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0.
Odysseus did not entertain gossip. It was simply something he did not do. Not that he would ever claim to be above whispers across a fire—he was young once. Being the age he was now, though, he found himself bored by the youth’s spread of rumors.
That did not make their voices any less loud.
Odysseus heard their rumors, their gossip. It was impossible not to. Even so, he’d never before believed their words. Until perhaps this one.
As of recently, the rumor of the hour pertained to the hero of the hour—Achilles.
He had garnered his fair share of attention before now. Have you heard? They would say. He is invulnerable. Listeners would laugh, but believe it nonetheless. And why shouldn’t they? He had never been injured in the year he had resided with the rest of the unlucky. The rumors surrounding him now did not relate to his skill—hardly to him at all—but instead to his unusual closeness with his companion.
Patroclus was not a very remarkable person. He was extremely skilled in both battle and healing, but without Achilles’ place in his life that would not be so. He had—as many Achaeans do—dark, suntanned skin, dark and wild curls encircling his head, and warm, equally dark eyes. He was kind though—funny, too. Many found his company far perferable to his counterpart’s. That is, if you were able to catch him without Achilles by his side.
Gentle Patroclus was what they called him. Named for his nature rather than his appearance or skill, as most others were. He lived up to the epithet, as well—when he was not on the battlefield, that is.
He is kind, helps others when he can, and is friendly to all. He often found his way to other armies’ camps, amicably talking with another solider.
It is Achilles, Odysseus believed—for who else would say this—who said: “His smile could end wars.” Not this war, clearly.
Achilles always spoke of Patroclus in this way; as if he were the godling rather than himself. Perhaps this was what the rumors stemmed from.
1.
Odysseus was normally far more present during meetings of strategy. Today, though, he was irritated with Achilles’ stubbornness. Achilles refused to take a small village for this morning’s raids, as he believed his Myrmidons had earned greater glory.
Perhaps he was right, Odysseus did not care anymore. Not with Achilles standing before him, sounding as if he were cursed to repeat his arguments endlessly.
He let his eyes flick from Achilles, who had been standing—rather obnoxiously, considering all others persent were seated—hands splayed on the table that stood between them, to Patroclus, seated next to Achilles. His jaw clenched and unclenched periodically and his arms were folded tightly against his chest. It appeared he also felt the Myrmidons deserved more than they were to get.
“I simply do not understand why Agamemnon is allowed the lion’s share, while I and my men do not get even a scrape of what we deserve!” He spoke heavily with his hands, gesturing at Agamemnon for emphasis.
Patroclus’ eyes jumped erratically around the room, a scowl painting his usually kind face. They landed finally on Achilles, who continued his ranting:
“It is not fair! He fights not with his men most days! I cannot understand how it could be so difficult to give my men his allotted village!“
“I understand you feel that way—“ Menelaus attempted to appease.
“You have no say in this matter!” He snapped. “You are useless if you cannot control your brother!”
Suddenly Patroclus rose to his feet, his chair teetering for a half second in the force of his standing. He grit his teeth in a half-bare-half-grin. “If you will excuse us, my lords.” He then grabbed Achilles by the wrist and dragged him outside of the tent. Achilles, angry as he was, did not fight the grip and followed relatively willingly.
Silence filled the tent, all the kings stunned by the action. The shadows of the two men outside cast their silhouettes onto the fabric of the tent, the sun beginning its slow rise. They stood inches apart, their crossed arms almost touching.
Patroclus spoke first, indistinguishable in his quiet, low tone.
Achilles scoffed at whatever he had said and began to speak. He was cut off by Patroclus striking his arm with the back of his hand. “Quit that. You are acting like a child.” His tone was as sharp as his words.
Eyebrows around the tent shot up. No one dared to speak to Achilles like that, especially not when he was angry. A man famed not only for his strength but also his hot temper. For a moment Odysseus feared he would slap Patroclus in turn.
Achilles raised his hand, but not to strike Patroclus, instead running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry… It is just—“ He sighed. “He is so hard to work with!”
“I know, but you must work with him. You are a prince. Act like it.”
“He is not acting very kingly,” he countered, a pout evident in his voice.
