Fame

The halls leading to the auditorium where the auditions were being held were large, dark, and looming, the chill from the AC leaving the space cold and uninviting. Every footstep on the tiled floor echoed, overwhelming, crashing into Patroclus like waves. The acoustics of the space were perfectly designed to project sound, but only served in intimidating the fifteen-year-old even more than his father already was.

Menoetius squeezed his wrist, painfully twisting it as he dragged Patroclus toward the line of people waiting for their turn to audition for Phthia Music Entertainment. A large, solidly built man, there was nothing a scrawny Patroclus could do when Menoetius shoved the forms into his hands, gripping his shoulders so that he couldn’t run. They arrived at the tail end of the auditions, so the line was relatively short in comparison to when it had looped around the block, full of avid singers and performers ready to take their chance in front of some of the most fame-making men that existed in the entertainment industry.

“You will not embarrass me, boy,” his father hissed. “You will get up there, and you will sing like your life depends on it.”

Patroclus didn’t deny that his life did depend on it. He can’t believe his father ever caught him singing, how could he have been so careless? It was supposed to be a secret, something that he did to soothe his ailing mother.

“Sing for Mommy, Pat, my dearest,” she would whisper during the times she was lucid, and Patroclus would oblige, singing a simple song from her oldies hits or from musicals that she would find pleasing. It had been their secret because Menoetius hated music and the arts. Everything that he wanted out of a son- strength, machismo, sports-savvy- his son lacked, and more often than not it was taken out on him after a bad workday or a night out drinking. Still, Menoetius was no fool- the moment he’d kicked down the door to Patroclus soothing his mother, he realized he had raw talent in his possession. And for him, talent meant money, something he was also severely lacking in. Good fortune arrived in the form of Phthia Music Entertainment scoping for new voices, and he’d filled out the paperwork and put the fear of the gods into a shy Patroclus before forcing him into the car.

He didn’t want to sing for others, especially not at the whim of his father. The singing was for him and Mommy.

Patroclus is trying to sink further into himself when the loveliest voice he’s ever heard chimes like bells across the hall, singing.

Someday I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Away above the chimney tops, that's where you'll find me-

The voices rumbling are immediately silenced by its pure quality. Despite the unusually cheerful delivery, the sureness of each note is so concrete that no one would dare have the nerve to interrupt. The only noise that comes afterwards is a scoff, followed by a sharp feminine voice.

“Really, Achilles, I don’t understand why you want to audition with so simple a song.”

“Because Father likes that song, Mother. And so do I.”

Patroclus leans over a little and zeroes in on who’s so confidently speaking. A tall, slim, and glamorous pale woman stands in a teal sundress, her sleek black hair pencil straight down her back. In front of her is a boy about his age, and Patroclus’ heart stutters.

“Hmph. Surely, we could find you something else. I had an entire list of options. It’s just Odysseus, Menelaus and Agamemnon, so I understand it’s not so serious, but still-”

Where Patroclus’ hair is a curling dark mess, the kid- Achilles? - hair is a blond with suggestions of red, burning like fire down past his ears. That hair moves as he shrugs nonchalantly.

“I saw your options, Mother, and you know I love you, but I wanted to sing something special for him, too.”

Where his skin was brown like burnished copper, and his physique on the skinny side, Achilles’ skin was noticeably tanned and lean muscled, the healthy pallor of someone who constantly played outside and ate very well.

Achilles’ mother rolls her eyes fondly. “It is no matter. You’ll get the spot. I’m still furious he even dares to have you audition at all. You’re his son, and you’re leagues better than anyone else here.”

Where Patroclus had inherited caramel eyes like his mother’s, Achilles had sea-green eyes, and those gorgeous eyes locked onto his. Flickering to look him up and down, he smirked.

And that was enough for Patroclus. His father couldn’t belittle him any further than that one look did.

