Work Text:
My love
Has told me
That he needs me.
That's why
I take good care of myself
Watch out where I'm going and
Fear that any drop of rain
Might kill me.
"To Be Read In The Morning and At Night" by Bertolt Brecht
"I saw Hector on the field today."
Patroclus' eyes snap open. The calm and content expression he wore but a moment ago melts into one of alarm and wariness. "What was he doing?"
"Fighting, of course." Achilles lazily traces Patroclus' jaw with his finger, follows the smooth line of his throat. "He was on his chariot. It is a rather big chariot. Do you think mine is bigger?"
Patroclus pushes himself up on his elbow to fix Achilles with a piercing look. "Did he try to get close to you?"
"He always does."
"Yes, but did you let him?"
Achilles smiles, teasing. "Why wouldn't I? He seems quite amiable, don't you think?"
The flickering firelight dances in Patroclus' honey brown eyes, makes them gleam like bronze. He does not look away, nor does he speak another word, waiting for Achilles' answer even though he's given it countless times already.
"No," Achilles relents, after several moments of silence. "I did not let him. I told Automedon to lead us away before he could get too close."
Patroclus lets out an audible breath, his shoulders relaxing. "Good," he whispers.
"But I think, next time I see him, I should try waving at him at least, for courtesy's sake. We are, after all, in his lands. Or I could speak to him." Achilles tilts his head as if in thought, lips pursing in a mock frown. "Would it be too forward of me if I asked him to compare the length of our spears? Or perhaps—"
His sentence cuts off abruptly when Patroclus rolls over him, pressing him into the mattress. His features harden with determination. "Promise me," he says. "Promise me you'll never fight him."
Achilles blinks up at him, taken momentarily aback. "I won't," he says.
"Promise me you'll never challenge him. That you'll never get close to him."
"I won't. I won't." His hands smooth up Patroclus' sides, slow and soothing. "You know that."
Patroclus' muscles are still tense under Achilles' palms; he's taut like a drawn string. Achilles cups the back of his neck and pulls him down to him. He brushes his lips over his, tastes the sweetness of his breath on his tongue. "I promise, Patroclus."
There's a caught sound in the back of Patroclus' throat; a small shiver runs through him. He melts into Achilles' embrace, mouth parting eagerly beneath his own to let him in, drink him down. The flames crackle in the small brazier, and the sea breeze drifts beyond their tent; time grows soft and syrupy around them, and for a while, there are no other words.
Later, Achilles runs his fingertip over the sheen of sweat that's gathered in the hollow of Patroclus' throat, the drops that linger on his skin, small and luminous like stars.
"I've told you before, haven't I?" he whispers in his ear. "Hector has done nothing to me."
Patroclus turns to him, his face sweet and tender in the amber firelight, and smiles.
The dust from the chariots hangs heavy over the ravaged plains of Troy. The sun beats down upon him, harsh and unrelenting. Achilles takes a breath that scratches, sears his lungs; his hand that holds the spear has grown heavy.
He's had no sleep in days, he can't recall the last time food has passed his lips. His heart is a hole of hurt, a deep black pit of ash and bone— his rage the scorching fire that never dies down.
"You are still alive because my beloved asked me to let you live, but you took him from me. Now, no one will beg for your life on your behalf, and all your gods have left you."
Hector is on his knees atop the blood-soaked earth. He gazes up at him, his eyes dark and solemn in the shadow of his helmet. Those same eyes that looked upon Patroclus as he bled to death.
Achilles could make him pay. He could storm Troy right then — he could kill Hector's son before him, he could torture his wife for sport, he could feast on Hector's blood until he bled no more— but none of this would sate him.
None of this will bring Patroclus back.
Achilles brings his spear down hard upon Hector's waiting throat. His body slumps to the ground, twitching with its approaching death, a death that heralds his own.
Yet there's no anguish in the notion, no thread of fear; despair has lost its sharpest sting. Achilles smiles as he weeps, as he ties Hector to the back of his chariot, as he drags him around the Achaean camp over, and over, and over again.
Because Patroclus waits for him.