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    Summary

    "I'm sick of talking about her." The words echoed in Patroclus' mind over and over.

    He remembered Achilles' green eyes, the specs of gold in them more evident than ever. He remembered his smell, sandelwood and pomegranate, filling his nostrils and fogging his mind. He remembered how easy it would have been to touch their lips together, to let Achilles consume his very being.

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