“That is no excuse. Do you wish to be like him?” He paused—to gauge Achilles’ reaction, Odysseus assumed. “Besides, if you continue acting so petulant the raid will not be the Mrymidon’s only embarrassment.” He turned to face the rising sun, Achilles following suit.
“And yours?” He asked quietly, bumping his shoulder against Patroclus’.
Patroclus sighed, but it was without anger. “No, Achilles, you do not embarrass me.”
“Then I do not care.” His tone carried a sure finality.
“Perhaps you should. You do not wish to be seen as he is, do you?” He reminded with a light tone before turning to renter the tent.
Achilles scoffed again, but had a soft smile on his lips as he entered behind his companion.
He took his seat like all the other kings had, and there he remained for the rest of their meeting. He accepted the raid and stayed calm—calmer than before, that is.
Odysseus remained unfocused, but now it was to wonder about that moment. Patroclus had eased his anger in a matter of seconds, it seemed. Odysseus knew they were close, but Achilles had other companions. Antilochus, for example. Achilles would never let the man speak to him as Patroclus had, nor would it calm him the way his second in command’s words did.
It was strange, but not enough to warrant the rumors that chased the two, Odysseus thought.
2.
“Was it enough glory for you?” Odysseus asked—rather foolishly, he would admit—reuniting with Achilles after their successful raids.
“Will it ever be enough?” He asked in return.
His tone was strangely dark, laced with dried fear. “Did something happen?”
They were in a rather secluded area, standing backs to a tent in the further reaches of the Achaean camp. Perhaps that was why Achilles spoke so openly. “I have realized that Patroclus is mortal.”
“As are you,” As much as others would disagree. “How come?”
“He was struck by an arrow today,” He fretted.
“And yet he lives. I saw him hardly an hour ago.” Odysseus reduced his tone to something quiet and kind. It was clear he was distressed.
“My Patroclus has never been bloodied before. Not in this way.” He did not take Odysseus’ words into account.
Odysseus thought back through their battles and raids over the year, and concluded that this was true. Why, then, did they not say that Patroclus, too, was invulnerable? “You are afraid of Patroclus getting blood on his hands? He arrived here with more than you.”
“When it is his blood, yes, I am afraid! And do not speak of that,” he commanded.
“My apologies, I see that is a sore subject for you.”
“For Patroclus,” he clarified.
“And, by extension, you.”
He hummed.
An uncomfortable rift formed between them then. It caused a strained silence that Odysseus found rather unfavorable. After gathering his mind, he began to mend the wound he had caused: “I apologize, sincerely. I understand your fears; if I were to hear word that Penelope had been hurt, I think I would be killed by the words themselves.”
“Would you not avenge her death?”
“Perhaps, but either way, I cannot live without her.”
“I would slaughter every man who stood in between me and the man who had murdered Patroclus if that is what it took to avenge him.”
His eyes had taken on a starkly divine appearance, cold and unyielding, and his words dripped with resolve. “I would not begrudge you; he is what they say of him.”
“What do they say of him?” His words had returned their human quality along with their curiosity.
“That he is gentle, kind. He is a good man.”
“He is incomparable.” A gentle smile graced his lips as he gazed into the distance.
Odysseus would perhaps disagree, but the surety in Achilles’ voice stopped him from voicing his dissent.
Just then a servant girl passed them on her way to the woods. She had noticeable freckles that splayed across her tanned shoulders. There he found a way to ease Achilles’ spirits with a subject change: “I do not see very many with freckles. I quite like them, don’t you?”
“Yes; Patroclus has freckles.”
So much for the subject change. “He does?”
“Have you not noticed?” He seemed genuinely confused by Odysseus’ question.
“No, I suppose I haven’t. Has he always had freckles?”
“Yes.” He paused in thought for a moment before continuing: “When we were kids I would lay flower stems on his back to make constellations.”
How sweet. Odysseus chuckled softly. “I guess I do not pay enough attention.”
“Evidently.”
3.
In the evening of that same day, Odysseus decided to take a walk. He missed his family dearly, having left them well over a year ago now. He wondered about his small son. Had he taken his first steps? His first words? He knew very well by this point those words would not be ‘papa.’
And his poor Penelope. Forced to raise their infant son with only the help of servants; without the loving hand of her husband. If only the messengers came more often. If he could he would task Iris herself to send his messages of love and reassurance to his wife.
