Chapter Text
The shade of long leaves hid only so much of him. He felt he ought to be at least a bit ashamed of the blatant eavesdropping he was doing. But he would have, if he could hear anything. All he received was the view of the princes as they sparred with each other. And the boy. Looking fresh out of a fairy land. The fairy boy.
He stepped closer and his feet twisted over a stone. He caught himself over the hard bark, rustling the shrub before him. His head jerked up, fearing if he was spotted. But no one even spared a glance towards him. Except for that boy. The fairy boy.
The boy was perched on a low stone at the edge of the ring, watching as the princes wrestled. His bored eyes, which till now were trained on the sparring before him, were staring straight at him. Achilles debated moving behind but before he could, the boy jumped up and strolled in his direction.
“Where are you going?” one of the Prince– Hector grunted, his arms around his brother in a headlock.
The boy ignored him, and continued strolling towards the edge of the forest. Wondering if it was too late to run away, Achilles got up and tried to hide behind the pine tree.
The boy was wearing the same expensive silk as the other princes, his rich brown curls falling over his eyes, the eyes that seemed to flash golden as the sunlight hit him.
A Prince? he wondered. For he sure did walk that way.
He stood, hardly breathing as the boy ducked into his hideout, gaze curious and sharp. The boy blinked, lashes so long it was unreal. For a moment Achilles felt so enthralled, he forgot to feel embarrassed for getting caught. But his manners soon caught up with him and he raised himself high, his chin tilted up, haughty and proud.
A twitch in the boy's lips before it went away.
“I understand that it is too hot outside,” the boy began, his voice low and honeyed, “but standing still in a forest, with itchy leaves all around seems hardly an upgrade Prince.”
The way he said the word. Not respectful. Not bored. But mocking was what snapped Achilles from his daze. He smirked, two can play the game.
“Maybe I would rather stay with itchy leaves than there.”
Another twitch in the boy's lips.
“Right enough. They are pretty boring,” he said.
Hector had just thrown another prince– his brother? Down in one swift motion. Two other boys were swinging their swords so fast it was a blur.
“Boring.” Achilles stated deadpan.
The boy shrugged. “Unless there's some other deep enlightening reason why you are hiding here.”
“I am not hiding!” Achilles snapped, proud, “I -I am observing.”
An eyebrow raised high on his forehead.
“Okay,” he said slowly, a twinkle in his eyes, “you are definitely hiding.”
“I am not!”
“You are.”
“Not.”
“Are.”
“Patroclus, what are you doing there?” A voice– Hector's, shouted from behind.
The boy–Patroclus, met his eyes and Achilles felt the ground leave him, eyes so golden it seemed to suck him in, he felt weightless, his thoughts blank as if he was in a dream, the world around him blurring until nothing was left except for the liquid pools in front of him.
“Leave. And make sure no one sees you,” a voice gentle and sweet sounded in his head.
Of course, Achilles thought, turning around and following the voice. His legs moved on its own, his mind still lost in deep golden pools. And it was only when he was safely tucked inside his chamber, that he wondered what the hell just happened.
How old is he? Achilles wondered, taking a bite of the peppery meat during dinner.
While everyone was sitting in groups in the dining hall, shoving foods, laughing out loud, Patroclus rested at a lone table in the corner. There was no plate in front of him, instead his hands moved nimble over the rose stems he was weaving, the thorns never once pricking him. His hair fell over his face, eyes intent and focused. And before Achilles knew, a beautiful flower crown rested in Patroclus' hands, all the thorns facing outside, the stems twisted and bent, embracing the blood red roses in their midst.
Patroclus looked thoughtful for a moment before he rested the tip of his finger over the thorn.
No, Achilles thought, wide eyed.
A bead of blood shone like a pearl.
Unbothered, Patroclus shoved the tip of his finger into his mouth and walked away, the crown dangling from his other hand, never once noticing or caring about the other eyes that followed him.
The next day when he was getting ready for the race, Antilochus, his best friend, told him that Patroclus was probably eleven and even more probably a slave.
Achilles had huffed, watching sourly as Antilochus who was four years his senior, getting clad in armor for the duel. He had initially thrown a tantrum when he realised that his was a wooden sword when Antilochus got a real silver sword. He was thirteen for godsake, not a child.
“I don't think he is a slave,” Achilles stated, removing the white cloth tied around his feet and deciding to run bare foot. Patroclus for one never behaved like a slave and Achilles hadn't noticed him even lift up a water chalice.
“Maybe he is just not the common ones.” Antilochus' voice was dark, filled with disapproval over something.
Achilles glanced at him, curious. Antilochus sighed before giving a stiff shrug,
“Everyone's out there talking about him. Of the way he looks.”
“Everyone who?”
“The grownups. The Soldiers. The Generals.”
“I don't think anything is wrong about how he looks.”
“If only something was,” Antilochus sighed. “And don't go there barefoot."
“I am still going to win.”
“That's not what I –” But Achilles had already bounded away from him, into the arena.
