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Patroclus had never been beautiful.
He was always too scrawny, too skinny, too nerdy, too dull compared to all the other boys; boys who would throw a ball through a yellow goalpost and then scream if it wasn’t close enough, boys who would kick a ball back and forth to each other and then scream when the card held up wasn’t the color that they liked, boys who would throw a long stick across a stretch of sand and then scream when someone else made it farther than they did.
Boys who ran miles around dirt circles like it’s what they were created to do, but didn’t scream at anything, because they won first every single time. Boys with golden hair and dark skin and eyes like dragonfly wings.
Boys like Achilles.
His father had never said it out loud, he didn’t need to. Patroclus understood his unspoken message loud and clear the first time the two watched him run, “I wish I had a son like him instead of like you.”
Patroclus was afraid of his father, afraid of the strike of his hand just as much as the sting of his words, but he still respected him. He even loved him, in some ways. And he knew, deep, deep down inside, his father loved him too. Patroclus wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable at home. He had a nice house with lots of space to run, he had three meals a day and a roof over his head, he just didn’t know he was allowed to have more than that. Patroclus knew his father was disappointed in the boy he was, but he was still his son. That would never change.
Until, one day, it did.
When Patroclus was just ten years old, he killed a boy. Patroclus was at the field beside his house that overlooked a steep cliff, when a kid approached him. Clysonymus, his name was. He was ugly and mean and wanted something that Patroclus had; a toy, maybe, he couldn’t remember. Clysonymus had lunged, Patroclus had dodged, and down, down, down the boy went, splitting his head on the jagged rocks below and leaving Patroclus with the screeching, technicolor memory of splattered blood and exposed bone and throwing up the contents of his lunch for hours. He remembers scrubbing his face raw afterwards, attempting to erase the scene that flashed white-hot behind his eyelids like a broken film reel.
His father was furious, and Patroclus was too young to know that it wasn’t his fault. He was sent away to live with another family, the sight of his “murderous” face becoming too much for his father to bear looking at. Really, Patroclus knew, he was ashamed. Ashamed that a boy born under the name Menoitius could sully his father’s reputation so thoroughly and so swiftly, it gave them both whiplash.
Patroclus was sent away to stay with Peleus, and his son, Achilles, in a state far, far away from the one he spent his childhood. He was not the first boy Peleus fostered, but he would be the last.
Pelus was good to him, good to both of them, but often absent due to meetings and contract reviews and meetings and building sign-offs and meetings. Being the mayor of Pithia was hard work, after all. Because Peleus wasn’t around as often, he and Achilles had to rely on each other.
Achilles.
When Patroclus first met Achilles, he hated him. He remembered the track meet at five years old in his mind’s eye, the look on his father’s face when he compared his son and the winner in his head. Patroclus’ blood was filled with resentment when he looked at Achilles, his head, jealousy. How come my father likes you more than he likes me, when he hasn’t even met you? Patroclus wanted to say that fateful day before fifth grade when the two were introduced. But he didn’t. Patroclus couldn’t really bring himself to hate Achilles any more than he could bite off his own finger or gouge out his own eye.
Achilles was magnetic , and everyone else clearly felt the pull just as much as Patroclus did.
Achilles was loud in all the ways except volume. He was boastful and filled with pride, albeit rightfully so. He had a short temper and sometimes still acted like a child. He had a tendency to look down on others without meaning to, and he was overprotective to the point of being overbearing.
Achilles was flawed. But he was also kind. He was kind and magnificent and adventurous and brave. He was so, so loyal, and he was sweet and considerate and pretty (so, so pretty). He was good.
Achilles was a boy that Patroclus had come to fall in love with.
It really was inevitable.
In elementary school when he got picked on by the bigger kids, Achilles would stand in front of Patroclus and fold his arms across his chest and make them stop. That was the point in their relationship where Patroclus refused to speak to Achilles. He hated him after all, or, that’s what he told himself. Patroclus would simply let silence settle deep into his bones, fold his arms across his chest, and ignore any and all questions sent his way. Why should he talk to Peleus and Achilles anyway? It’s not like they were his real family. But sometimes Patroclus found himself wishing they were.