He strolled through the tents, longing for them to disappear and to suddenly find himself along the familiar paths of home, Peneople waiting with Telemachus in her arms for him to return.
Instead he found himself on a ridge of land right before it turned into the sand of the beach. The wind reached him suddenly, tousling his hair and sending the first hint of the encroaching night his way. It smelled of the sea and distant laughter reached his ears. For a moment he thought he had imagined it in the beauty of the scene; the setting sun warming his face, and the breeze making him shiver.
Looking closer he saw two figures lying on the sand. He couldn’t quite make them out at first, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves; the laughter came from them. He stood watching them for a moment. They reminded him of Penelope and himself lying under the branches of an olive tree.
Suddenly one sat up, clearly talking excitedly, hands moving rapidly for emphasis. His hair blew slightly in the wind, long and golden. Achilles. Next to him—of course—Patroclus.
He stood suddenly, beginning to speak facing towards Odysseus, letting his words vaguely reach Odysseus’ ears: “Yes, you will!” A pause. “Yes!” Another. “No buts!” He appeared to be trying to convince Patroclus to do something he had been continuously denying.
He then leaned down and grabbed Patroclus’ arm, dragging him to his feet and pulling him into the water. Patroclus stumbled due to the quickness with which he was pulled to his feet; Achilles’ godlike strength showed despite Patroclus’ stockier build. He slung an arm around Achilles’ shoulders to catch himself.
He righted himself slightly, but only to gain his footing. He did not remove his arm from around Achilles’ shoulders, nor did Achilles remove his arm from around Patroclus’ waist. Achilles leaned towards him to whisper something in Patroclus’ ear, though Odysseus’ view was blocked and he was not quite sure.
They stood still for only a second more, before Patroclus made his way back to the shore, leaving Achilles stranded knee-deep in the sea.
Achilles yelled something after him, and was responded to by Patroclus as he laid back onto the sand. Achilles, meanwhile, bent over in the water. He seemed to be looking at or for something. Eventually he waded back out to stand accusingly over Patroclus.
Patroclus spoke up at Achilles briefly, but was cut off as Achilles spit a mouthful of sea water into his face. Patroclus yelped, and, in retaliation, threw a fistfull of sand at Achilles’ wet face with the intent to make it stick. It worked.
They laughed giddily at the sand on his face for a moment before Achilles collected himself enough to tackle Patroclus, rubbing sand over his face and arms. They began to wrestle halfheartedly, their laughter preventing either from having the upper hand.
Odysseus saw bright flashes of teeth in their open, laughing mouths. Their voices, mixing with the other’s in their shared joy reached Odysseus’ ears like honey on a fig. He felt like an intruder, the moment so intimate and boyish. What their aim was, Odysseus could not say. They groped uselessly at each other, clearly not trying exceptionally hard to pin the other to the sand.
There was a moment, though, where Patroclus had Achilles pinned on his back, holding his hands to the ground beside his head. Achilles had his knees drawn up and his head thrown back in laughter. Patroclus simply gazed at him, not attempting to claim victory, nor even laughing along with Achilles.
He dipped his head to bring his face inches from Achilles’, which had slowly righted itself, his laughter fading to a loose grin. Achilles’ lithe legs stretched lazily out across the sand, carving small troughs in their wake. Though recovered from his laughing fit, he did not attempt to throw Patroclus’ grip on his wrists.
“Odysseus!” A voice called behind him.
Suddenly Patroclus looked up towards him. Achilles, oblivious or careless, remained gazing up at Patroclus. His smile was lazy as if he had all the time in the world to spend as he pleased.
Odysseus turned and began to stroll towards Diomedes, who had called his name.
He couldn’t rid his mind of the image of the sweet way Patroclus admired Achilles’ laughter, though.
4.
The sun had set when Odysseus saw the two again. It was the time most ate, but, in celebration of the upcoming holiday, Menelaus and a few other kings had arranged a feast.
Many ate at the tables that usually stood in this clearing in the mass of tents, but some lounged around bonfires. Around one of these small fires was where Odysseus sat, Diomedes and Idomeneus keeping him company. It was good company; they were fun, and perhaps the only real people he would consider his friends.
