinking about it, her hands remember how to arrange the garment, how to pin it and cinch it around his waist to hold it in place.
Once it is done, Achilles takes a deep breath and looks at himself in the Mirror of Night.
"Oh, gods," he whispers, struck by the sight.
The peplos is even more beautiful when worn. It falls to her ankles, the modest length that has become so comfortable in the Underworld. The fabric ripples gracefully when Achilles curtsies before the mirror. She notices then that Zagreus was right in one more respect: the golden embroidery does compliment Achilles' hair as it catches the light.
With shaking hands, he makes sure his discarded uniform is appropriately folded and placed out of the way. And after that, there is no more stalling.
Achilles closes her eyes, finds inside him the bond that ties his soul to Patroclus', and lets it pull her to his side in Elysium. A flash of white light, and the hard floor under Achilles' feet is replaced by soft grass that tickles his ankles.
She opens her eyes again. Patroclus is standing there, smiling. Yet another gift from the Prince, that Achilles should be blessed to see that smile for the rest of his afterlife.
"Ah, and who is this lovely creature here before me?"
"Pat," Achilles begins, and stops, unsure of how to answer the question. He and Patroclus have spoken about Skyros, of course, but how to explain what Achilles herself hadn't known until moments ago? Words fail him, and he hesitates, until Patroclus holds out his hand.
"Let me see you. Come closer, my heart," he says, his voice warm and as loving as it's ever been, and all of Achilles' doubts dissipate like mist off the Lethe.
He runs across the distance between them and throws his arms around Patroclus, who lets out a huff of air at the suddenness of the gesture but holds him in turn, carding fingers lightly through his hair.
"I love you," Achilles tells him, though words are insufficient here as well.
"I love you too, Achilles, but I can't very well look at you if you're this close." He sounds like he's laughing. Gently, he pulls back just enough to meet Achilles' eye, but before Achilles can sheepishly disentangle herself to show him the peplos, Patroclus takes her face in his hands and kisses him.
When they pull away, some indefinite measure of time later, Achilles finds himself smiling as well.
"Now, do let me see how beautiful you are," Patroclus says.
Achilles takes several steps back and curtsies just as she did before the mirror. It strikes her then that she remembers how it would feel to dance in a garment such as this, as he once did. Much like fighting, dancing is part of the soul, and not easily forgotten.
"Zagreus gifted this to me," Achilles explains. "Not that I asked him to, mind; I didn't even realize that I wanted such a thing. Or... what it represents."
There, she falls silent again, lacking a definition for her feelings.
Patroclus looks at him fondly a moment longer and says, "I shall give Zagreus my thanks when he passes by next. For now, we ought to do something about your curls getting in your lovely eyes, wouldn't you say?"
He sits down on the grass, and gestures beside him to a small patch of wildflowers by the riverside.
"Those are new."
"They sprouted after your last visit, yes. With such perfect timing, I can only conclude they wished to see themselves braided into the hair of a gorgeous maiden such as yourself." Softly, he adds, "Would you sit with me?"
Achilles cannot deny him. He sits in front of Patroclus, facing away from him, and sighs when he feels Patroclus' hands start to lightly comb her hair back.
He finds it easier to speak then. "Pat, I... I may come to you like this again in the future," she begins, relaxing into the touch. "Or I might come in my usual uniform. Both are part of me, though... I'm only just beginning to understand it, I think."
"Oh, my Achilles. There's no rush, you know." Patroclus parts Achilles' hair to the side, and leans forward to rest his chin on her shoulder for a moment. He sounds as happy as Achilles feels when he says, "We have all the time in the world."