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Achilles still had not mentioned nor even hinted at the kiss that Patroclus had given him; a bit too long ago for him to just not have had time to speak to him of it, but too soon for him to have forgotten it.
Patrolclus certainly had not. He had not let slip the way Achilles’ lips had felt on his own, he had not lost the way Achilles had smelt, the way he had felt as if he were Patroclus’ own, if only for a second, a moment, forgotten and unimportant in the wider spread of the universe. In the eyes of the Gods.
Achilles had not seemed revolted, or distressed by the fact that Patroclus had followed him to Chiron’s place, nor had he seemed angry or resentful when he saw him. He’d seemed happy, glad, and even relieved, his eyes tinkling a little more and his breath letting out a pleased sigh when he held him, in an embrace, glad of his presence.
Patroclus waited, and waited, and waited even more: willing Achilles to speak of the kiss, to criticise him, or be angry, but nothing happened. Patroclus should have been relieved, honestly, but he feared that day by day the way Achilles would eventually speak of it, but with nothing but disgust and irritation, of hatred for Patroclus and his actions.
He felt the anxiousness build and build and build, and he eventually could not take it anymore. He decided, on that very same day ( a day when he woke up with Achilles not beside him), that he would ask him about it, and apologise if the need be. He decided that that day he would be brave. For once in his cowardly life.
So he sat up, with determination and fear swirling, building, fighting in his stomach for dominance, and he practised what he would say in his head. He practised and thought, slowly etching out unimportant segments, slowly rewriting his apology, as if it were a notebook in his head, and he was writing in ink, as if he needed to cross out words in his mind for them to not leave his mouth when he began talking.
After a few minutes, of him arguing with his own self in his head, about what would be the best things to say and do, he got up. He began washing his face with the water in the water basin, slowly and carefully, not missing out anything, as if he had a dirty face, even a speck, that Achilles might not believe him, or become more hostile towards him. He washed with care, then dried his face, and breathed in deeply, wanting to leave the cave and find Achilles’ current dwelling.
He left the cave, slowly, carefully, afraid he may bump into him if he walked too hastily, with not enough caution. Patroclus saw no one near the cave, except their mentor, Chiron. He smiled at Patroclus, with a guarded sort of ease and kindness, and he felt safe, if only while he was in the centaur’s presence.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Achilles?” Patroclus asked, with a practised tone of indifference, in a way that did not let Chiron know how much he needed to see the other boy, if only for that moment.
“Near the river,” Chiron answered, in the same tone of detachment that Patroclus had, as if mirroring his actions, his self. Though there was a secret sort of tone, of knowing, in the centaur’s voice, as if he knew Patroclus’ exact thoughts and his exact emotions at that moment. Patroclus would not have been surprised if he did.
“Thank you,” he said, and left, feeling the gaze of Chiron on the back of his head, his body, and his mind, even.
When he arrived at the river, a bit tired and sweaty, his body grumbling at the hike he took too quickly and too early in the morning, he did not immediately spot Achilles.
Instead he looked and searched and tried to spot, but was ultimately left confused and wandering, curious about the whereabouts of his friend and if he had left sooner then Patroclus would have expected.
Achilles usually stayed at the river for hours, as long as he could, swimming or fishing or even just sitting there, admiring the way the current moved, the way it interacted with nature and with its own self. Patroclus had always assumed that it was because Achilles was technically born of the sea, the water, and he felt a sense of longing, and admiration, for water which moved and carried life with it. Patroclus was not quite sure if his assumption was all correct, if even a small bit.
Patroclus was about ready to give up, go look somewhere else where Achilles may be or even just go back to Chiron to sit and talk, and wait for Achilles to come back on his own, as he always did when Patroclus could not find him.
That was, until Patroclus saw Achilles walking towards him, yet not quite seeing him, looking dazed yet happy as he moved, clumsily, unlike his usual self, towards the tree they would always climb, that they would sit in and talk, and talk, until the sun set and Chiron expected them back at the cave. Until they were expected back at their current home.
As Achilles got closer, and he still did not spot Patroclus, standing there, waiting, Patroclus could smell something about him, not the usual pomegranate and sandalwood, not the usual smell of the oils which his father provided so he could still use them on his feet. No, not the smell Patroclus loved to smell and that he wished he could inhale every second of everyday.
Achilles smelt of the sea and of salt. He had been visiting his mother.
Patroclus felt his stomach fall at the realisation, and he cursed himself for choosing today to speak of the kiss, the day Achilles had run away from him; the day Thetis had told Patroclus to leave her son alone. Patroclus had chosen the worst day to apologise for his actions.
Yet, that did not deter Patroclus from his plan: he knew if he were to leave it today, even for just a minute, a second, he would become cowardly again, he would become anxious. He’d pretend to let the plan slip his mind, and pretend that he meant to do it, just forgot. He would pretend that he will do it another day, yet he never actually would. It would be unspoken, unheard, undiscussed, no one ever knowing nor receiving closure for it. So Patroclus took a deep breath, as if he was about to dive into the water, and walked towards the dazed, happy, calm Achilles.
“Patroclus!” Achilles called, when he’d seen him. He waved, enthusiastically, and picked up the pace, jogging towards the tree, meeting him halfway, like he always did, in everything. Patroclus smiled at him, his eyes sweeping over him, noticing the way his clothes were still wet, and how his cheeks were flushed red in warmth.