As the evening seeped into twilight and the light became blue the fire dwindled. None of the three were eager to keep it up, and it slowly shuddered to the low glow of embers.
Achilles joined them then. He was surprisingly alone. Odysseus was sure he’d seen him with various others for most of the night.
They exchanged greetings and fell into easy conversation, speaking of their feats in battle that day and the mundanity that followed.
“How did you get that, Odysseus?” Achilles suddenly asked.
“Hmm?”
“That scar,” he cocked his head as if to point at the curving scar that ran the length of Odysseus’ thigh.
“Ah. I went hunting with my grandfather when I was young. While we were out I was attacked by a boar.”
“Boo,” Diomedes jeered half-jokingly, “that is no way to tell the story! Set the scene, tell us of the attack!”
“Rest assured, I am not Nestor, but I will try. I was quite young. How young I cannot say, but long before I had even met Penelope.”
“Tell us of her, next!” Idomeneus teased, knowing how often he liked to speak of his wife.
He laughed good naturedly at the joke, for it was not the first and most certainly would not be the last. “Well, my grandfather, Autolycus, had promised me gifts upon my birth. When I was old enough I travelled to collect them,” Odysseus began.
Another joined them then. Patroclus sat himself wordlessly next to Achilles, who turned to greet him.
“Are we finished?” Achilles asked quietly.
“No, no, we can stay. I just do not wish to make conversation with the others,” Patroclus said, equally as quiet. His quiet, though, did not seem to be out of respect for Odysseus’ story, and was more due to his own tiredness.
“His sons and I took these gifts hunting on the rocky cliffs of Mount Parnassus when the boar appeared in a clearing,” he continued, his attention divided between the way Patroclus began to lean against Achilles’ side and the men he told the story to.
Achilles cocked his head at Patroclus, a silent question.
“I hope that because I am with you I will be left alone,” he explained. Achilles nodded and returned his attention to the story.
“What gifts did you receive?” Diomedes asked, interrupting both Odysseus’ thoughts and his story.
“Mostly new weapons: Spears, a sword, I believe, and others. It has been quite a long time since then. Forgive me if I remember the boar before the gifts.”
Diomedes snorted. “You really are no Nestor.”
“Gods, he would remember even the slightest imperfections in the metal,” Odysseus chuckled.
Though Nestor was an easy target for their jests, they held him in high regard. His stories, though thorough and long had purpose. And as much as listeners would groan when he began to reminisce it was not surprising to find one engrossed in his tales.
“Well now you’ve gone and broken the spell,” Idomeneus complained. “Go on.”
“Right,” Odysseus recollected himself and went one: “We two stood watching each other for a moment or so, holding our ground. I cannot imagine how this scene would have appeared to an onlooker,” he laughed.
Patroclus’ blinks had slowly begun to lengthen as they spoke until his eyelids fell shut with the finality of sleep. It was an amusing sight to Odysseus. How Patroclus could fall asleep so quickly eluded Odysseus’ imagination—and skill, for the record. Though, on second thought, perhaps he simply felt comfortable with Achilles beside him; they were close friends, after all.
“I—bravely, I will have you know,” he added jokingly, provoking light chuckles, “went to strike the boar with my shiny new spear. He leapt first, unfortunately, and gored my leg.”
Just then Patroclus’ balance gave, slumping forward across Achilles’ body. Achilles carefully caught and maneuvered Patroclus to rest his head on his legs, which were folded to the side. He held his weight with one arm propping him up. With the other he began to absentmindedly stroke Patroclus’ bicep.
“And after the boar?” Diomedes’ voice woke Odysseus from his passive observation of Achilles’ movements.
“Ah. My grandfather begun to call me ‘Son of Pain.’ He said it was what my name meant and that I had earned it that day. Though, why a person would name their son something so foreboding I cannot say.”
Idomeneus chuckled, “a name like that surely implies that your father is a pain.”
“I do not believe he meant it like that, but you are quite right,” Odysseus huffed a laugh.
Achilles did not appear to be listening. Not fully, at least. Achilles looked at Patroclus, who had turned on his side, cheek pressed against the skin of Achilles’ thigh where his chiton rode up. He gazed with half lidded eyes and a hand buried in Patroclus’ hair, almost concealed by his curls, that mechanically carded through the locks.
