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“When the war is over, what do you wish to do?”
It had been a cruel question, allowed to fly from his lips with little care of how it would land.
Achilles had been a young thing, a glorified man-child he knows now, and he believed himself above silly things such as agonizing over his words, his tone. Honesty was easy and he appreciated it above most things and so, he thought, if one seeked an answer, why not simply ask?
Patroclus, sitting nearby, froze as he tended to their fire, a charcoaled stick held loosely in his hand. He tilted his head lightly to the side. A curl tumbled out of place as he did.
“When the war-”
“When it is over, if you could do anything,” the prince repeated, taking the time to sit beside him, to take the stick and work the flames himself, “what would it be?”
Had he been honest with himself, more mature, he would have admitted to being worried.
Worried for his beloved, who had always been by his side. Who believed he had no one else beside Achilles himself, ridiculous a notion as it was. Either way, when he died, Achilles thought, when he finally killed Hector and in a glorious battle he was felled, what would be of his Patroclus, with his soft eyes and steady hands and careful steps?
The prince watched him, out of the corner of his eye, as he thought. There was that little divot between his brows Achilles loved to kiss away, and that slight thinning to his lips, lopsided, which eventually gave way into a click of the tongue. And then Patroclus leaned back and nodded sagely.
“I have been thinking about Chiron lately. I’ll climb all they way up his mountain and ask for his council.”
“Council?” The flames were forgotten then, left to fend for themselves against the breeze. “What would you ask of him?”
“For starters,” suddenly, his hand shot out, and ruffled Achilles’ hair, “how does one teach a prince to untangle his own hair!” Then Patroclus went to stand, to flee, “and,” his voice went higher at the end as he failed to escape, “and, how does one convince said prince-” like a cat, Achilles was on him, pushing against the soft ground- “no no no-” laughter stole his breath, and he shook with mirth, dark curls tangling as they wrestled- “Achilles!”
For a moment, Patroclus was all joy and easy smiles and he was *stunning*. He was a sea breeze, tumbling lightly and tussling hair, and he was the silver scales of leaping fish gleaming in the sun, the rattle of honeybee wings as they zipped from flower to flower. Achilles watched him and loved him and awed and rejoiced at his most beloved’s happiness, at his warm skin and the sweetness of his gaze, the richness of his eyes.
They were filled with love, and it spilled from their hearts and into the night.
......
Patroclus had found his place at the healing tents next time the question came up.
Achilles rested under their linens and furs as he watched him. How he kneeled over the basin and washed, water running pink with stranger’s blood from his hands, and all the way up to his elbows. A band of white fabric held his hair back for the moment, exposed his forehead, the bump of his nose, the squared bone of his jaw.
The son of kings, he was. Kindest of them all, for certain.
Most beautiful too, Achilles knew.
“I’d like to go back to Phthia, and tell your father some stories, for a change.”
“Which stories would you tell him?”
“Only the good ones.” He stood, finally deemed clean enough, and went to remove his chiton, unpinning it and letting it fall and pool around this ankles. “I will sit him in that one room-” one foot stepped over the fabric, while his other leg lifted it, fingers barely reaching and grabbing- “with the arches, remember?” He folded hastily, then tossed it to the side with the rest of their unwashed clothes and, finally, found his way to bed.
Achilles smiled the whole time, lifted his arm and welcomed him, pulled him under the covers and pressed him close.
“Yes, I will sit him in that room, and the first story I will tell him will be,” a thoughtful turn to his brow, a wicked glint to his eyes, “that time we saw dolphins and you ignored me.”
“Patroclus.” He hoped his face looked as flat and unimpressed as he intended, despite the fond annoyance knocking from the inside of his chest.
“Or when you launched a slimy olive pit into my ear.”
“Those are not a good stories.”
He was ignored.
“And, once again, he will agree you’ve terrorized me, all this time.”
He found himself pouting. Unbecoming of a prince, even more so for the greatest of the Greek, but such things held very little weight in mind at the moment. Not in the warmth of their bed, legs tangled and chest to chest.
“I jest, I jest.” Careful hands found his jaw, his cheek, and he was held in place and deep brown eyes pinned him into silence. “I will tell him of all the treasures you brought. And of how you rode your chariot into battle. And how men knew to run from you, lest they find a swift end. I will tell him all about the army that chanted your name.” Then he was kissed over his cheekbones, firmly. “And I will tell him you always came back to me.”
Until you didn’t, went unsaid.
They smiled into the low light. Rested their heads so closely their breaths mingled, humid and warm. Achilles kissed dark curls, and rejoiced when beloved hands traced the muscle of his arm, a vein that popped from his elbow to his wrist, the knobby bone that led to his pinky, and then back up.
They were filled with love, and it kept them warm through the night.
......
Patroclus had become a wistful creature, often looking wearily towards the shore, where their boats were docked and lined neatly. Lost in thought as he worked, no longer humming but always steady in his rhythm, well practiced in his craft. Achilles would watch him as he spent hours with the mortar and pestle, crafting droughts and tinctures, the smell of burning herbs bitter on his tongue, a ripple of dread pooling at the back of his throat, threatening to spill out into promises unable to be fulfilled.