Yanking away from a distracted, envious Menoetius, Patroclus dashes away into the deep underbelly of the audition hall. He doesn’t look back, dashing up stairs, around corners, and far, far away from the judgment of the world. The pounding of blood in his ears is the only thing he’s cognizant of until he opens an unlocked door and trips over something, colliding into the ground.

“Damn it. Damn it!” he cries, the pain from his bruised arms and knees combining with his frustration and humiliation at the entire situation. He curls up into a ball and begins to silently sob. Why? Why? Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to do this when he never wanted to? Why did he have to suffer looks from some unknown, pompous, uppity boy he’d never met before that made him feel every inch the failure his father made him feel?

After a couple minutes, his tears run dry and he wipes his face. The catharsis is short-lived, as he fills with the raw fear of knowing that he’ll have to head back to face his father’s wrath. Knowing how bad that’s going to be, Patroclus decides to take his time going back. He’s already committed the sin of embarrassing Menoetius, of disobeying him, so there’s no point in rushing. In fact, he thinks, standing up and looking around, this could be a short adventure to tell Mommy about.

He realizes that he’s fallen into one of the unused sound booths in the auditorium, tripping over stray wiring. When he reaches the glass, he can see down into where three men sit at a long table, surrounded by papers and laptops. His stomach clenches when he sees Achilles, confidently standing in the middle of the stage, adjusting the mic.

“Aren’t you going to greet your elders? I’ve had you and your father over for multiple beers and sandwiches, we’re practically family,” one of the judges, with olive skin and dark hair, teases.

“Apologies, Odysseus.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” the other man grunts. “We know full well the line up that Peleus is going to pick, with Thetis breathing down his neck. Is she in here too?”

The man in the middle tries to swallow his bubbling laughter. “No, she’s in the hall listening in. She’s been told she can’t come in, which I’m sure will be an issue later. But, Agamemnon, we still have to give him the time of day.”

“Menelaus-”

“You should listen to your brother. We have to properly audition everyone who walks in.” Odysseus still speaks lightly, but it is obvious that he is not to be trifled with as Agamemnon huffs back in his seat.

They go through all the formalities, and Patroclus watches in begrudging awe as Achilles fields each question, his posture never wavering. The longer he watches, the more he realizes- Achilles’ mother was perfectly right to be confident in him. Despite his youth, he stands and communicates like someone who has been trained for years, like it’s his birthright- a star in the making.

Patroclus would have never beaten him.

Surprisingly, once he gets over that fact, it becomes easier to observe the entire situation with a little more enthusiasm and intrigue. From the little he can understand, it seems that Achilles must be the son of Thetis and Peleus, and Peleus is the owner of Phthia Music Entertainment . How strange, he ponders, to make your own son audition. He concludes that Peleus must be an honest man, but that’s even more impressive- in being such an honest man, he must also realize that his son can and will win this spot.

He’s ready to see why, antsy with anticipation when Achilles goes to sing his first song. He knows it’s Over the Rainbow, so he’s unprepared when he sees the transformation occur in front of him. Despite the simplicity of the song, Achilles seems to light up with the stage, his voice no longer the playful lilt it was when he was showing off in the hall. He’s not just singing, he’s performing, and if there were a larger audience they would be just as floored as the other people were in the hall. Patroclus is shocked to see the three men simply nodding, though Odysseus’ body language still remains cheerful.

“Peleus truly loves that song. Perhaps you’re too young to know why,” he comments, jotting down notes. “Still, while we love it, I think I want to hear something else.”

Patroclus snorts when Achilles’ eyes light up indignantly with the challenge, as if stunned that the one song wasn’t enough.

“Okay?”

“Hm… since we’re doing nostalgic songs, have you ever learned Summertime? Ella Fitzgerald’s version, I mean.”

“Summertime?” Achilles looks even more bemused, and Odysseus mischievously leans in.

“Indeed. From a terribly racist opera, so I won’t fault you if you’ve never seen that, but the many renditions of this song are classic, that version being one of my favorites.”

“I… I have not learned it, actually, but I’ve heard it.”