Achilles looked up: “Well, the scar is quite intimidating, I must say.”
“I suppose,” Odysseus said glibly.
A comfortable silence enveloped the men then. Idomeneus passively picked at his remaining food, Diomedes appeared engrossed in a loose thread in his chiton, and Achilles’ attention still lingered squarely on Patroclus and his hair. The wine the men had been amicably sipping on throughout the night seemed to be forgotten, though none had drank to excess.
The cool night breeze’s fingers played sweetly in their hair, sending a gentle shiver through the men. Around them people began to retreat to their tents in droves. Tomorrow would be the real feast, anyway, tonight was just the preamble.
“It is getting quite late,” Idomeneus observed, looking into the distance at the groups leaving the gathering. Odysseus nodded his assent.
“I know Patroclus would say the same,” Diomedes joked, provoking a quiet chuckle from Achilles.
“I am inclined to agree,” Achilles responded, moving his hand to instead run his fingernails over the sensitive skin of Patroclus’ ear.
Patroclus woke to the touch, swatting lazily at Achilles’ hand. He turned onto his back, head continuing to rest on Achilles’ thigh, and moved his hands to rub at his eyes with a groan.
“‘Morning, sweet thing,” Achilles laughed softly.
“Hmm?” Patroclus mumbled, sitting up.
“We are retiring for the night,” Diomedes clarified helpfully.
“Mmm,” was the only response from Patroclus.
Achilles stood, and, lending Patroclus a hand, helped him to his feet. He continued to lean against Achilles for support. It was almost as if he was asleep on his feet. “Good night, friends,” Achilles said farewell for the two of them before leading Patroclus in the direction of their tent.
“Well, I had quite a nice night,” Idomeneus began his own farewells.
“Yes, they are becoming quite rare nowadays,” Odysseus said, standing to retire to his own tent.
As he walked he considered the entire day he spent watching Achilles and Patroclus interact. Their slight smiles and unyielding touches were strange to him. He considered the rumors in turn. The more he saw the more he was inclined to believe them.
Still, the rumors implied they were lovers, but Odysseus had seen only things that could be explained away by close companionship.
He would have to continue to observe, it seems.
5.
“Must I?” Agamemnon complained.
“You must. Making peace with your fellows is a part of being king, brother,” Menelaus chided.
Agamemnon groaned childishly at the mere thought of settling his dispute with Achilles.
“Your name is used as an insult between them, you know that?” Odysseus added then from his perch atop a stool that was pulled from the deep recesses of Menelaus’ tent.
“All the more reason to leave our issues as they stand!”
Odysseus huffed a breathy laugh. “I suppose. Menelaus is right, though. How will you ever work with him—let alone any other king—if it becomes known you cannot work through your feelings?”
“Would you say he can?” Agamemnon countered.
“Fair point, but he is much younger than you. His temper makes sense, at the very least. And besides, he can calm himself.”
Agamemnon scoffed. “Only while Patroclus is there to ease that temper.” He said Patroclus’ name as if it was something dirty; like something that did not deserve to be in his privileged mouth.
“True, but you do not have someone who can do the same for you. My point still stands.” He paused, thinking of how Agamemnon said Patroclus’ name. “Do you have a gripe with Patroclus as well?”
“Only the fact he attends meetings of kings. He is not even a Myrmidon, and yet he is treated as if he was a god.”
“Be careful who you say this to, brother,” Menelaus reminded quietly
“Why does this anger you? He has more sense than Achilles, and it is not as if he sits there mindlessly; he speaks.” Odysseus objected, ignoring Menelaus’ comment.
He huffed. “I guess it does not matter. Bring him to me and we can speak. But bring him alone.”
“Will do.” Odysseus stood and made his way out of the tent.
He did not know why he defended Achilles so vehemently. Perhaps he was being influenced by the sweet moments he had stumbled upon in the past day. It was a side of Achilles he did not know—no, did not notice—existed. Looking back into his memory he remembered the day he had met the two in the old horseman Peleus’ palace.
