Work Text:
Achilles had no reason to hesitate going to Troy. As a growing star, he had nothing but pride and stomach-churning excitement at the thought of proving himself in battle. His childhood was full of the adoration of his peers, but never as equals, never any he cared to keep around.
All those of age were drafted alongside him. Achilles spoke with the men, met them and discussed tactics with them, but at the end of the evening he went to his tent alone. A sweat-slick chill and a hand squeezing his heart. He knew fate. He knew it better than anyone else.
Achilles had no reason to visit a healer. He was untouched in battle, nothing so much as a bruise from sparring with his peers. And yet he found a hundred reasons to visit the medic tent.
There was Patroclus. A son of some unimportant man, who'd taken to helping the healers instead of fighting at the front. He had few skills in healing but a determined furrow between his brows.
No one argued this -- it was obvious his soft hands would not make much use on the battlefield, and there was never a lack of need for help with the wounded. Patroclus never complained of dirt or blood or offal, he stitched with trembling hands that grew steadier every time Achilles found an excuse to swing by.
Patroclus was quiet. He kept to himself. He didn't stare at Achilles. If anything, he avoided meeting his eye. He was compassionate, almost to a ridiculous degree. He stayed overnight at the medic tent to painstakingly watch over dying soldiers. He spent his free time learning from any qualified medic, soaking up knowledge relentlessly. He got so engrossed in his work he forgot to eat.
It was here that Achilles found his way in. Through his excuses of bringing supplies and visiting soldiers, he'd become well known at the medic tent for being someone who was willing to help fetch things or do small tasks. Even Achilles' fame did not stall the harried atmosphere of the medic tent, he was a willing body the healers could order around and that was all they cared about once he'd come around enough. So he was sent by one of the healers to fetch Patroclus some food, because the man hadn't eaten all day and refused to move from his post where he was monitoring a weak soldier.
The first thing Achilles ever said to Patroclus directly was, "You need to eat."
Patroclus did not look up from where he held his patient's wrist at the pulse point. He replied, "I don't need to do anything, thanks."
Then glanced up, annoyed, and when he registered who he just spoke to all the blood left his face. He said, "Oh."
Achilles offered out the plate he was holding. Patroclus' mouth twisted, and he stayed quiet for a moment as he thought. Then he said, "Can you take a pulse?"
"How hard can it be?" Achilles replied.
Patroclus sighed, and gestured for Achilles to sit. He did, handing the plate over the near lifeless body. Then he took the other wrist, trying to find the thud of blood against arteries. He couldn't.
"It's really weak." Patroclus excused, reaching over and taking Achilles hands. His gentle touch arranged his fingers to press hard and firm around the tendons until he could just feel a light butterfly wing against his fingertip.
"There." Achilles said.
Patroclus withdrew. He picked up the plate and began to eat. Achilles tried to watch him without making it obvious that was what he was doing. His own heart pounded and made it hard to tell what was the soldier and what was his.
Achilles had no idea what to say to him. He wanted to speak so badly but anything he thought of seemed silly or inane. Patroclus felt ethereal, beyond the blood-slicked battle stories that impressed his peers.
"What do you play?" Patroclus was the one to speak, waiting until his mouth wasn't full to ask.
"Play?" Achilles parroted, stupidly. Patroclus made him feel numb and scared and excited.
Then Patroclus smiled at him and the world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this nervous flash of teeth. "You have calluses. You have them on the palm of your hand like a fighter, yes, but you also have them on the tips of your fingers. Like a musician."
"I play the lyre." Achilles said.
"Do you enjoy it?" Patroclus chose to ask next. There were a hundred avenues he could've chosen and that was what he wanted to know.
"Yes."
Patroclus smiled again. And returned to his food. When he finished, he resumed his vigil on his patient, letting Achilles lift his grip. He hoped that the patient was still alive, because it was hard to tell when his heart beat so strongly in Patroclus' presence.
[]
Achilles continued to find little excuses to visit the medic tent, and seized on the chance to bring Patroclus food again. This time it was because he'd fallen asleep in the back, working himself to death and not stopping to eat again. Achilles brought food and sat on the floor beside the bed he'd collapsed on.
"You need to eat." Achilles woke gently, touching his elbow.
Patroclus groaned, arm over his face, and said, "I don't care that you're the golden boy, if you don't let me sleep I will maim you."
"No, you won't." Achilles said, amused and sure. This man was a healer, through and through, even if he was only in training.
"I won't." Patroclus reluctantly agreed, lowering his arm. "Why have you been sent to torment me?"
"If you remembered to eat, then there wouldn't be any reason to torment." Achilles pointed out sensibly.
Patroclus sat up and took the food. Achilles looked up at him, charmed and heart-sick with the sight of his scrunched dark curls and sleep-lined face. He leaned back on his palms and absorbed the feeling of taking care of the person who took care of everyone else.
"Surely you must have better things to do." Patroclus said, reluctant.
Achilles felt as if he could go and slay a hundred men and it would not compare to this moment. His lip twitched and he said, "I was thinking of practicing my lyre. Did you want to come and hear?"