Middle school was when Patroclus and Achilles became friends. The two were a package deal very suddenly, you couldn’t have one without the other. They rode their bikes to and from school together, walked each other to class, bashed teachers together, (because if one of them hated someone, they both did). When Achilles joined the school track team, Patroclus would either wait on the bleachers or in the library for him to finish so they could walk home together. One of those days spent in the library Patroclus met Briseis. Briseis was a spitfire, but she was also nerdy and a bit shy. They became fast friends. For some reason though, Achilles never seemed to like hanging out with Patroclus when Briseis was around… he wasn’t really sure why. In eighth grade though, Patroclus practically forced the two to hang out together, and they formed a delicate friendship. So what he was sick of breathing in the stifling air of tension and behind-the-back glares every time he tried to make them cooperate? So what he wanted to be able to be with his two favorite people at the same time. Sue him.
Patroclus remembers the exact day, he was anxiously waiting for Achilles to come home after a forced hang out with Briseis with the explicit instructions to talk it out and behave , pacing back and forth in Achilles’ room. He heard the door open, and looked up.
There he was.
Achilles had only gotten more beautiful as time went on. His hair was still long and yellow, like spun gold, his eyes were still the perfect shade, but now his limbs were longer. His chest and his arms and his legs held more definition. He was stronger. His voice was deeper. Patroclus wished he was like him.
“So?” He asked. Patroclus knew he sounded all-too-hopeful and a little desperate, but he couldn’t help it.
Achilles let out a long breath, the smallest smile gracing his features.
“I think we’re okay,” he said, “We’re not going to fight as much anymore at least, that’s for sure– oof .”
And the next thing he knew, Patroclus was launching himself across the room at Achilles, body pressed against his and arms wrapped around his middle in a tight hug.
“Thank you,” he said into the crook of Achilles’ neck where his face was buried, drinking in the scent of deodorant and almonds and earth.
Then, Achilles let out a soft huff of laughter and returned the hug, holding Patroclus like he was afraid he was going to let go. Patroclus simply smiled and squeezed him, enjoying the something in his stomach that made him feel soft and warm and gentle and sort of soupy and–
And oh.
Oh.
Maybe Patroclus wanted more than to be like Achilles. Maybe these things were not completely platonic-bestie-friendly-haha.
The crux of his feelings came into light much sooner than he thought.
High School was when Patroclus and Achilles really became close. Close enough to technically classify as farther than friends but not yet willing to toe the line into something more. Patroclus knew he was utterly gone for Achilles. Briseis knew it. Hell, even Peleus probably noticed his heart eyes when Achilles tied his hair back, noticed his dopey smile when Achilles was rambling about track practice, noticed Patroclus following Achilles like a puppy no matter how hard he tried to distance himself.
But Achilles sure as hell hasn’t caught on.
Patroclus was grateful for it. Relationships were complicated. He would never forgive himself if Patroclus lost the friendship of a lifetime just because of some stupid feelings. Achilles didn’t like him back, he knew that much.
But.
But there were so many small moments that Patroclus knew “just friends” didn’t do, that made him all the more delusional about Achilles’ feelings towards him.
Going into High School, Patroclus started receiving more and more nightmares. Nightmares about his dad, about his mom, about Clysonymus. Patroclus would often wake in the middle of the night fitfully, sweat on his forehead and his upper lip and down his back. He would stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, debating with himself, before tiptoeing his way down the hall to Achilles’ room. He would slip under his covers with him, slip into his arms, attempting to quell his shaking limbs and racing heart and overeager mind. Achilles woke more often than not, blearily opening his green eyes, holding his arms aloft as an invitation. Patroclus would bury himself in Achilles, wrapping his arms around his back as he felt a strong pair wrap around his waist, wiggling a leg in the warm space between his own. He buried his face into the dip where Achilles’ neck met his shoulder, silent tears wetting his skin. Achilles cooed and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, rubbing a hand up and down his spine until he fell into an uneasy sleep, made better by the feeling of being in the arms of his favorite person.
The morning after was impossibly better. It was all of the cuddles and warm skin with none of the sobs and the black hole in his chest.
It was Patroclus waking before Achilles and simply gazing at his face. At the brown eyelashes that fanned over his cheeks, at the slope of his nose, at the pink of his lips, at the sharp lines of his jaw and collarbone, at the wiry, out-of-place hairs on his eyebrows, at the glint of silver in his ears if he forgot to take out his piercings the night before.