Nestor and himself had gone to propose the war to the two—though their main goal had been to persuade Achilles, he refused to leave without Patroclus. The two had been carving a lamb while their fathers prepared offerings to Zeus.
They seemed very within themselves, as they continue to be to this day, caring little for the chastising gazes their fathers occasionally threw their way. They laughed and joked quietly to themselves, playing as boys do.
When Odysseus and Nestor had entered the room, though, Achilles jumped to perform his princely duties and greeted his guests. Patroclus continued carving the meat until he was called upon to discuss with the rest of them.
He had sat close to Achilles—closer to him than his own father, which, even at the time, Odysseus had found interesting.
The two broke off to discuss with their fathers. Peleus spoke encouraging words to his son, telling him to be brave and to win much glory. Menoetius, though, told his son that, while he was not as strong or skilled as Achilles, Achilles relied on him, and that Patroclus must not forget that.
Clearly he hadn’t.
So far in his head, Odysseus did not realize he had reached Achilles’ tent until he stood but a few feet before it.
He lifted the heavy flap, mentally bracing himself for the conversation ahead. It was dark inside the tent, which was strange considering Helios’ chariot sat at it’s zenith at the moment. The light from outside created a stripe of sunlight that landed on a sleeping body. He noted sullenly that it was not Achilles, but Patroclus. He was faced away from the entrance, and was clearly alone.
Odysseus turned to leave, but his eye caught a few golden locks of hair draped over Patroclus’ side. He paused. Patroclus did not have any bed-slaves that Odysseus knew of, which meant that either Patroclus slept with a lock of Achilles’ hair or they were closely entangled.
He ventured forward, letting the flap fall, shrouding the tent in darkness. He crept silently towards Patroclus, peering over his shoulder once close enough.
And there Achilles lay, cradled in Patroclus’ arms. He had his head ducked, hair brushing faintly against Patroclus’ bare chest. His hair was splayed wildly around his head, both in front of and behind him. He had one arm curled near his own chest, the other laying loosely straight, fingers brushing Patroclus’ abdomen. Their legs, though hidden by the blanket, formed a single mass; they must have been entwined. Achilles rested his head against Patroclus’ outstretched arm that vaguely followed the path of Achilles’ curved back. His other arm rested over Achilles’ side, wrist draped over his back.
Their blanket lay rumpled around their waists. It had clearly been mindlessly pushed down in the middle of the night. Perhaps the Trojan nights were too hot with double the body heat trapped under a blanket.
The sight made Odysseus smile softly; it reminded him very vividly of mornings waking up next to his Penelope, using each other as pillows or blankets, her hair splayed like Achilles’ was now. He felt a sharp pang of longing, and wished desperately for her to wake up beside him like he knew Achilles would Patroclus.
Patroclus stirred briefly, his unoccupied arm coming up to hold the back of Achilles’ head, and Odysseus knew it was time for him to leave lest he be caught.
As he held the flap up once more he paused to throw a glance over his shoulder, and noticed humorously that Achilles’ lean body was completely blocked by Patroclus’ bulkier one. The only evidence of their tangled limbs and cradled heads was once again the hair that shone brightly in the path of the filtering sunlight.
+1.
Around the dias many long tables were erected. Women danced, food was served, and wine was poured. As promised, the feast was bountiful and the wine was strong.
Odysseus sat, as he had been the entire night, near the end of a long table. He drank sparingly, but enough to feel the effects of the wine. Around him sat Diomedes, Ajax the Greater, his bastard brother: Teucer, and Menelaus. All drinking as if it were the last night of their lives—with the exception of Menelaus. Odysseus believed youth had a part to play in how much wine a person was willing to drink, and tonight was only further evidence.
Ajax and Tuecer were throwing grapes into each other’s mouths and laughing just as hysterically every time they caught one.
Diomedes bothered Menelaus as if it were his occupation. Harassing him about the length of his beard, the color of his hair, and the jewelry he wore.
Odysseus was just thankful he had not be included in these escapades. If only that remained true.
Across the table from him, Achilles and Patroclus plopped themselves onto the bench, giggling like children. Achilles clutched Patroclus’ arm like a lifeline, keeping their bodies flush as much as possible.
Diomedes had been complaining to Menelaus about his hair at the time they arrived: “Since your hair is so red, why do you have no freckles?” He questioned, scrutinizing Menelaus from over his cup.
