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***
“Was I not gone mere moments?” Patroclus asked dryly as he entered the kitchen, setting down the basket of freshly picked herbs from his Elysian garden.
“You were, but this appeared in a time even shorter, if you can believe it,” said Achilles from the bedroom, smiling sheepishly.
Patroclus entered, taking in their new addition that now rested against the wall. “And why did dear Zagreus think we needed a mirror, pray tell?” he asked, running his hands along the border, grimacing.
“I made a passing comment that we don’t have one when he visited me at my post during one of my shifts. He looked quite scandalized and made a b-line to the House Contractor to commission one before I could stop him.”
The mirror was expansive, stretching from the floor to the lengthy ceiling. The border was made of shining gold, molded to look like chthonic symbols. It was encrusted with jewels, glimmering against the light of Ixion and the hearth in their kitchen. It smelled of fresh polish.
“Gods, this is gaudy.”
“It is,” Achilles agreed.
“And huge.”
“Massive.”
“It nearly scrapes the ceiling,” Patroclus observed.
“If we don’t like it, I’m sure the lad wouldn’t be offended if we ask him to take it back—”
“No, no, I couldn’t do that to the boy, he’s very hard to say no to. I…we can make do with our new addition, somehow,” Patroclus said, eyes glued to the mirror, unreadable expression on his face.
“Perhaps. Well, at least this way, we can have an even another view of how beautiful you are.”
Patroclus cracked a smile that did not reach his eyes, “right.”
Achilles frowned, “something the matter?”
Patroclus did not hear him, he remained staring at the mirror, unease lining his face.
“Pat?” Achilles said slightly louder, reaching to take his hand. Patroclus blinked then, quickly sliding his hand out of Achilles’s.
“Hm?” he muttered.
“You seemed very lost in thought there. Are you alright?”
Patroclus nodded, “I…yes, Achilles, I’m alright. I’ve just…I’ve been rather tired as of late.”
Achilles regarded Patroclus for a moment. He knew better than anyone that there was something else going on with him, something deeper and more personal, something he knew he needed to talk about. But Achilles also knew better than anyone that Patroclus would get to it, in his own time, when he was ready.
“I see.”
It was then that Achilles felt the pull of the House again in the back of his skull. He sighed frustratedly, there was something — someone— more important to address.
“Blast—I have to…I have to go. I’m sorry, I hate leaving you. I wish I could just ignore it and stay longer…”
So I can help you.
Patroclus shook his head, “now, now, we wouldn’t want to do anything to possibly upset your lord and master. Besides, those palatial rugs and statues can’t guard themselves.”
“They sort of can…” Achilles muttered. “In any case, I’ll see you soon. Shall I give the lad your regards?”
“Of course, tell him I miss his visits, I haven’t seen him in a while,” Patroclus never thought he would miss anyone coming into their glade, but stranger things have happened, he supposed.
“I will. I love you, Pat,” Achilles said, opening his arms to offer an embrace.
Patroclus did not return it. In fact, he took a slight step back.
“I love you, too. Take care of yourself.”
Achilles prayed his expression did not look hurt as the transmission circle took him away.
Alone, Patroclus sighed and glanced back at their gift.
He hated mirrors.
Ever since he was a child, he always saw mirrors as a thing that mocked him. A thing to throw his failures and inadequacies back in his face. Sometimes, when he would watch his mother try to tie up her hair only to lose her grip and let the pins strewn about the floor, he would catch her dull, listless eyes in the reflection, a cruel reminder that his mother wasn’t…right. When Achilles and the other boys would play in Phthia and he stayed in the room, the only thing keeping Patroclus company was the crystal-clear image of his solitude, the high walls and ceilings delivered to him in double vision, loneliness twofold.
The worst was when he was in Troy. A small, bronze shield is fashioned into a mirror, heavily polished to bring shine and see within it. The roundness of the shield warped and twisted whoever or whatever looked at it. Perhaps for the best, as this blasted thing was a taunt, a silent, ever-present witness to everyone’s condition worsening. Over the years, when Patroclus would enter their tent, he would spare it a glance, only to see him getting thinner, paler, more exhausted as the war dragged on. He would see Achilles’s heavy limbs and heavier head slump down after a day of fighting or how set and stiff his jaw had become when he refused to. And when Patroclus died and his soul was not yet sent to the Underworld, he was forced to see his corpse twice. The gray, rotting…him laying on their bed while Achilles wept and held him every night, only to turn and see it there also, only more twisted and gnarled in the warbled reflection.
Yes. Patroclus hated mirrors.
The humor of the Fates is as cruel as ever.
