Work Text:
(in another world)
~
When Achilles imagined it, it never happened like this. With the Smiths’ record skipping on his record player, laying on his bed, confessing everything into the dark of his room. When Achilles imagined it - if he was being reasonable, sensible - Patroclus would have reprimanded him.
( How could you say that to me? This Patroclus asks him, angry. You can’t be in love with me, Achilles, that’s ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous.
Or.
How could you say that to me? The other Patroclus asks, sadly. You… after everything you did. You shut me out. You made me feel stupid. You manipulated me, and now you say you love me? Really?)
Despite every way that Achilles imagined it, it never ended up like this.
With Patroclus holding himself over him, his hand warm and soft and perfect around his, covering him with warmth. The look Patroclus gives him now, after everything, is like he’s in love with him too.
“Achilles,” he says, like a relieved sigh. Achilles can’t really believe he’s hearing it at all - he never really thought he would get here. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m here with you. We’re here.”
When Achilles opens his eyes, he’s crying a little bit, but so is Patroclus, his brown eyes liquifying in front of him, a swirling mess of amber.
Then, in the darkness of his room, Patroclus leans down and kisses him.
~
(Neither of them notice the front door opening downstairs.
But they don’t hear it anyway. Achilles’ room is at the far end of the hallway upstairs, and he’d shut the door behind them when they initially entered. Why that was, he couldn’t say. Everything felt a bit more close when they were together like this, like the rest of the world had been shut out. Achilles just wants to be close to him - he always wants to be close to him.
When Thetis walks upstairs, it’s quiet in her son’s room. It’s late, she thinks. He’s probably gone to bed.
She walks right by it without a second thought.)
~
“Achilles,” Patroclus says, his voice little more than a whisper in the dark of his room. “Achilles, Achilles, Achilles…”
He swipes his thumb against Achilles’ cheek, a soft, careful motion, and Achilles hadn’t really realized he’d begun crying again until Patroclus’ thumb came back wet. Achilles only smiles, melting under this affection - he’s never really had it before.
(It seems like a dream. He hardly thinks any of this is real.)
“Are you okay?”
Achilles looks up at him then, at the small smile he wears upon his kiss-swollen mouth, and Achilles doesn’t see how any of this could ever be wrong. Not when he looks like this, touches him like this, makes him feel like this. Like everything else in his life has suddenly found itself righted.
Achilles nods with a tearful smile, holding Patroclus’ hand against his cheek, not wanting him to pull away. “Yeah,” he says, his voice a little rough. “I’m okay. Just a little…”
He doesn’t really know how to say it.
“I just… I didn’t think this would ever happen. I almost can’t believe it’s real. You are here with me, aren’t you?”
(He’s dreamt of things like this, after all.)
Patroclus gives him a smile. “I’m here,” he says. “I promise, I’m here.”
Achilles looks up at him, and wants so desperately to believe him. “It’s a lot,” he whispers. “But it’s okay,” - it’s more than okay - “it’s… it’s good.”
“Yeah,” Patroclus nods. “Me too.”
Achilles smiles.
It’ll be okay now. Patroclus is here, with him, and he loves him, in that perfect way of his. Everything else beyond this - every trouble and trial and fucked up shit outside his door is inconsequential. It doesn’t matter as long as Patroclus is with him. Nothing else really matters.
He kisses him again, and thinks that finally everything is going to be okay.
~
It’s later, the orange glow of the streetlight shining into Achilles’ room. Achilles glances over at the clock, and it’s so late, it’s almost three in the morning, but he isn’t tired.
Patroclus is lying in his bed now, in favour of where he was on the floor, though Achilles doubts either of them really wants to be far away now - he knows he doesn’t.
It had been awkward at first, when the tears had dried. They were both drained in ways they couldn’t really explain. Achilles didn’t want Patroclus to leave - not for anything. Not now.
They had laid on their backs, side by side, arms brushing. Achilles wanted to hold his hand again, but he seemed so far away like that, even though they couldn’t have been more than a few inches apart.
Patroclus had seemed a little amused at that. Achilles lying as stiff as a board, arms at his sides. “You can come here, if you want,” he’d said, and Achilles could hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I don’t mind.”
Now, Achilles had tucked his head in the junction of Patroclus’ shoulder. He was so close, and so warm, and Achilles had never really felt anything like this before. This sort of calm contentment. Patroclus’ arm is wrapped around his shoulder, and Achilles’ leg was draped over his, curling up against each other. He hardly understands why he held himself back for so long if this was what being with him meant.
“What now?” He asks, because even though Patroclus’ eyes are closed, and his breathing is even, he knows he’s not asleep.
Patroclus takes a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he says. “What do you want?”
“You,” he replies without hesitation.
“You have me.”
Achilles smiles, and places a kiss to his shoulder. And you me, he thinks, but doesn’t have to say. They both know it anyway.
They lay there for a moment, in the silent glow of his room.
“I applied for Stanford,” Patroclus tells him. Achilles only smiles.
“You’ll get in.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re the smartest kid I know, Patroclus,” he says. “They’d be stupid not to accept you.”
A slow breath, Patroclus’ chest rising and falling. “It’s in California,” he says.
Across the country. They’d be hundreds of miles apart. It might not be too far away from where Patroclus moved from at the beginning of the year.
Patroclus knows what he’s asking. What about you? What are you going to do?
(They wouldn’t be apart now. Not after everything else.)
“I’ve heard the weather is nice there,” Achilles replies, simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world - and maybe it is, now. “I could write you songs there.”
Patroclus shifts to look at him, a questioning frown on his face. “You would go with me?”
Achilles almost finds it silly that he asked. “Of course,” he says. “If you would have me, that is.”
Patroclus just looks at him, as if contemplating. “That’s only if I get in,” he says.
“You will.”
“You would really go all the way to California with me? What about… what about football? Or your parents?”
Achilles is holding his hand, their fingers tangling with each other. Warm and safe and perfect. It makes him realize how little of any of that he had before. “I don’t have anything here anymore,” he says plainly. “Nothing that matters, anyway. Except you.”
Patroclus doesn’t seem to know how to react. His face is a cross between fondness and sadness, though Achilles doesn’t really understand why.
He smiles. “Wherever you’re going, Patroclus. I’m going that way, okay?”
And slowly, a soft smile grows on his face - the same one Achilles fell in love with. He leans down and kisses him just as soft as the smile he wears. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. Then, “I love you.”
Achilles smiles, and kisses him again.