“Achilles, we need to speak of someth-”
But before Patroclus had had time to even finish his sentence, Achilles had interrupted him, his eyes gleaming as he moved closer and closer, and started shaping his mouth to start telling Patroclus something of his own.
“I asked my mother something,” he began, suddenly becoming slightly nervous, fidgety, his fingers clenching and unclenching. “I… I asked her…”
“Achilles, I need to say something,” Patroclus began, but was promptly stopped yet again by Achilles, who began speaking.
“This is more important,” Achilles said, confident, and he grabbed Patroclus’ right hand in his left, and lifted their hands up; he let them hang in between their faces, intertwined, as Patroclus’ heart beat and beat and beat, louder and faster. “I asked my mother if she sees us here. If she watches us.”
Patroclus watched, perplexed, as their hands stayed intertwined, joint together, as Achilles took a quick breath and prepared his answer, which he delivered in a low voice, with a smile and a small laugh in his voice.
“She says, she does not. She cannot.”
Patroclus holds his breath, waiting, watching, as Achilles breathed in and out, and kept breathing, and said nothing more, waiting for Patroclus to say something himself, to give his opinion. To know what to say, how to react.
“Oh.” Was all Patroclus managed to let out, sort of strangled and quiet.
Achilles kept watching him, their hands held together still, waiting for something more, something that was more of an answer and less of just a reaction, passive. Patroclus swallows, and looks on, staring at Achilles’ face, and he notices the way his eyes flicker, quickly yet not at all discreetly, to Patroclus’ lips, his neck, his jaw. Patroclus swallows again, then takes a shuddering breath. His own gaze glimpses Achilles’ lips.
Then Achilles closes his eyes, and leans closer, and closer, until his lips are but a breath away from Patroclus’ own, and he can smell the sea in his breath, and he can feel the warmth on his lips. Achilles stops, for a moment, to ask, “May I?” in a low, grumbling voice, making Patroclus shiver all over.
Patroclus mumbles a yes, hurried and desperate, for more, for Achilles, for them to collide. Achilles complies.
Achilles’ own lips are salty tasting, to Patroclus, and a small bit of water seems to have been left on them. They are still soft, though, to Patroclus, and Achilles seems to let him take over, despite Achilles himself initiating the kiss, the action.
Patroclus becomes firm, pushing himself and his lips onto Achilles, who lets him with no hesitation nor struggle. He lets Patroclus pull him closer, and he lets him wrap his hands around his waist, effectively holding him in place. The kiss deepens, and Patroclus feels Achilles struggle for breath, just slightly.
Patroclus pulls away, and takes a breath of his own, letting Achilles do the same.
“Oh,” Achilles says, his face flushed a deep red and his lips already a bit plump from the kiss itself. He smiles, though, and looks at Patroclus with such admiration and love that he blushes at the way his eyes sweep over his face.
“Your mother…” Patroclus began, stuttering, terrified of what might happen next; what might that imply.
“She will never know,” Achilles whispers, leaning in closer to him, his lips on Patroclus’ neck.
Patroclus sighs in relief, and then in pleasure, as Achilles begins kissing his neck, peppering kisses along it, then as he moved down, lower, towards his collarbone and his shoulder blades, letting the wetness of his lips onto the softness of Patroclus’ neck, his delicate skin.
Patroclus felt it burn and heat his body, every time Achilles’ lips touched his skin, and he felt the pleasure build up, up, up in his face and his being.
Then Achilles pulled away, completely, staring at Patroclus with nothing but love and want in his eyes, his face, his very energy.
“Hey,” he said, with a softness preserved for only Patroclus on quiet nights where they both cannot sleep, cannot drift off. Patroclus smiles back, “Hey yourself.”
Then he twists their positions around, so that Achilles’ back is facing the tree, and Patroclus has an ever so slight height vantage over him, and he begins spreading kisses on his neck, like Achilles was doing a moment before. Achilles hums, his head rolling back, exposing his neck. His adam’s apple bobs in and out as he takes deep, rumbling breaths.
His voice whines when Patroclus nips his skin. Patroclus laughs at the sound, stopping his advancements, making Achilles grumble in response.
“Just get back to…” Achilles turned red, too embarrassed to finish the statement.
Patroclus laughs, again, and begins kissing the other’s neck again, pushing him back against the tree, a thump heard as Achilles, again, let out a whine, this time in hurt.
“Sorry,” Patroclus mumbles against the skin next to Achilles ear. Achilles forces Patroclus’ body closer to his in response.
After a minute, maybe two, maybe fifty, of something but sweet mumbles and soft kisses, Patroclus spoke.
“We need to get back to Chiron, my Achilles,” he mumbles, though he still kissed his chin.
“Do we?”
Patroclus hums an affirmation, and pulls away, the lack of warmth suddenly very obvious with the wind. Achilles seems to shiver himself.
“Come,” Patroclus says, and pulls him into his arms.
The two walk back, their entire bodies intertwined, and make no noise as they walk past Chiron, who seems to be reading a book of medicine.
Chiron glances up at them, for a moment, and does not comment on the fact that they are sewn together, practically, nor does he comment on the redness of their cheeks, and lips, and necks. He lets them be, and does not speak of the sense of serenity that follows them into the cave.
That night, he decides to go sleep outside, giving them privacy.
Chiron understands.