Chapter Text
It was barely dawn, the amber sky lighting the crevices of the room in gold. The sun mural on his bedroom walls was glowing in the light, and the sleeping figure below looked godly.
Achilles turned onto his back, staring at the wooden slats drifting across the ceiling. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, but he could not overcome sleep, which was terrible considering he had barely slept at all last night. But given the chance to reconsider, Achilles would not retaliate against his late bedtime. Yesterday was eventful at the least.
Following much grumbling, he had convinced Patroclus to join him on an excursion to the kitchen. In reality, he was hungry, but too polite to steal food from the kitchen. It would not be stealing, though, if two did the crime, and so he had Patroclus accompany him. After being caught by a guard, then lying to a maid about their whereabouts, and surviving the vicious glares Patroclus shot after the matter, Achilles hoped to spend the rest of the night in conversation. However, Patroclus did not enjoy the bounty of the chore with him, saying something about an aching head before retiring to bed early.
That left Achilles eating his labored figs alone and then tossing wool juggling balls at the walls until his eyes felt heavy. It was truly unfortunate, thus, that Achilles had woken early this morning, earlier than usual, and for no apparent reason as far as he could pinpoint.
It was more unfortunate that Patroclus was still asleep, despite having slept much earlier yesterday. Who else would enjoy these sleepless moments with him but his best friend?
Honestly, he did not need Patroclus currently, but as the days progressed, Achilles could feel himself addicted to his company. The quiet demeanor, the shy glances, and the wistful comments, how had he lived so many years without it? He could not breathe without them, but living beside it made him breathless in its own accord.
A taunt grew inside him, and he tamped it immediately. He kicked at his sheets, an icky feeling growing in his chest more steadily as the moments progressed. Something inside him told him today would be a terrible day. Today, the feeling preached would be more of a waiting lesson. The feeling was reminiscent of the cricket chirps in the humidity before a storm.
He yawned unbeknownst to himself, then smiled at the revelation of dawning sleepiness. His eyes stared deeply into the popcorn stonework, thinking about pleasant things to do today. First, they would collect shells where Achilles would teach Patroclus the difference between a conch and a clam. Then they would politely borrow more figs from the kitchens, before climbing trees in the apple orchards. Later, they would draw in the study, and Achilles would use ink to draw a mustache on his lip.
And then Patroclus would laugh like he owned the sun.
Yes, that icky feeling knew nothing. Today would be a great day.
He shifted to his side, trying to get comfortable for the coming sleep. He could feel the tiredness rolling waves into his bones as the moments progressed, his suddenly regained consciousness slipping. Achilles watched the steady, even breaths of his companion from his pallet. Patroclus looked surprisingly blissful in sleep; the blanket tucked under his chin made sleep invite itself into Achilles’s bed, too.
Well, a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
When Achilles awoke for sure, he saw that the morning had set well into the grooves of day. He stretched his limbs, raking a hand through his untamed curls in an attempt to ready himself for the day in the quickest manner. Light footsteps could be heard padding from the other side of the doorway, and Achilles' heart panged at the few hours they both had already missed. He splashed water onto his face, not caring for the wells of water pooling where he had knocked the basin with his haste.
Patroclus would be waiting for him-
Achilles could feel his heart drop heavy in his chest.
To be honest, he should have known better than to have planned a wonderful itinerary when a thing called fate existed.
From his vantage, Patroclus was shivering under the blanket, which was now wrapped tightly, mimicking a cocoon. His curls were plastered onto pallor skin with a layer of sweat. Other than his blissful look, which looked more like bitten back pain the more Achilles scrutinized, Patroclus looked unwell.
And that was when panic flared inside him.
“Patroclus”, he called.
Sickness was not anything good, right? He tried to wrack his brain, but he was a demigod for goodness' sake. He did not know about sickness.
Patroclus responded with nothing intelligible, just a series of stuttering coughs. His breathing was short, Achilles could hear as he went up to his bedside. There was something trapped in his chest for sure. Perhaps congestion?