Odysseus’ body shifts back dramatically, exaggerating his pretend shock.

“How unfortunate for you! It’s such a lovely song, too.”

Fists clenching, Achilles scowls. “Give me something else! I can do it! I know I can! It’s just one song!”

“Fair enough. I was just in the mood for something in a… different sort of soulful.”

Patroclus doesn’t realize that he’s mirrored Achilles’ body language until he begins to giggle, his fists unclenching as he laughs. Look at that, Achilles, there’s something I know that you don’t. The song was one of his Mommy’s favorites, and it had been a long time ago when she sung it for him.

It’s been a long time since she’s sang an entire song.

He watches as Achilles is offered another song, a more modern, upbeat one that he knows, and in his relaxation, he belts it out at the top of his lungs. He even goes so far as to move away from the mic, swaying his body and putting on a small show. By the end, all three men are clapping lightly, and even Patroclus is giving him slow claps.

“Well done, Achilles.” He turns to face the door, sighing. “At least someone got something good out of this shitshow today.”

With that, he leaves the small booth. The lowering sun burns into his eyes, and he flinches away from the light as he tries to remember how he got to where he was in his panic. As he makes his way down some back stairs, he mindlessly thinks about Odysseus’ words. The man was right; the song was a classic, known for how many different meanings the song can have based on how it was sung. Deep in thought, he finds himself singing.

Summertime

And the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin'

And the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy's rich

And your ma' is good lookin'

So, hush

Little baby

Don't you cry

The acoustics that intimidated him so much earlier now seem to envelope him in his own voice, the mellow tones of the pensive song reverberating and amplifying his presence. He slowly sways to the imaginary trumpet and violins in his head, stepping and spinning around like Achilles had on the stage as he hums in between some of the lines. It’s a little exciting in secret, he has to admit; the idea that someone would want to hear him, little old Patroclus. 

One of these mornings

You're gonna rise up singing

Yes, you'll spread your wings

And you'll take to the sky

But 'til that mornin'

There's nothin' can harm you

Yes, with Daddy and Mommy

Standing by

Patroclus knows why Odysseus had chosen to pick at Achilles with this particular song. It was evident to anyone that Achilles was completely different stock from him- innocent in a way, a child with all the trimmings of a happy life and a successful future- and yet, the singer needs to be someone like Patroclus, someone who can truly empathize with the unspoken, desperate hope behind the person crooning this child to sleep. It was a veiled barb calling him ‘sheltered’, and the recipient was too naïve to see it. As he finishes the last chorus, the last note in the word cry slowly fading down the halls, he comes across a door leading to a small garden full of flowers and a little fountain.

I’ll grab some flowers for Mommy, Patroclus thinks, humming. She’ll be happy. I can hide them in my back pocket.

Caught in his warm thoughts, he completely misses Thetis’ stone-still figure, leaning against one of the open windows toward the garden.

Her son is flawless.

If there’s one truth in this world, Thetis knows it is that.

As much as she hates Peleus, the one good thing he’d ever given her had been her cherub of a baby boy, with his golden locks, his strength, and his perfect health, and most importantly- the voice of a star.

From the moment he began singing little songs in front of her from his music classes, everyone knew that Achilles was special. He was never shy, he learned quickly, and was practically in love with the stage. His presence was inherited from his mother, who was once an opera singer herself. Audiences would silence just from her mere glance; naturally, they should quail in the presence of her son, who after years of versatile training was ready to take the first steps toward stardom. If her foolish husband hadn’t decided to be ‘fair’, to audition him with the dregs of society like everyone else, to ‘give him more of a childhood than either of us had’, Achilles would already be well into the studio by now.

And now, Thetis watches as it all is threatened by a ragamuffin, a waif of a child that seemed to mock her as he sang the song that those bastards mocked her Achilles with.