It was Achilles waking before Patroclus, and the latter opening his eyes to the smell of french toast and scrambled eggs and strawberry lemonade. It was gentle here you go ’s and even gentler thank you ’s. It was sitting in bed much closer than strictly necessary while eating, pressed together from shoulder to hip to thigh to knee. It was soft gazes over meals and when they were done Achilles asking if he wanted to talk about it. Patroclus always answered, No, I’m okay. Because he was. At that moment, at least.
It was the even smaller moments, too, that kept him up at ungodly hours of the night wondering what if.
It was moments like the not-so-accidental brushes of their hands, the pretending to fall asleep on each other’s shoulders during a movie, the wrestling matches where they tumbled around the living room floor, never really trying to hurt each other, the stifled laughter and poorly concealed smiles whenever something funny happened in the library where they were supposed to be quiet, the never wanting to date anyone else, and being too scared to question why.
It was Patroclus keeping a constant hair tie around his wrist because Achilles could focus more when his hair was out of his face, but he never remembered to bring his own. It was surprising Achilles with his favorite smoothie when he trudged through the door after track practice, just because he could. It was memorizing his schedule each year so that he knew when and when not to text Achilles so he wouldn’t get in trouble. It was reading to him when he was too tired to do anything besides lay with his head in Patroclus’ lap and close his eyes. It was buying these little trinkets at the store for Achilles because they reminded him of his smile or his eyes or his freckles. It was stargazing together under an inky black sky, pointing out every constellation his eyes could grasp, Achilles listening to him ramble on and on. It was countless words of encouragement when Achilles was under too much pressure. It was standing beside him no matter what, because wherever Achilles went, Patroclus would follow.
It was getting to annotate and highlight book pages for Achilles because he knew it made a sense of calm wash over him. It was coming home to a bath already drawn and dinner bubbling on the stove after a long day studying at the library. It was beating Achilles in scrabble and uno and war and garbage and sorry and trouble and every board game under the sun and Achilles pretending to pout and mope when really, Patroclus knew, he just wanted attention. It was Achilles giving him back massages and oh-so-warm hugs around the waist when his millions of AP classes were weighing him down. It was Achilles always keeping packets of hot chocolate mix in the pantry because he knew it was Patroclus’ favorite. It was Achilles dragging him by the hand outside when it was raining to splash water at each other and dance together to little tunes hummed under his breath until they were both soaked to the bone, afterwards huddling so, so close together “because they were cold”. It was Achilles standing up to people who reinforced what Patroclus thought about himself throughout his whole life, and proving them wrong, again and again.
Just Friends didn’t do that.
Just Friends weren’t in love with each other.
In College, everything was revealed with bright, shimmering eyes and warm, eager hearts.
Patroclus and Achilles loved and loved and loved each other, but never spoke a word of it into existence. They continuously circled around each other, like animals, like dancers, like the earth and it’s moon. They were each other’s sun and stars and planets and everything else that had such a strong gravitational pull that they were helpless to it.
Patroclus had never been beautiful. On the outside, sure, but on the inside, too. It’s what he’s thought since he was capable of it, but maybe that was okay. He always believed that because he didn’t live up to his own expectations, to his fathers expectations, that he could never really be lovable, so he never even dreamed of telling Achilles how he felt. But now he knew better. Now he knew that it didn’t matter.
Achilles had given Patroclus the courage to feel beautiful, given him the courage to feel worthy of love. The way Achilles looked at him, the way he spoke about him, made him feel like he could conquer the world.
It came easily, as did everything with them. It was a crisp autumn evening, right before the sun was starting to set, and they had ordered Chinese food up to the roof of their apartment building. Achilles had gone down to get it, and Patroclus was taking deep breaths.
He could do this.
The door to the roof opened, and Achilles was walking towards him, takeout in hand, backlit by the purple-orange sun and looking like wildfire.
He was magnificent.