“Bah,” he scoffed, turning on his heels to the kitchen and tending to his herbs, grabbing a handful and slamming them on the cutting board with more force than was necessary. Don’t take it out on the plants, Patroclus, he thought, taking a calming breath before rolling them up to be sliced. There was something therapeutic about this work, ripping and chopping and grinding the plants and making them ready for their intended purpose. Sometimes they were for tea, other times they were for cooking. He took to making medicines as well; though Zagreus is a god and had no need of mortal treatment, Patroclus felt some of his usefulness coming back, some of the skills he honed when he was alive reawakening like they never left and being reflected when he—
Reflected.
His eyes drifted toward the mirror again, proud and haughty. Its intricate design stood in stark contrast to the rest of their home; where most of the furniture was simple yet practical, rustic and cozy and welcoming, the mirror was as if every imperial palace Patroclus stood in threw up and the mirror was its product. How fitting, then, that the object of his ire would be so pronounced.
He sighed in frustration, stomping back to the mirror in spite of himself. Patroclus took in his reflection; he no longer looked like the epitome of sadness. His dark circles were gone, the color returned to his face, and his hair was clean and healthy with his regular washes and maintenance. He brought his hand to his cheek, running it over his coarse beard. He looked fine.
But he felt so off, so out of his own body, so broken, so…so…
Ugly.
Patroclus knew he should not feel like this, he should not let thoughts like this take him over and warp and skew his image, of letting those harmful feelings take him into despair. But there were times where the roots of his past spring up and wrap around his heart no matter how hard he tried to prune them. Patroclus wondered how much of that doubt, how much of that darkness was visible, and if Achilles could see it, and if he—
And if he desired him less for it.
No, do not go there, he scolded. He would not allow himself to drown into self-loathing, not again, not now. He knew he needed to address this with Achilles, and soon. The talk would be uncomfortable, painful even; but it needed to be done.
Until then, he took it out on the plants.
***
With the wick of the tenth candle finally tapering off, Achilles was free of his shift. Groaning, he stretched his neck and back, hearing a light ‘pop’ as the tendons and muscles released after hours of stillness. He officially left his post, leaving the West Hall and giving nods to Hypnos and Orpheus before making his way down the hall past Lady Nyx, to the special tile he uses to transmit to his chambers in the House.
His shift was as normal as ever, with the normal beats that happen nearly every time he is at his post. Orpheus was playing a tune, shades lined up and appealed to Lord Hades, and Zagreus emerged from the Styx, laughing dryly and muttering something about ‘vermin.’ Achilles should have been calm, but his mind and soul were anything but.
He entered his chambers. It was humbly decorated with a desk and quill and ink, a bed, a trunk, and a rack for his spear and cloak. He hung them up and slumped on his bed, sighing as he thought of Patroclus. He’s been more…distant lately. He shared less about his days or nights, there were less touches between them, and then there was his eyes.
They were so, so sad.
And the way he looked and spoke about the mirror, like it was an old adversary, like it was something he never wanted to encounter again. Was he upset at Achilles’s comment about him being beautiful? The briefest flash of disbelief shot across his face, like he should be speaking about someone else. Was the look because Patroclus was disgusted with him? In their times away, had he come to realize the true extent of the atrocities Achilles committed when he was alive? Could he not stomach being near him, with him anymore and he didn’t have the heart to tell him yet?
Achilles felt a pang in his chest if this turned out to be the case, but he could not blame Patroclus much, he would be repulsed too if he was in Patroclus’s shoes. They discussed their actions during the war a number of times, but if Patroclus could not look past them deep down, Achilles figured that was fair; if that was the issue, he wished Patroclus would tell him sooner rather than later so that he may cease torturing himself.
And so Achilles can grieve their relationship sooner.
Again.
When it was next time to him to visit, Achilles took the long way. He entreated Charon to silently sail him up the river, needing the extra time to gather his nerves and words so they were coherent when he spoke. His spear trembled in his shaky grip and his nonfunctioning heart beat a mile a minute, breathing on the cusp of being erratic. He tried to take steady breaths, to very little avail. He tried to take in the beautiful teals and greens and gentle breeze of the realm, but it was all a blur where he could absorb very little.
“Hhhhhhhrrrrrraaaaaagggghhhhhh….” Charon groaned, gesturing a bony hand to the shore.
Achilles snapped out of his thoughts and registered where he was. This was it.
“Thank you, Lord Charon.”
As he made his way up the stone path to his home, Achilles found this feeling deeply familiar. This is nearly the same feeling as when he first reunited with Patroclus. Here he was again, walking to him, a nervous wreck, into the unknown.
