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::Future::
He will be glorious, they say, should he choose to be.
They will sing his name for decades, centuries, millennia, more.
They will seek him, knowing him through reputation of prophecy alone. They will come for him bringing gifts; not all of these will be innocent.
He will prove himself in battle. Best of the Greeks, should he choose. He will tip the scales of an entire war more than once before his death, if he chooses it, will blaze brightly across the battlefield, will rally men to his cause.
He will win the war, should he fight. He will drag his enemies in the dust of their once fertile fields, will stain the ground with their blood. He will not care for the cause, nor will you: because he will win, and it will be glorious.
He will also love, but this will not be his choice (there is no choice, when it comes to one such as him).
He will laugh, sing, take joy in his beloved, and though their days may be short, should he choose, their names together will be sung for decades, centuries, millennia, more. They will be soft, gentle, yet unbreakable, and there will be no force, neither human nor godly, that will be able to stop this, nor would they want to.
Because a love such as theirs is worth glorifying. A love such as theirs should be all that there is.
And so he will be glorious, they say, whether by choice, or Fate, and their names will twine together for all of eternity, although their lives will be but just a flicker—brief, bright.
He will be glorious because he will love.
::Present::
There is blood.
There is blood and dirt, and dust, and Patroclus is drowning in all of it. He turns and turns, but no matter the direction, he is met with another sword, with another scream, with more anger that is not directed at him, not even directed at the armor which was not his, weighing heavy on his shoulders. He rallies, tells the men to push forward even though he had promised not so long ago that he would pull back once this victory was had, because he cannot take it any longer.
He is tired of this, of the gaunt, hollow stares his men give each other at camp, mirroring the expression of this new spectre that their general has become, that was his beloved. A decade of war has worn down even Patroclus’ gentlest nature, and all the softness that is left, he hoards for Achilles, prays every night that it is enough to bring Achilles back to himself, and yet every night, it is not.
And so the only way to over come this is to overcome them. The only way this ends, the only way they go home, is if Troy itself ends. This had never been a choice. And yet, a small voice whispers—wryly, in a tone that will become commonplace for him so soon—and yet, had he not chosen a long time ago? When he first locked eyes with the young prince of Phthia? When, that day, half hidden by the tall grasses, he leaned into Achilles’ kiss, and not away? He has chosen a life with Achilles, so many times over, and would do so many times over again.
Patroclus bares his teeth as he has never done, gnashes them as he roars in a voice that does not sound to him like his own, runs them through mercilessly, as he said he would never do.
Troy’s walls are close—so close, and Patroclus surges forward, pierces, kills, ends until he meets the blade of a man whose expression reminds him of his own. A man who does not want to kill him, but knows that he must in order to end this, who pierces him not with metal, but with an apology.
Patroclus muses at the irony of it: that it is Hector who has doomed Troy, because only Patroclus can soothe Achilles’ rage, and his rage will be devastating, glorious. Only Patroclus can calm the Greatest of the Greeks, and soon, Patroclus will breathe his last breath.
Patroclus clenches his teeth, refuses to have his final thoughts be of this damn war.
He thinks of the fertile hills of Phthia. He thinks of the sea. He thinks of the way that Achilles’ eyes shine as they look into his, wide with adoration, sometimes awe. He thinks of the way they have always fit together, how they never fail to find each other, no matter the obstacle between. He knows that death will be no match, knows now that the only thing strong enough to come between them is Achilles’ own stubbornness.
No, he reflects again. There is no choice, when it comes to one such as him.
Patroclus laughs, chokes on his own blood as he falls to his knees.
In the end, he too breathes an apology with his last breath, with his beloved’s name on his lips.
::Past::
“Was it worth it?” Patroclus asked quietly.
Achilles turned to face him, his head comfortably nestled in Patroclus’ lap. He frowned at the disquiet in his love’s features.
“Was it worth it?” Patroclus repeated. “Do you think?”
Achilles realized that this was not an accusation, that Patroclus would not accuse, not anymore, not after the time they have carved now for themselves, free from arbitrary categories like past, present and future.
And yet, these ghosts lingered still.
“What do you mean?” Achilles asked.
Patroclus took his hand, intertwined their fingers to show that he was not angry, just thoughtful. “What we did while we were alive. Our choices, if we are going to call them that,” he added wryly.
Achilles furrowed his brow in thought. “Whether by choice or fate, I was led to you. I am with you, despite the mistakes I’ve made.”
His expression darkened when he arrived at this last idea, but Patroclus quickly kissed it away. “We have both made mistakes, my love.”
Achilles nodded reluctantly, and said nothing to contradict, willing himself to accept Patroclus words. Patroclus beamed, proud at him for such a small, but immense, thing.
“So you’re saying that what we did does not matter?” Patroclus continued to press, but Achilles knew him well enough to hear the playfulness in his voice. “That none of it was of consequence?”
Achilles sat up and looked at Patroclus seriously. “I am saying that neither choice nor Fate could have kept us apart. Nothing can, Pat. And that is the only consequence that matters to me.”
Predictably, Patroclus blushed, as Achilles intended. He pressed his luck.
“I was happy together with you in Phthia, at Mount Pelion,” Achilles murmured, leaning in to kiss Patroclus softly on the lips. “I was even happy in Troy, for the moments we shared together.”
“Happy in Troy? That is an exaggeration,” Patroclus snorted, but was cut off as Achilles bit a kiss just under his chin, in that spot that he knew Patroclus loved best.
“It is,” Achilles agreed, kissing him again as though in apology (although none was needed or actually given). “But we are together again, despite or because all of these things.” He dragged his hand down the side of Patroclus’ torso, towards the hem of his chiton. “And whether it is by fate or by choice, I care not.”
“Such a persuasive argument,” Patroclus gasped as Achilles dug his teeth just slightly into the flesh under his ear, as his hand crept up Patroclus’ thigh.
“All my worth,” Achilles breathed softly against the side of Patroclus’ neck, and he felt Patroclus shiver under him. “I have always found in you.”
Patroclus took in a shuddering breath, and Achilles drew back in alarm to find his eyes beginning to overfill.
“Beloved—”
Patroclus raised a finger to Achilles’ mouth, and then replaces it with his own lips.
“I’m fine,” Patroclus assured him. “And you’re right of course.”
He twisted his hips and pulled, so that Achilles was fully on top of him. He pressed his lips against Achilles’ again, softer this time, but a coy suggestion of things to come. “I am grateful to spend my days and nights with you. That I have done so, and that will do so. We are all that matters.”
“How grateful?” Achilles teased.
“Allow me to show you,” Patroclus laughed, pulling at Achilles’ clothes without hurry, for finally, time is theirs.