The worst part was that this boy seemed completely unaware of his talent, hopping goofily down the hall and right past her. His voice was lower than Achilles, yet his delivery was smooth, perfectly mournful, his perfect pitch drawing her in as she wondered where the lovely, crooning voice was coming from. He lacked her son’s charisma, for sure, and was not as coordinated or beautiful. However, with proper training, this boy could possibly threaten her son’s future. Peleus was a soft-hearted fool and was known to take on ‘extra proteges’, which would re-direct his focus - and she couldn’t have that.

As she wonders what to do, a large, uncouth man begins walking toward her, dark fists clenched. When he sees the boy through a window, his eyes widen with rage and he growls as he barrels toward the door.

“Hold it,” she commands, freezing him at the door. He turns to face her, baring his teeth in intimidation. Thetis only rolls her eyes; she was used to men like him, trying to make her feel less than. She holds a couple inches of height over him, not that being shorter would have made his barbaric glance any more effective.

“That boy out there- that’s your son?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You brought him here to audition?”

“Why else would I bring him here? They’ve got a few more minutes, they can hear the fucking brat sing.”

It’s clear that the man hates the child, but the answer reveals to her a greed that won’t be so easily removed by simply stalling for time. No, she needs an option that removes this child from the equation altogether.

“Hm. Do you know who I am?”

“Should I?”

The insolence! Thetis wants to slap some respect into him, but she simply tightens her fist in agitation.

“My husband owns Phthia Music Entertainment . My son was the one who made yours run out of the room in rightful humiliation today.”

It’s a win on her end; the man flinches, tossing a hateful glance out of the window.

“You have quite the son. Any man would be envious.”

“Of course they would. Question- is it the money?”

“What?”

“Don’t be a fool… you-” She impatiently waves a hand in his direction, and the man swallows.

“Menoetius.”

“Right. Don’t be a fool, Menoetius. Is it the money that is making you audition him?”

“You think you’re so smart, woman- why else would I? His mother has a brain disease, and the boy is worthless otherwise- both of them weights in my pockets.”

So, it’s not care for his future. Well, this, I can handle.

“I’ll pay for your wife’s medical costs. Take him and leave this audition.”

Menoetius’ eyes fill with avarice at her offer, but then he purses his lips and shakes his head.

“No. The woman can’t be saved, anyway. That does nothing for me.” He looks back out at his own son, selfishness twisting his expression. “Send him off to some school. I know you’ve got the money. Take him off my hands and pay me yearly to keep me quiet. For every year I get a check, it’s another year I’ll re-sign whatever it is to keep him that way.”

Disgust ripples over Thetis’ expression. “Absolutely not.”

“Then I’ll be taking him now.”

Before he opens the door, Thetis death grips his shoulder.

“Fine,” she hisses. “But if at any point he opens his lips, the deal is off.”

Menoetius grins. “We have a deal then. I’ll see it in writing.”

Patroclus wanders out of the garden, the flowers stuffed into his shirt. His father can’t crush them if he can’t see them, and hopefully this will keep them intact enough. The last of his leftover nerve wavers as he approaches familiar territory, the doors to the auditorium in sight. Even though he has accepted his fate, it doesn’t stop the violent wracking of his body, and he collapses to his knees.

Get it together, Pat, he hisses to himself. Just…stand up!

He’s so trapped in his inner monologue that he doesn’t notice when someone leans over him.

“Is my presence so magnificent that you can’t even stand?”

Achilles’ smug voice is the last thing that Patroclus needs right now- even if it is a pretty voice. His smarmy look morphs into one of concern when he sees the Patroclus genuinely cannot rise, and he goes to lift his arm. Flinching, Patroclus leans away, raw fear in his eyes for a moment before he realizes what he’s done.

“I’ve got it.” After a moment, Patroclus stands up, catching his breath. Achilles watches curiously, but before he can open his mouth, Patroclus cuts him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” A small pause. “So, did you come here to audition today?” he asks awkwardly.

Patroclus considers lying, and it just feels too difficult. “No. I didn’t,” he softly replies.  

“Uh huh. I assume that’s why you ran away earlier, then?”