Patroclus heard Achilles before he saw him, he could tell his footsteps were careful and purposeful as he made his way up the path that led to their home. Patroclus inhaled. This was it. And it would begin with a greeting.
“Hello, love,” he said as calmly as he could, meeting Achilles halfway.
“Pat—! Patroclus, hello. How are you faring?”
“I’m faring alright, as well as anyone can in paradise, I suppose. And you?”
“I…I’ve been better, to be frank. I actually…there is something I need to discuss with you, something important.”
Getting right to the heartbreak, I see, thought Patroclus. Though it would hurt, he admired Achilles’s desire to get the hard thing done. He just hoped it didn’t show on his face.
“Go on.”
“I wanted…I wanted to say I’m sorry, for whatever it is I did.”
Wait.
“’I’m sorry?’”
“Yes. I…I’m not sure what I did or said to cause this, but I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Patroclus felt some of the tension seep out of his muscles, and he was finally able to exhale. But that relief was soon replaced confusion.
“You…you thought you hurt me?”
Achilles nodded, “I do, or I suppose I did, if I’m gathering your meaning. You just…you seemed so distant recently, with the way you would avoid looking at or touching me. I thought I did something horrible, and you were refraining contact because of it.”
Patroclus paused, then an awkward, small laugh bubbled to the surface, “gods, I really made a mess of things, didn’t I?”
“You did no such thing.”
“No, Achilles, I did. I…I have quite a bit of explaining to do. But, before I begin, will you accompany me somewhere?”
***
The open-air bath and the area surrounding it was just as Patroclus saw it last with its warm, humid air and the fresh smell of grass and plants and flowers. The bath was full, with steam wafting off the surface and onto the ground. It was as quiet as ever.
“What is this place?” Achilles asked when they made it through the branches of willow and ivy.
“This is a secret bathing spot I happened upon one day or evening on my walk. This is where I washed my hair and body for the first time in eons,” said Patroclus, opening the small trunk he brought with him, depositing vials of oil and clean cloths on the marble edge.
“Oh, Pat. Is this…this seems like an important space for you; I wouldn’t want to sully…if you would rather keep this place private—”
“It is because it’s so important to me that I want to share it with you, Achilles. Also, because I found that it was a helpful resource to me in the past, I could use its support now, with what I need to share with you,” he leant on the side and skimmed his hand along the surface of the water, the steam wisping at the agitation. “Will you join me?”
Achilles nodded, “I…yes…if you’ll have me.”
Patroclus smiled softly, earnestly, for the first time in a while. “I would.”
They let the playful banter normally shared during undressing rest. They disrobed slowly, silently, giving each other the time they needed; the soft babble of water, the rustling of fabric, and the metallic clang of armor being removed did the talking. Patroclus allowed himself a glance at Achilles as he undressed; it was hard for him not to look at his strong thighs when they were exposed to him. He was drawn to them like the tides to the moon. Patroclus could feel Achilles’s eyes on him when he removed his chiton; he needed to take a moment to remember that, at least right now, Achilles looked at him with something that was not disgust.
Patroclus stepped in first, sighing when the hot water lapped at his waist. He uncapped the vial of lavender and mint oils he brought; he hoped that these uses would be good enough apologies for the way he treated his poor plants the other day or night. He poured them gingerly into the water, their scents quickly being carried by the steam.
“Here,” he said, holding out his hand to Achilles. Patroclus tried to not let show how electric taking Achilles’s hand made him feel. It was endearing to see his shoulders relax and sigh when he first entered the bath.
“I would like to wash you first if that is alright. I will say what I must but…I need to gather my words.”
I need to work up the courage, more like.
“Yes, it’s alright. Whatever I can do to help, tell me.”
Patroclus chuckled, small and rough, “well, you will help me most by turning around so that I may do your back.”
Achilles huffed an acquiescing laugh, turning, “yes, sir.”
He moved on instinct.
Patroclus quickly, efficiently, took Achilles’s hair out of its braid and brushed it over one shoulder. He noted that Achilles’s hair had grown softer, shinier since he last saw it. He started by caressing the wet cloth over his shoulders and back, letting the water run lazily over his skin. Patroclus refamiliarized himself with his lover’s body, having kept his distance from it for too long, each spot more beautiful than the last. He ran the cloth over Achilles’s long faded, pale scar that sat near his spine, the light sunspots that dotted his shoulders from their time in the baking Trojan heat, and everywhere in between.