He had hair like gold and eyes like springtime, but there were the smaller things, too. Achilles had exactly 58 freckles total, he remembers counting them during a staring contest they had once, creating constellations out of their multitude. He had eyelashes that almost reached the crease of his eyelid, they were so long. He had these little dimples on his back that only appeared when he turned his spine a certain way. He had never really grown any facial hair, even after puberty, and always complained about it, but Patroclus thought it made him look all the more soft. This and this and this. He had a certain way he crinkled his nose when trying not to laugh or when talking to someone he particularly disliked. He held so much passion when talking about the things he loved. He was so determined in everything he did, it sometimes proved fatal. When he believed in something or someone, he did so wholeheartedly.
Achilles loved. He was good.
How could Patroclus ever be scared of somebody like that?
“Patroclus? You okay? You’re staring.” Achilles told him. He had sat down on their picnic blanket on their roof in their spot. He was taking the food out of a paper bag, distributing it properly, and the sight of him doling out a portion of his lo mein onto Patroclus’ take-out container because he knew he would ask for some later made his heart burst out of chest, wholly and completely.
“Am I?” Patroclus asked, gazing at him with determination in his bones, “I just love you, is all.”
It was like breathing.
Patroclus knew he probably sounded dopey and sappy when he spoke but he didn’t care. He didn’t care. He told him. Patroclus poured his heart into the cracks and divots of all that was Achilles, drenching him in the stolen affections. Patroclus wanted to cry and jump and scream and laugh all at the same time. He told him. He opened his soul to the boy in front of him after all this time. After all the touches and glances and hugs that wanted to go farther. After all the kisses on foreheads before slumber overtook them. After all the dragged thumbs on knuckles when they were huddled so close together they couldn’t help but hold hands. After all the gazing, and pining, and sighing, and the disbelief that someone that miraculous could even exist in a world as torn-up as this one.
“You…”
Patroclus finally looked up to Achilles’ face. He had a million emotions flitting across his feature. Shock, disbelief, hope, uncertainty, and joy. So much joy.
“Oh,” was all he said. Achilles didn’t even need more, not really. The unadulterated fondness clear on his face and in his voice and swimming in his eyes was words enough.
He let out a huff of a laugh, though. “Damn it, I wanted to be the one to say it first.”
Patroclus’ smile could blind the sun.
“Sorry, Pelides, It’s just one more thing I’m better at than you.” His voice was dripping with smugness.
Achilles let out an incredulous “Ha!” and threw himself across the picnic blanket, taking hold of Patroclus’ shoulders and pushing him to the ground underneath him. “Sure you are, Pat,”
Patroclus simply laughed even more, wrapping his arms around the neck of the boy hovering above him, pulling him down.
They were nose to nose. Achilles’ smile was soft, so soft and his eyes were hazy and unfocused from being so close. “Can I-”
“Yes,” he whispered into the centimeter of space between their lips, “Please.”
It was like coming home.
Achilles’ mouth tasted like lemonade and orange chicken, his lips were warm and gentle. It was exhilarating and oh-so-familiar at the same time. He pressed further into him, deeper into the kiss, wanting to crawl into his heart and tie himself to the walls of each chamber. He could feel Achilles licking into his mouth and pulled him down the rest of the way so they were chest to chest.
Patroclus thought about how long he had waited, wanted for this exact moment. Thought about how many times he rubbed a thumb up and down his arm or his leg or his cheek, or other more... intimate parts of his body, wishing it was not his hands but someone else’s. Thought about how many times he had spotted a shooting star in the distance while Patroclus and Achilles were stargazing and looking over at the boy next to him wistfully, already knowing in his mind’s eye what he wanted more than anything. Now he had it.
Before he knew it, they parted, smiling against each other’s lips, the kiss more teeth than anything, but still perfect, still them.
“What are you smiling about over there?” Patroclus whispered, teasing.
“I’m happy, you idiot,” he laughed again and oh, if he could bottle up the sound and get drunk on it every night, he would. “By the way, I love you too. I didn’t get the chance to say it back yet.”
And oh.
Even though he knew it already, Patroclus’ breath still hitched in his throat at the admission. His heart still skipped a beat in his chest.
Achilles must have noticed his flusteredness, because he fucking giggled , and smothered Patroclus in kisses once more. On his forehead, his nose, his chin, his ears, his cheeks, his neck. He kissed up and down his collarbone, not straying too far under the neckline of his shirt, it was still their first kiss, sort of, but Patroclus didn’t care.
He was happy.
They were happy.