And when the races were finished (Achilles was the winner of course) and he was waiting on the dias to be given his medal, he noticed Hector, or more specifically, the rose crown nestled in his head. He didn't know what it was that he felt, what it was that turned his stomach sour, but he instantly hated him for being the one to receive that crown.
He was bored, he thought juggling the figs in one hand, very very bored. Whistles and claps from boys enveloped him when he added a knife to his juggling.
He had tried hard and failed to stop thinking about that fairy boy. Patroclus. An inexplicable urge to talk to him, simmered within him . To have those golden eyes trained on him.
And so he had come up with the brilliant plan to juggle in the middle of the hall during lunch. Except Patroclus had taken one look at him with the boys gathered around and left the hall. And now Achilles was stuck here juggling when all he wanted to do was run behind Patroclus.
He knew his father would want him to mingle with all the other boys here. They were not just boys after all, they were princes, perhaps future kings. But he couldn't make himself be bothered by any of them. He would be diplomatic when he absolutely had to, but for now he just wanted to play. Preferably with the fairy boy.
“Prince Achilles. Can I have a minute?” A haughty voice interrupted his musings. He turned back and found Hector standing there with his hands clasped behind, back straight. He would have told him to take as many minutes as he wanted and then left him alone, if not for Patroclus standing next to him, looking like a bored fallen angel.
“Yes,” Achilles said, eyes on Patroclus, then added, “Prince Hector.”
He dropped the figs into a bowl and made his way out, ignoring the disappointed grumbles of the other boys. Hector soon took his side, matching his pace with Patroclus trailing behind.
“Congratulations Prince Achilles, on the race,” Hector began.
“Thank you,” He replied and wondered if he too should compliment Hector on the wrestling match, where he won against the champion of last year. Then decided he doesn't really care much.
“I hope everything was to your liking here,” Hector continued.
Achilles wondered what he would do if he said no.
“Yes,” he said instead and against his best judgement he continued, “Is wrestling all you do?”
Hector raised an eyebrow looking at him as if he were a particularly bothersome child. “I will participate in the duel next year. When I am sixteen.”
Achilles scowled, not liking the reminder that it would take three more years for him to participate in the same. But before he could think of something polite to say, a blunt pain burst at the back of his head. He turned back, deciding to give whoever it was a piece of his mind, when he saw Patroclus picking up apples from the ground. Three red apples.
“Sorry,” Patroclus muttered halfheartedly. Then he balanced the three apples in his hands and started juggling. Except ten seconds in he missed again and it fell on the floor.
“I can teach you,” Achilles found himself saying, then corrected, “If you want that is. I could teach you.”
Patroclus slowly got up, looking at him with a thoughtful expression, cradling the apples in his arms.
“And what,” he finally said, “do you want in return?”
Achilles blinked. What did he want in return? To play with him. To watch him speak. To have those golden eyes on him and only him.
“Nothing,” he shrugged.
Patroclus tilted his head, his curls bouncing on his forehead looking like he didn't quite believe him.
“I could make you an apple pie,” he offered.
Achilles felt his lips pull to the side, a smile already forming.
“I think I would like that.”
Patroclus mirrored his smile, a smile with secrets nestled in the corner. And Achilles wanted to curl up in there and never leave.
“Excuse me Prince Achilles, I think we need to leave,” Hector announced, not looking in any way happy. He grabbed Patroclus' wrists and tugged him away. And as they neared the end of the corridor Patroclus turned back, giving a small wave and a grin. Achilles waved back, feeling his heart race, a strange squiggly something in his stomach, as he watched them disappear down the corner.
This place is beautiful, Achilles thought watching the blue silvery globes light his way in the garden, so so beautiful.
He wandered deep into the garden, the green leaves glowing in the dark, squeaks of crickets echoing around him. Until he came to a spot where darkness deepened, the garden spreading out into the woods and where the globes would move no farther. Deciding to keep moving nevertheless, he found himself in a thick forest, the moonlight turning the whole place haunted and quiet.
He had waited for the fairy boy to come to dinner. Minutes had passed but he never did. Disappointed and a touch annoyed, Achilles had left the hall and started wandering around. And now, in the middle of the night, he had ended up in a thicket of trees.
His feet twisted on a stone again, and he swore, kicking the stone away which skittered and halted before a looming willow tree. Achilles squinted and found himself staring straight at bright golden eyes.
“Patroclus?” He whispered, surprised , making his way towards the boy sitting on the ground.
“What are you doing here?” He asked standing before him.
Patroclus shrugged, leaning his head back against the willow tree and closing his eyes. “Listening to the tree,” he murmured.
“Listening to the tree?” Achilles repeated, confused. Trees don't talk, do they?
Patroclus hummed.
“Well uh,” Achilles frowned, “I was walking here and got lost.”
Patroclus hummed again, turning his head to the side, his knees pressed to his chest.
“Patroclus!”
Patroclus huffed, opening his eyes and sitting up straight, “What?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Now? Nothing. But before you barged in here? I was talking to the tree,” Patroclus snapped.