“Turn around,” his whispered, breath hitching when he soon the only thing Patroclus could see was a firm, muscled chest and waist and sun kissed, golden skin from head to toe. He spared a glance at Achilles’s face; his eyes were closed, face neutral, as if he were sleeping. It was utterly charming. You denied yourself this for nothing, chided Patroclus. Speaking of which…
“You were right, Achilles. I haven’t been myself as of late,” he began, not taking his eyes off Achilles’s chest. Achilles stayed silent, giving him the space to continue.
“I have been distant, but not because of something you did, far from it. I’m afraid it is manifested from me, and me alone. I’ve been feeling…not right, not whole within me. It began with me thinking of my time spent sitting in the glade, which quickly turned into considering the time I spent in that state, low and sad and empty. That thought changed to how I must have looked when you first saw me; I was…struck by how different I must have looked to you…”
“Oh…” Achilles whispered, choked.
Patroclus smiled softly, shakily. He still hadn’t looked at him. “I know that now—I…I know that I’m wrong, thank goodness. But I spent too much time thinking the worst. I started to feel like I was some…grotesque monster, a being that was the manifestation of all my grief, all my pain. I felt…unrecognizable. Hideous,” he sniffled.
“Pat…”
“It became…it’s become so bad, that I’ve started to think that…that that is how you see me too. That I’m no longer a man to you and instead this…this creature so bloated and tainted that you can’t bear to look at me. That’s why I…why…”
“…why you backed away from my touch,” Achilles finished.
Patroclus nodded. “So you can imagine when that mirror arrived, it brought everything to the forefront even more; because now I could actually face myself…whether I wished to, or not. So now you know.”
A pause hung in the air, and another dark thought ran through him for a moment. Perhaps, he thought, Achilles is disgusted by him now, after hearing this? He might not have been before, but hearing his turmoil will surely scare him off and he will still be left alone and—
Patroclus felt Achilles gently take his chin in his fingers. For the first time in ages, he looked at him. Really looked at him. Deep brown met sea-foam green, whose eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
“Patroclus, I am so, so sorry,” he murmured, pained.
That genuine hurt in his voice told him everything he needed to know, touched Patroclus at his core.
Achilles wasn’t going anywhere.
“You have nothing to apologize for…” Patroclus muttered, swallowing thickly.
“Oh, but I do. I left you to suffer in those horrid thoughts by yourself. Instead of helping, I did nothing, and took your dilemma personally, only thinking it had to do with me. I could have…should have said something sooner. Learning what you went through, however, I must ask. How long, exactly, have you been feeling this way?”
Patroclus inhaled, a tear falling, “it’s…it’s foolish.”
“It’s not,” Achilles replied without hesitation, moving from Patroclus’s chin to cup his cheek and swiping the tear away.
“…if I had to put an estimation on this feeling…perhaps four weeks.”
Achilles’s brow furrowed, his own tears falling freely, “Oh, Pat…”
“But, knowing that my worst fears won’t be realized, gives me the strength to begin to move on from this, and rejoin reality. I…thank you, for being here. And for hearing me out.”
“Of course, but…I feel like there are things unfinished on my part. I still haven’t helped you fully.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” he began, taking the cloth out of Patroclus’s loose grip. “How long has it been since I last showed you how beautiful I find you?” he murmured.
“You called me beautiful the other day…”
“Perhaps. But that was just me telling you. When did I last show you? Go through each and every thing about you that I love? We used to do this in our tent sometimes, at night, when everyone else was asleep. I would whisper praises into your skin and leave no stone unturned. It would take hours, and those hours were some of the few good memories from that damnable time. We are way, way overdue.”
“You don’t have to…could prove burdensome” he said, despite the shiver that ran through him at the mere prospect.
“If you don’t wish me to, I will not. But know that I want to, and it would be the farthest thing from burdensome to me.”
Looking back at the weeks he spent hating himself, thinking the worst, being in this position was night and day to his darkest fears. He knew that, if he wanted to move on from this moment in the afterlife, he needed to accept this Achilles’s love. Patroclus took in everything around him, the hot water, the steamy air, the sweet smells that hit his nostrils, his Achilles in front of him, eyes and heart open, longing to care for him. Touch him. Be with him. Love him. And, after four weeks, he thirsted for the reminder like mortals thirst for water.
“Please…” Patroclus whispered, eyes fluttering closed.
Achilles smiled softly, moving his hand down from Patroclus’s cheek to the nape of his neck.
“It would be my honor.”