“Speaking of freckles!” Achilles perked up, joining the table’s conversation.
Odysseus knew exactly what this train of thought pertained to, but not where it was going. He listened nonethless.
Achilles instructed Patroclus to turn and proceeded to slip two fingers into the collar of Patroclus’ tunic, slipping it down over his shoulder with practiced ease.
“See!” He exclaimed, pointing to evident freckles spattered across Patroclus’ shoulder. Patroclus laughed and squirmed slightly under Achilles’ touch.
“I do,” Odysseus admitted with a confused smile.
“I told you!” He pointed a finger at Odysseus.
“I did not doubt you,” he laughed.
Patroclus groaned as he returned to his previous sitting position, but a smile graced his lips as he asked: “What else has he told you of me?”
“Nothing more,” Odysseus assured, his eyes straying to Achilles, who had detatched himself just enough from Patroclus’ side to gaze at the aforementioned freckles. He suddenly began laughing giddily, muffling the sound by putting his mouth on Patroclus’ shoulder.
Patroclus yelped abruptly and covered Achilles’ mouth with his hand, exclaiming: “You beast!” There were light but clear teeth marks in the flesh of his shoulder.
Achilles’ head reared back before sinking his teeth into Patroclus’ hand in retaliation to being muzzled. Patroclus then reached into a bowl, retrieving a fig to shove into Achilles’ mouth in place of his skin.
“Stop it,” he admonished as Achilles began to gnaw on the fig.
Patroclus returned his attention to the table, most of whom had already looked up during the commotion. Diomedes glanced at Odysseus knowingly—what he knew, Odysseus wasn’t sure.
Achilles tapped Patroclus’ shoulder, holding out half of the fig as if to ask, ’want some?’ Patroclus reached for it, but Achilles closed his fist around it, smiling mischievously.
Patroclus looked at him confused as Achilles brought the hand with the fig to Patroclus’ mouth, extending a finger to tap on his lips. He smiled, but clearly still did not understand. Achilles used his other hand to grip Patroclus’ jaw, and, with his thumb on his bottom lip he gently opened Patroclus’ mouth. He then pressed the half of the fig through his lips.
Their faces were inches apart now, breaths mingling, making Odysseus feel as if he were wittnessing something that he was not meant to see.
Patroclus closed the distance between them with a chaste closed mouth kiss. Odysseus could see Achilles’ jaw drop open the moment Patroclus’ lips were on his, his mouth open still when he pulled away as if he was expecting more and ready to give it.
Patroclus turned back to the table, beginning to chew his half of the fig while Achilles gazed at him, eyes half lidded and mouth slightly agape.
Looking around the table, Odysseus found that no one had reacted above a roll of the eyes and fake gags from Ajax. It was as if everyone already knew. Perhaps they did.
It occurred to Odysseus all at once that perhaps what he thought were rumors were in fact simply others commenting on their relationship. That perhaps he was the one out of the loop.
Looking back over the past two days, Odysseus suddenly put the pieces together. In the meeting, Patroclus clearly knew all the right buttons to push to ease Achilles’ temper. That could have only come from being intimately close with Achilles for a long time.
And, later, after the raid, Odysseus had compared their relationship to his own with his wife without thinking about it. It felt like the only natural comparison.
And again, at the beach, he compared them to him and Penelope. They joked and played as friends do, sure, but the lack of competitive air was clear; it did not seem they were fighting to win. And the way they looked at each other then was sickeningly sweet, even from as far away as Odysseus stood. Reminiscing on this moment, Odysseus realized that when Achilles had whispered in Patroclus’ ear he had actually pressed a kiss to the side of Patroclus’ head.
Then, at the feast, Patroclus had fallen asleep in a matter of minutes. If he was not extremely comfortable with Achilles this would not be true.
And, perhaps most damning was the empty bed that laid unused in the corner of the tent the two shared. They slept most peacefully, it seemed, when in each other’s arms.
Odysseus never was very good at identifying love. Not even in himself when he had first met Penelope. He assumed it was his one fault in his intelligence. Here it had evidently struck again, as Achilles and Patroclus clearly were the lovers their rumors had spoken of.