Patroclus searched his face, wary, like he was looking for a trick. He must've seen Achilles' utter sincerity, because he agreed, and sat in Achilles' tent for hours listening to him play.
[]
"You will not win a war playing music for a mortal." Thetis told him, the ocean spray at her heels and the almost suffocating thickness of salt in the air.
"He gives me more energy, not less." Achilles argued, because he felt as if he could take down Troy with his bare hands every time he saw Patroclus smile. It was an endless chase, one he didn't mind following. It certainly felt more motivating than any abstract vision of honour or valour. It was real, close enough that he could press a thumb into Patroclus' dimple if he was so brave.
But Patroclus terrified him. And he stayed arms-length away, heart assaulted his ribcage, breathless, watching Patroclus. Waiting. Nervous. Excited. Terrified.
"It is an unnecessary distraction." Thetis said, anger and impatience. "A mortal would not be worthy of you."
Achilles kept his mouth shut, because he'd always done what she told him to. But in his mind, all he could think was how he would give anything to be worthy of Patroclus, not the other way around.
[]
Achilles dragged Patroclus from the healer tent more and more often. Promises of music, food, stories, or just company. He knew his mother didn't approve, that the other commanders didn't understand, but the other soldiers loved Patroclus and seemed to know exactly what Achilles was trying to do. They ranged between pleased approval that Patroclus would get the attention of the golden boy or suspicious and vaguely threatening of the nature of their beloved trainee medic.
Achilles didn't much care what anyone else thought, except for Patroclus. Absolutely obsessed would be a better word, because he was desperate to know if his affections were returned or not. He had long, vivid nightmares of finally getting to run his fingers through Patroclus' curls, to hear his laughter in his bed, to bathe in his innermost thoughts. He always woke with a gasp and a hollow ache of loneliness, of having all the privileges and skills in the world but unable to acquire the one thing he actively sought.
People were not battles to be won. Achilles had no desire to take after his father, he did not want to conquer Patroclus. He wanted Patroclus to conquer him, maybe. He wanted to give himself up wholly and completely, and hope that he would be taken.
But Patroclus just smiled, shy, ducking his head. He made no move. Achilles was losing his mind.
[]
Achilles came back covered in blood. None of it his. Patroclus didn't know that, and rushed to his side when he arrived at the medic tent carrying a soldier.
Patroclus set the soldier to treatment at record speed, turning to run his hands on Achilles' arms and shoulders, saying desperately, "Are you alright?"
The touch set him on fire. He said, almost dizzy with it, "I am unharmed."
Patroclus pulled his hands away to show the red stains on his palms.
"Not mine." Achilles said.
Patroclus' expression wavered, and settled on relief. He smiled, and said, "Good."
Good. Achilles felt as if he could climb a mountain.
The medics called for help behind them, and Patroclus hesitated. He looked over his shoulder, then back, meeting Achilles' eyes. He said, "You should wash the blood off and rest. I... I will come see you when I'm done?"
It was the first time Patroclus was offering, instead of being dragged away from his work. Achilles could've burst, knowing the smile on his face was wide and splitting and unfitting of the sombre atmosphere. He said, "I will be waiting for you."
Patroclus lingered only a second longer, before swiftly turning away and joining the fray with red stained palms. Achilles watched him until the dark head was swallowed by the bustle of medics.
[]
Patroclus didn't arrive until late. Achilles hadn't rested much, but he had cleaned himself and his gear of blood. He didn't need sleep.
When Patroclus appeared, he was the one coated in blood. It was the middle of the night, and he began immediately with apologies, "I'm sorry, I didn't consider how late it would be."
"It's not a problem." Achilles promised, and set to getting clean water. "Sit down, I'll help."
Patroclus sat. He didn't argue, looking tired and weary and compliant. Even as Achilles dipped his rag in the water and began to clean blood of Patroclus' hands and underneath his fingernails. Meticulous and careful as he worked, one hand then the other. The dizzy joy of taking care of the one who took care of others. Looking down through golden lashes as he focused on his work, feeling Patroclus' gaze heavy on his neck.
The rag into the water splashed it all ruby, wrung out and back to scrub his wrists and almost up to his elbow. Then one more dunk into the water, and he gently took Patroclus' chin to hold him still as he cleaned the blood off his cheek and neck.
Patroclus' breath shuddered on his hand. When Achilles finally met his eye, he saw nerves and terror and excitement reflected back at him.
Achilles was on his knees, like he was worshipping Patroclus. It meant when they finally kissed, Patroclus had to lean down to do so.
It was worth every second of waiting. Achilles couldn't hear a thing, heart thundering so loudly in his ears, mind fizzling to a stunned stop. His fingers trembled as he held both sides of Patroclus' face like a precious thing and kissed him back like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
Patroclus gasped into his mouth and held on tight.
[]
The next day, a prophecy would be revealed, that Achilles would die. But that was later. When the sun came up, Achilles laid still and traced the line of Patroclus' throat, the happiest that he would ever be.