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The sea crashes behind us, the sea crashes around us. The waves roll in, white foam cresting the sand. It is rare that we take time from the war: an eternal blur of clang and metal, but when there are seconds to spare, we are inseparable.
“Do you believe there are stories in the stars?” My voice is light. The night wind skirts around our ankles, ruffles our clothes.
“No. Stars are just pathways for Artemis. That’s what mother says, at least.” His voice sounds absolutely certain.
We lay there, hands intertwined, and the stars glitter like diamonds, a scattered handful of silver. When I look over, the sand rustling against my ear, I am stricken by how god-like Achilles looks in the night.
It does not come as a surprise. He is half-god, after all, born to the sea and royalty. But he is still delicately beautiful – his eyelids close, gold lashes framing them like thin disks. My eyes trace his profile: the curve of his cheek, the peak of his nose, the elegant hollow of his throat, and my heart pounds quickly, furiously.
Achilles lazily flicks one eye open, a green orb in the night. “Patroclus?” His grip on my hand tightened infinitesimally.
“Why not?” I slip my fingers from his hand, reaching towards the sky. “See?” I trace the path of seven stars, letting them fall into a pattern. “Does that not look like a ladle? There are stories in stars. I think Artemis would have liked to be creative.”
Achilles laughed like the summer wind. “There are pictures in stars, perhaps. Stories? I doubt that Artemis would have the time.”
He reaches up to where my hands are still tracing the stars, lacing our fingers together again – dark skin against bronze, the night against the sun.
There is no use in arguing with Achilles, not when he is more stubborn than the summer sun. Not when there is magic in his words, in the sky. I stare up, mesmerized by the far flung dots, the glitter of Zeus’ domain.
“It’s beautiful,” I mutter, words slipping between my teeth. My eyes focus on one star. It seems larger, brighter than the rest; it seems more hopeful. “Achilles, do you see that one? I do not think I have ever noticed it – it is far more dazzling than the rest.”
There is no answer. Just the crashing of waves.
“Achilles?” I can barely tear my eyes away; there is a sun in a sky full of stars. “Achilles, are you looking?”
I turn my head to the side. Achilles stares back, his eyes luminous in the night. His lips are parted, just a bit, and I can taste his breath – figs and honey, the faintest trace of blood. His other hand reaches out, his fingers fluttering over my face like moths. “Far more dazzling than the rest,” he echoes.
When he kisses me for the first time, the thousandth time, the stars around me fling themselves from the Earth, farther than ever before, and do not fall back into place.
**
When I die, the constellations are disjointed and crooked. It is like watching the sky through shards of broken glass. Achilles cradles my body, his muscles sprung so tight he looks like he will break any second, shudders tracing through his body.
I can hear the faint whispers of words, muttered like a prayer.
Agápi̱ mou, Agápi̱ mou, epanélthei, zi̱tó̱ apó esás – my love, my love, come back, I beg of you.
My heart breaks, shatters, and I long for his touch, though I can see his arms wrapped tightly around my body, as if he could keep my soul within it. Achilles repeats the same words, repeats, repeats, my heart cracks a bit more.
My love, I want to reply, I want to touch Achilles again, run my fingers through his hair, beloved, I am so sorry.
He stays, hunched over the white shroud that holds my body – for hours, for days. His skin teems with dust, his hair wound with blood. Achilles will not let anyone take me – only he holds me, though my bones begin to fade and my skin begins to come apart – he hisses like a beast with red eyes, and clutches me to his chest.
I want to tell him to let me go, but I am selfish. I want, more than anything, to remain in his arms.
There is one point in time, in the dead of night, that Achilles walks out of his tent. His legs shake from the disuse, and he still carries me – gentle, as if I were made of spun glass.
He lays me out in the sand. Sits next to me. Keeps one hand on the shroud, never letting go.
“Patroclus?” His voice, once light like the summer wind, trembles, breaks. “Patroclus, agapi̱tós, the stars are out tonight.”
I wish I could sit with him, intertwine our fingers again. I wish I could kiss him again. I wish, I wish –
I stare at the sky, and for a second, I can pretend I am alive.
Achilles breaks the spell. “The stars are out, and you loved –” He chokes on the past, not letting me go, “You love them, you love to point them out. There are stories in the stars,” he says, fondly. “I wish I had listened to you more.”
His green eyes are tired, shot through with crimson.
“There was a star you pointed out, yes? The one that is the brightest?” His eyes rake the sky, again, again. “I can not seem to find it.”
It’s right there, I want to say. It is right above us, burning furiously, it is impossible to miss. I want to point overhead, but he will not hear me; he barely hears me in his dreams, now. Right here, like I am.
The younger Achilles, bright and golden, would have reached for me, demanded that I show him where everything was, would have taken my hand and have me map the entire sky. Achilles is still beautiful, but he is no longer golden: because I am not there, and we are nothing without each other, breathing together with matched heartbeats.
“It does not matter,” he lowers his head, muttering to himself. “Because soon, I am to join you, and it will not matter.”
His hand digs into my shroud, bunching the fabric beneath his thin fingers. The stars shine, scattered dots in the sky. The summer air feels cold. The sea crashes behind us, it crashes around us, and Achilles’ tears slip into it, the salt running into the ocean.