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Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, Patroclus's body temperature would suddenly drop, and somehow, Achilles would always noticed; it was the price they paid for being beside each other for so long. Sometimes, you know them just a tad bit more than you know yourself.
The hands that had shyly touched Achilles's cheeks just a few hours earlier were now as cold as silver. Patroclus's smaller, thinner, and flatter feet curled up from the cold, gripping the edge of the rug where they lay. His forehead furrowed in discomfort, and above his deep blue-gray eyes, his brows knit in concern. Achilles, being Achilles, would gently kissed the forehead that held both those thin eyebrows and the wondrous eyes beneath. His one hand pulled up the blanket, covering Patroclus's bare thighs, while the other hand pulled him closer into his chest.
"It is okay," Achilles then would whisper when Patroclus woke from being disturbed. "I am here. I will warm you up. Go back to sleep."
Achilles would clasp Patroclus's icy hands and blow on them as if kindling a fire. He would kiss the tip of Patroclus's trembling nose and wrap an arm around his back, damped with cold sweat.
On those not-so-rare nights when Patroclus's body was cold, Achilles would hug and comfort him all night long.
Achilles was a warm-blooded person. Though sometimes his body temperature became uncomfortable in the hot summers of Phthia, but Pelion was different. Pelion was the summer beneath the green canopy of the old forest, it was the refreshing coolness of babbling brooks. Achilles loved the summer here, as he loved the person who bent to gather herbs under the poppy trees, and he loved the one who carefree immersed himself in the crystal-clear streams, Patroclus.
Seeing Patroclus's furrowed eyebrows relax, and his long black eyelashes flutter with relief as Achilles's warmth spread through his body, Achilles smiled. This, this was everything he wanted to protect.
There were days when, because of picking herbs, Patroclus's fingertips would get pricked by thorns and bleed, cause him to wince every time he went to the stream and bathed with Achilles, or when he ground medicine, and the friction stung. Each time, Achilles would hold Patroclus's hand tightly and kiss each fingertip tenderly, lamenting it as if they weren’t just mere scratches.
Patroclus was the person who, even for a few small scratches, or a bit of cold or a frown, would make Achilles’s heart restless.
So, it was them, still, a few years later, in the tent they shared for nine long years of war. Achilles would wake from a long, endless dream, and hurriedly touching the body next to him, for his Patroclus, whose body would turn as cold as silver at night.
But this time, those gentle fingertips could no longer grasp his rough ones. Those rustic feet no longer curled up from the cold. Those eyebrows could no longer furrow because those deep blue-gray eyes like skylights could never open again.
Of course, in the silent night, Achilles could no longer remember that Patroclus was dead.
"You are so cold, Patroclus," Achilles whispered, his voice hoarse for reasons he could no longer remember. Patroclus was so cold, cold as the jar of olives back in Pthia, cold, like Achilles have not held him in a while. "Let me warm you up."
And when Patroclus didn't reply, or coquettishly nuzzle into Achilles's neck, or sleepily say, "I do not need it, go back to sleep," the void shattered once more. Achilles cried again, and held Patroclus all night long.