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Summary
Patroclus presses his lips to Achilles’s, swallowing the brightness of his laughter. It tastes like heaven and history, life and memory, the other half of his soul. Their lips move against each other in a familiar dance, lazily and distantly lustful. It is an act so instinctual that it feels as critical as breathing; perhaps moreso. Achilles wrestles one hand free of Patroclus’s grip, seeking the silk of his chestnut curls. His scalp sings where Achilles’s fingers touch it, a song of love and safety.
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A morning of domesticity and sexy times in a modern reincarnation AU