Achilles began with Patroclus’s front, running the cloth over his shoulders, chest, obliques, and taut stomach. He moved slowly, carefully, taking his sweet time to not rush and give every bit he saw the attention it deserved. His ministrations paused for but a moment, just briefly, when the cloth hovered over Patroclus’s scar. When he continued, Achilles brushed over that spot like he was touching something fragile, like if there was too much pressure, he would break.
Patroclus wanted to cry; this was the first time Achilles looked at that scar with something other than raw regret and remorse.
“There are a million places I could start, but I think I will begin with the thing that covers you the most: your skin. You have the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen; dark like the healthiest, richest earth, the kind from which anything could grow. Such a warm, comforting color, I feel healed simply by looking at you. My favorite part is when you would be in sunlight; you appear golden, a warmth radiating within would come to the surface, making you look like the shining presence I know you to be, just by existing.”
Patroclus’s throat squeaked a noise at the praise; it felt foreign in his ears. He knew this was his self-doubt talking, the lingering afterpains of the way he’d felt for a time. It would be awkward— uncomfortable even—to accept these compliments, but a wiser part of him knew to trust the mouth from which they spoke, flowing so easily like a river. And the way Achilles looked at him, taking in his body with such reverence in his eyes, he knew he spoke the truth. If he wishes to silence those voices, he needs to immerse himself in it.
“Keep going,” he croaked.
“Gladly. Hmmm…it’s been too long since I told you how much I love your arms,” Achilles said softly. At some point, he did away with the cloth, letting it float to the waters below. Now, it was just his warm, big hand, which made Patroclus heave a shaky sigh.
“Your arms are so strong, Pat. Among the many things I love about our reunions is that I get the opportunity to be held in your arms. Never do I feel safer than when I’m in your embrace, whether it’s for a brief hug or when you hold me when we sleep. When I’m there, I know everything will be okay; when I’m there, it feels like coming home.”
Achilles lifted Patroclus’s forearm, holding it tenderly. He ran his hand over a prominent vein, one that went down his forearm to his hand. “This might be my favorite part of it,” he murmured. “No other spot better encapsulates the duality of you; the power and strength, but also the gentleness with which you handle things you love. I’ve seen it time and time again, the care with which you tend to Zagreus’s wounds, the way you treat your plants…”
“…the way I love you,” Patroclus whispered.
Achilles looked up from Patroclus’s arm, smiling softly, lovingly, “yes. The way you love me, and the way I love you.”
Patroclus whimpered, “you love me,” he said, like he needed to give himself the reminder.
“I do, and always will. Tell me, shall I continue?”
He shook his head, “I…I think I’d like for you to stop for now, and just…and…and hold me. Hold me, please. I…I want…I need…”
“Come here, love,” Achilles murmured, guiding Patroclus with his forearm.
The distance they had to close was not much, but Patroclus felt like he was returning from a long and arduous journey. They were flush against each other, fitting like puzzle pieces; Achilles’s hand found a home in Patroclus’s hair as he cradled his head, the other resting on the small of his back. His grip was secure, but not constricting. Patroclus’s hands went around Achilles’s neck, burying his face there.
Patroclus felt so vulnerable, so exposed like this, naked and wet and having revealed a deep issue he was dealing with alone. But Achilles accepted it all, helped him through it, and now held him, bringing him back from the brink. This was the safest he’d felt in a very long time. So safe that he melted in the embrace, with tears following soon after.
“Achilles…” he wept.
“I’m here, I’ve got you,” he murmured, running circles in his back, lips pressed to his temple.
His shoulders shook, “I can’t…I can’t believe I thought you…th-that you would…that you would stop—Oh, oh gods I’m so sorry—”
“Shh, it’s alright. I know how it feels, to think that you’re unworthy of love and care, unworthy of feeling good about yourself. Your darkest thoughts, darkest memories swallowing you whole, blotting out any good you’d like to feel. Do I have it correctly?”
“Yes…” Patroclus sobbed.
“I thought so. It is in those moments we turn to those we love and ask for the beacon to bring us back, which can be harder than we think. But know that I will always be your beacon, I will be the thing that brings you back when things get too dark. You’ve been that for me more times than I can count, allow me to be that for you.”
Patroclus nodded against his chest, “I will…I…know now to…that I can…thank you. I love you,” he sniffled.
“I love you too, Patroclus.”
Patroclus unburied his face from Achilles’s shoulder and faced him, red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks and all. He could feel the cracks in his heart beginning to reform, the haze of self-doubt leaving the corners of his eyes. “I must look a sight,” he sniffled, cracking a smile.
Achilles took Patroclus’s face in his hands, thumbing his cheeks.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured with a kiss to his forehead.
With enough time and enough love, Patroclus would grow to agree with him.