The blunt questions are exhausting already, and his shoulders droop as Patroclus drearily looks Achilles in the eye. They’re the same height, which is interesting for him to note considering how small Achilles had made him feel before.

“Something like that. Why are you here?”

“I’m waiting for my mother. You?”

“For Meno- my father.”

“Okay.”  

Unsure what comes over him, Patroclus reveals his secret. “I saw you audition today. You sang very well.”

Confusion wrinkles Achilles’ face as he tries to understand. “How? The auditions were closed, for everyone. Unless- you were that noise! I heard something crash before, and I just dismissed it, but you really were there!”

“I’m sorry! I had just run away, and I wasn’t sure where I ended up, and… then I heard you start, and I wanted to see. I didn’t record it or anything.”

“You’d better not have!” When he notices Patroclus flinch at his tone, Achilles seems to understand and calms down. “As long as you didn’t do that, it’s fine. You don’t- you can calm down, now. I’m, uh- I’m Achilles.”

He places a gentle, soothing hand on Patroclus’ shoulder, and Patroclus slowly loosens under his touch, giving him a small smile.

“Patroclus. You were supposed to be an asshole, you know. Giving me that awful look earlier. You’re not supposed to be patting my shoulder or talking to me.”  

Pouting, Achilles pretends to wonder what he’s talking about. “Asshole? Me? A look? I don’t remember anything like that!”

“Yes, you do! You looked at me like I was dirt!” Patroclus shoves him lightly.

“Well, that was then! Now I’m not looking at you that way!”

They both break into childish giggles, and Achilles wipes a tear away.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “You don’t look like dirt. Actually, I-” His skin gains a pretty blush. “I think your eyes are pretty.”

Blushing in return, Patroclus runs a hand through his hair. “Oh. Thank you. Um. Yours are pretty, too.”

Pressing his chest up proudly, Achilles smiles, pointedly looking away. “I know.”

Patroclus scoffs, and opens his mouth to speak until the sound of heavy footsteps and heels begin to approach them. Achilles turns pointedly toward his mother, but frowns when he sees Patroclus immediately shrink on himself, eyes downcast.

“Come, Achilles.” Thetis commands, breezing past them both, her perfume lingering. Achilles turns back and sees a look on Patroclus’ father’s face that freezes him to his soul. The man stands about a foot away from his son, overbearing and displeased.

“Patroclus,” he whispers, placing his hand on the small of his back. “Did you want my phone number?” He looks up at the man, his face firm. “I’ve invited Patroclus over for video games, I’d like to see him again.”

“Don’t worry, young man,” the man replies, smiling sinisterly. “You’ll see a lot more of him soon enough.”

What does that mean? They both wonder. Patroclus grabs Achilles’ hand, giving a half-hearted squeeze.

“Go. I’ll be okay.”

“But-”

“Just go.”

“Achilles! Let’s go!”

Patroclus leans away, giving him a sad smile. “See ya later, Achilles. It was nice to meet you.”

Patroclus and his father are almost out of sight when Achilles sees some small, crumpled flowers on the ground. Despite his mother’s disapproving glare, he moves forward to pick them up, scooping them into his pocket. He rushes to her side, out to the limo that has been waiting on them for some time.

“I hope you don’t think that boy is someone worth remembering,” Thetis comments, picking stray lint off of her dress. “Put him out of your mind and get rid of those silly flowers. I’ll certainly put that horrible man out of mine.”

But Achilles can’t put Patroclus out of his mind. From the moment he’d seen him in that hall, his heart had been pounding non-stop. Gorgeous, dark, thick curly hair, copper-brown skin, and those beautiful, unusually light brown eyes- it made him break character, he had to sing a little bit. He wanted the boy to know him, to look at him, and when he had eye contact, he’d tried to give him a nonchalant glance- oh, you saw me? Instead, he just made him run away. It wasn’t until later, when he caught Patroclus again, that he realized that those eyes carried an immense sadness.