No, it was death.
Peleus nearly threw the papyrus he was studying when his son leaped onto him, clawing and mumbling through tears about Patroclus dying. He should have realized that this was a repercussion of his son’s imaginative mind.
But then again, the apple does not fall far from the tree.
The physician, in the group assembled by Patroclus’s bedside after Achilles had aroused them from their work, seemed to be the only person who had some common sense. He dismissed the crowd, kneeling by the child and laying a hand on the burning forehead.
“He has a fever from the change in weather”, the physician said. Patroclus squirmed by the impulse of voices, but did not awake. He mumbled something, though, and Peleus had to physically restrain his son from jumping onto Patroclus’s pallet.
That said, Achilles had never seen sickness, so what would you expect?
The physician prepared a damp cloth, while the maids laid extra blankets atop him.
“Let him rest and give him fluids while awake until the fever breaks. If it worsens, ask me for a dose of drought”, the physician addressed the king. Achilles shrugged his father’s grip off.
“So how long will it take for it to pass? An hour?”.
The physicians smiled, for the child knew so little that it was endearingly disheartening.
“No, it will take however much time it takes. All he needs is rest, young prince”. Peleus nodded at the order, steadying his son, who was now shaking at this unfortunate turn of events.
“Yes, Achilles”, he prodded, “That means no disturbing Patroclus, okay?”. But in the short gap Peleus had let leeway in his grip, Achilles was already out the door and bounding the stairwells, shouting about knowing exactly how to cure Patroclus.
First, I need figs, thought Achilles. His toes padded the flooring quietly until he reached the splintering door to the kitchen. Achilles darted around, eyeing any witnesses, before sneaking inside. The room was filled with aromatic spices, porridge oats boiling with something deceivingly delicious.
Yes, those dishes were never to be trusted. Achilles had been cheated more than once based on how good they looked. He searched the countertops until he found an unsuspecting bowl of figs, a constant marker of taste. He had saved them for later, but desperate times needed desperate measures. He held the bowl steadily, pushing the gateway with his knee and hobbling to his room.
A small, very small part of him hoped that Patroclus would be all better now, but the other dominant part knew that it was too soon for change. True to his thoughts, Patroclus looked the same when he returned, maybe shivering more in the short duration.
He placed the fruit bowl onto the floor, sitting cross-legged.
“I have figs. You like that, don’t you?”, he whispered, shaking Patroclus in a feeble attempt to arouse him from his slumber.
What Achilles hoped was for a yes, Achilles, or you know exactly what to do. Maybe even I am totally better now, let’s play. But alas, Patroclus shifted in sleep, turning to face away from him.
The audacity!
The fig in his hand squished under his clenched fist, the dimpled skin denting in frustration.
Fine, he would enjoy the fig by himself. He didn’t need Patroclus.
Truth be told, Achilles was a terrible brooder. In a few minutes, he was back, kneeling by the sick boy and hovering over with a plea stuck in his mouth. As if constant guidance would rid the sick away, he hoped that maybe his godly powers would rub off on Patroclus, speeding his recovery. When that didn’t work, he made up games in the waiting. By noon, though, he had exhausted his patience and ability to play alone.
And Patroclus seemed to be worsening, too.
Before, Patroclus had a slight reddish hue on his cheeks; now it was all-white. His shivering had returned to full-fledged tremors, and the coughs were more erratic and deeper. Worst of all, the towel was dry from the heat emitted by his skin, the glory of the dreaded fever crowning over all other symptoms. Achilles crawled over, laying his palm over the skin.
He doubled over at how hot it was, his gut turning at the woes of mortality.
That physician knew nothing. This was not a mere fever, but death in disguise. Standing there, Achilles was left in the throes of fending for his friend.
The physician did say something about a drought, but he didn’t trust the man enough to ask him for it.
Patroclus coughed louder, curling into his sides in a dry heave.
That settled any doubt; he was getting that drought by himself, whether it killed him or not.