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    Summary

    Patroclus froze, meat in hand as he went to put it on a plate, as if he had said too much or was unsure he belonged quite in the space he was occupying. He wore a bland, nervous smile that glittered from the light of some unseen brazier. Red ran down the meat and dribbled onto the plate under his hand like blood off of a sword.

    Odysseus shrugged off his himation, taking in the sight of Patroclus barefoot in a brief white chiton, domestic as he would never dare imagine such a warrior. He had only one thought in his head:

     

    Pelides is a lucky son of a bitch.

    Odysseus stashes Patroclus in his tent after the failed embassy when Patroclus can no longer stand to be among the Myrmidons. But why does everything, Patroclus especially, feel off?

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    Language:
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