“What?” Achilles blinked. Trees can listen too?
Patroclus sighed, leaning back again.
“What do you want, Prince Achilles?”
Achilles shuffled his feet, what did he want?
“Wanna play?”
Well that's certainly not what he wanted to say.
“Play,” Patroclus asked, an eyebrow raised, “Now? Here.”
“Well,” he continued, refusing to feel embarrassed, “it's either that or talk.”
“And what if I want to do neither?”
What else is there to do?
“Where are you from?” Achilles blurted and immediately wished to throw them back into his mouth.
Patroclus exhaled, thumping his head back, eyes closed. He sat still, chest rising and falling with deep breaths and Achilles wondered if it was time to tuck his tail between his legs and run away.
“Fine,” Patroclus stated, getting up, “you wanna play? Let's play.”
Achilles followed Patroclus, as he strolled deeper into the woods, with only moonlight to guide. The trees grew denser and gnarled, the branches arching and low, brushing them as they moved past. He wanted to ask where they were going but his pride stopped him.
The moonlight shimmered the white silk tunic billowing around the boy's frame. It was not really his size, he thought, as the tunic slipped sideways revealing slim shoulders and a tattoo of snake slithering over it. Patroclus, however, didn't seem to be bothered by it, as if he was used to wearing clothes a bit too large for him.
He was too preoccupied by what the tattoo could mean that he almost walked into him when Patroclus made an abrupt halt.
Patroclus crossed his arms and looked up, without turning around. Achilles followed his gaze and found that they had made their stop before one of the tallest trees here. And at the very top, a lone Ruby red apple dangled like a siren.
“See that apple?” Patroclus said, “Whoever climbs the tree and gets that first is the winner.”
Achilles looked up again. The tree was easily more than fifty feet tall.
“Are you sure?”
“Why Prince,” Patroclus began, voice coy, “You almost sound scared.”
“I am not,” Achilles stated. He wasn't scared. Achilles was never scared.
“I was just worried about you.”
An eyebrow raised,
“I assure you prince, I can take care of myself alright. The question is can you?”
Achilles smirked. There was nothing he loved more than a challenge.
“It's game on, fairy boy.”
Without waiting for a response he dived into the challenge.
Stepping on the root he reached for the lowest branch.
Grab and haul up.
Another foot on the ridge.
Hands cawed over the bark.
Raise.
Reach for the twigs.
Missed.
No problem. Try again.
And by the time he finally raised himself up to the tallest branch, his heart was thumping a wild beat and adrenaline sparkled through his veins, mind blank except for the truth that he won.
That is until he found Patroclus lounging on the said branch, his legs dangling, taking a bite of the Ruby red apple.
Achilles blinked, annoyed and impressed in equal measure.
“How did you come up so fast?” Achilles asked, once he had settled next to him.
Patroclus shrugged, throwing the apple at him. Achilles caught it in one hand and took a bite, juicy sweetness bursting on his tongue.
“Fairy boy uh?” Patroclus asked, teasing, “Has no one ever told you not to mess with one?”
“I wasn't messing with you,” Achilles said, passing the apple to him, “I truly just wanted to play with you.”
Patroclus looked at him with a thoughtful expression and it would have been emphatic if it wasn't for the juice smeared across his chin, leaves caught up in his curls and his tunic almost falling off his shoulders.
“Aren't you cold?” Achilles fussed, reaching over to set the tunic straight, before plucking the leaves out of his hair. Fingers brushing over the too soft curls.
And when he pulled back Patroclus still had the same strange expression on his face.
“I have changed my mind,” Patroclus declared, “Apples are my official favourite fruit from now on.”
Achilles blinked before a surprised laughter escaped him.
“And it wasn't before?”
“It was figs,” he said, passing the apple to him, “and now it's apples.”
“I like figs.” Another bite of the apple.
“Oh,” Patroclus bit his lips, looking confused.
“Well,” he continued, “in that case I would just have to do with two favourite fruits instead of one.”
“As long as they don't end up in a war for your attention.”
Patroclus sighed,
“I would just have to make sure I love them both equally then. And,” he added, snatching the apple from his hand, “I think you have had enough.”
Achilles chuckled, gladly giving up the fruit. He glanced to the side and his eyes widened, breath getting caught.
Tall towers rose like sentinels from the ground, the moonlight turning them silver with red fiery flames alight at the very top. And at the midst – the clock tower stood with imperial authority, its hands pointing towards twelve. Surrounding them were the lush verdant greenery, intercepted with blues and yellows of glowing lanterns.
“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Patroclus muttered, staring at the same.
Achilles hummed and looked at him. Long lashes and red lips, cheeks flushed in cold and adrenaline, moonlight twinkling in bright golden eyes.
“Yes,” he whispered, “it is.”
And if Achilles felt his heart sped up when Patroclus laid his head on his shoulder or if he found his arm wind around him, pulling him closer, rubbing his palm across the boy’s arm to provide as much warmth as he can, all with that same strange squiggly something in his stomach? Then it was none but his business to mind.