Then, dark eyes would find him, followed by a tired smile, a sigh. Their bodies would slot together as they laid, a single being finally puzzled together once again, and all would be well.
Perhaps it was a single remaining thread of fear that pushed Achilles to ask again. He could not tell. He only knew he wanted to hear him, wanted to touch him, wanted all of him. He always did.
“I would like to-” Achilles kissed him, and pushed him back- “to lay down in a field and just-” Patroclus allowed it and huffed a low, breathless laugh, and arched beautifully at his touch, at the wondering hands kneading at this sides- “just breathe.”
The prince watched him curiously, a quirk to his lip. “We could do that here. There is a field not too far from-”
“No.” Dark curls, already a mess, were mussed against their once-white, now-cream sheets as he shook his head. “No, it is not the same.”
Achilles did not understand. Not truly. A sky was a sky, and the stars above Troy were not so different from those back home. Either way, he smiled and stooped low, their bare skin sticking were they met. He supposed Patroclus knew better, as he often did, and so, he promised: “you shall have the best field in Greece, then. And a sky full of stars, just for you.”
Achilles dreamed of godhood. Of becoming, truly, a being of power. Of wielding it for his beloved, of shaping the stars to spell out their love, and to command the fields to cradle him. Of tree branches stooping low and offering their fruits, of rivers slowing their running, at Achilles’ word, for his love to cross.
At the moment, though, with said love rocking beneath him, their shared glory was more than enough. It was everything, warm and golden like the sun.
They were filled with love, and it painfully pushed against their ribs.
......
It was years before he asked again. After everything had gone wrong.
The plague. The taking of Briseis. His lover’s tears.
He had feared, for a moment, Patroclus would not forgive him. He had feared a look of disdain, a spark or hate, cold disappointment. All he found when they met again, in the safety of their tent, had been that quiet, tired sort of affection.
And dinner. There had been dinner laid for him, as always.
It stung, still, but it was easy enough to go through the motions. To dine and play his lyre, to wash before bed, to lay bare upon their sheets. To enjoy the gentle weight of a beloved body, made of all things steady and solid and warm, to plant a kiss over eyelids and to trace the well-known lines of muscle and bone, dotted skin.
He knew, as soon as the words left his mouth, thought he did not accept it at the time, did not acknowledge it: he had pushed too far.
That patience, that calm, quiet graciousness, had always been a finite thing. Patroclus was a mortal man, after all, and his heart had always been a soft, fleshy thing, as delicate as it was guarded, kept tender despite the pain it had endured, warm beneath the armor of resilience built methodically around it.
He laid there and shook in Achilles’ hold, a sail about to tear in a violent storm, the prince now a sailor to be stranded and starved in the aftermath, lost forever, a speck of gold in the endless blue.
Against his shoulder, dreadful words were smudged, forever imprinted onto the bare skin there. Echoing, echoing, echoing, inside his head, swooping down and down, pulling his heart towards the earth as it went, into Hades, yes, into Hades. He feared, for the first time in a long time, he feared and dreaded. For a moment he almost gave in and thought of damning it all, of grabbing his beloved and hauling him towards their ship and sailing it all by himself towards home.
But his pride. His fucking pride and his glory, it grabbed at his throat and pressed and clawed at his windpipe, even as Patroclus said:
“Do you truly believe there will be anything left of me once you are gone?”
They were filled with love, and sometimes it was a horror.
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Right as always, he thinks now, sitting on the floor before the bed they’ve shared for a decade. Their little, warm oasis, surrounded by dread, by the clanking sound of men hurrying in their armors, the suffocating purgatory that was the war that would be their undoing. A cold, stiff hand rests upon his own. The scent of decay, poorly masked by lavender-infused linens, fills his nostrils.
Achilles thinks of Phthia. Of Pelion. Of beaches so white they blind, cerulean water that is soothing and gentle. He thinks of a deep forest, of the smoke of a bonfire, the *shush-shush-shush* of a pestle going round and round and crumbling dry leaves into dust, of plucking at his lyre. Of a smile hidden behind fingers and stories whispered into the night. He thinks of the boy he loved, sitting so quietly beside him, always. Always.
Too serious. Too worried. Too smart.
He thinks of the man who has loved him through it all. Through his most monstrous raids, most furious of surges. Of his fingers, all bandaged tightly, the furrow to his brow as he stitched flesh back into being. Of those hands of his, made to pick up pieces so carelessly thrown around and somehow puzzle it all into place once more.
He think of him, noble and kind and smart. Of quiet, moonlit moments, fragrant with herb.
He thinks of him stubborn. Thinks of him mad.
He thinks of him. His Patroclus, weeping for the Greek. For their lives. How his face had crumpled in despair.
If you love me, he had said, fingers stained red, hair a mess, swollen eyes. Tired. So, so tired.
And yet.
Achilles, and his darling reputation.
He thinks of his wishes. Phthia. Pelion. To breathe.
Just. Breathe.
Wishes that were actually dreams, which were actually lies, from the very start.
He thinks of it all. And leans forward, forehead to long-abandoned knuckles.
Now warm, only because he refuses to let him go.
Still rotting.
He weeps, and wishes for death.
He is filled with love, and he is breaking under the weight.