And now, Patroclus was gone, left with some cryptic message suggesting he may see him again.

He hopes he does see him again; he likes this warm, giddy feeling he has in his chest from seeing him. Smiling ear to ear, he curls up in the seat and stares out the window, singing a new song to himself.

That day Menoetius had beaten him black and blue once he’d gotten home. Foul words were said, and even fouler punches thrown, and all Patroclus could do after a while was curl up and take it. So, when Menoetius had held him up and tossed him into a chair, he was sure that more verbal abuse about ‘embarrassment’ and ‘undeserving of life’ was to follow. Instead, Menoetius offered him an out.

“You’re going to go to some fancy school that Thetis will enroll you in. You and that boy,” he hisses with disgust. “Will end up going to the same school. You won’t be showing your ugly face around here ever again. In exchange for her paying for your schooling, you are not allowed to sing even one fucking note around anyone else. You stay silent, I get paid, you get out of this house. Everyone wins. Do you understand?”

Patroclus doesn’t, and his voice quivers. “If I don’t sing… I can go to school with Achilles?”

“And I get paid. Let me make this clear, you shit- if you ruin any part of this, if you even let a sound slip from your throat, she will cancel it all, including my checks. She does that, and I will tear that fucking tongue right out of your mouth. Understand? There is no life for you after that.”

When Patroclus doesn’t answer quickly, Menoetius twitches toward him, causing him to cower.

“Do you understand?”

“I understand! But-” He takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “What about Mommy?”   

Scoffing, Menoetius turns away. “I’ll use some of that money to keep her alive. Of course, you don’t keep up your end, she dies as well.”

The thought is horrifying. “Can I at least visit her?”

“What the fuck ever.”

It’s almost a dream come true, and Patroclus is quick to take it. Whatever lies he must keep up with in order to ensure that Achilles, and no one else, ever finds out he can sing he will keep up with. Anything to get out of this house and away from his father, and to keep his mother alive.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Get out of my sight.”

When Patroclus finally scatters into his room, locking the door and jumping under the covers, for some reason he vaguely remembers the flowers that he was supposed to give his mother.

That night, Patroclus silently sobbed until exhaustion, his emotions on overdrive. There were the old tears of course, of an old sadness and dismay at the lack of love and support from his abusive father. There were some new tears, of frustration and hate that his life meant so little to Menoetius that he could essentially sell his voice in exchange for money. And then finally, there were tears of confusion and hope- he was getting out. He was leaving, going to a new school, where people like Achilles- and Achilles himself- attended! Patroclus wasn’t going to give Menoetius the satisfaction of true graciousness- he didn’t deserve a lick of it- but if there was a chance to make something of himself, this was it!  

Mt. Pelion Private School for Boys stood imperiously in front of Patroclus, and the only thing stopping him from turning away from its large black gates was the stronger desire to get away from the raggedy car that dropped him, his bookbag, two suitcases, and two bins off, waiting impatiently to peel away. He drifts mindlessly as an administrator comes to gather him while someone takes his things, leading him to the office to officially sign him in, and then to his new dorm room. Even the cheapest of the dorms in this school were a good size, and Patroclus was in a suite style dorm- two rooms, one bathroom, one shared communal space. The administrator rattles off the dorm rules, as well as a list of resources that he can reach out to in case he has questions. When they leave, he takes it all in- the space is small, just enough room for a bed, a desk, and a large wardrobe- and Patroclus is in love.

He flops onto the pre-made bed, squeezing the soft pillow, and inhaling its clean scent. It’s easy to unpack; he didn’t have much to his name anyway, so it was easy to put the brand-new uniforms in the wardrobe, the rest of his clothes in the small drawers, and to put the school supplies in the desk and plug in his gently used laptop. Despite the bareness of it, Patroclus is undeterred- there was just so much potential; he can do whatever he wants with this room! It’s so exciting he could sing-

And then he shoves his hands over his mouth, dread searing through him. Menoetius’ cruel face flashes, and he swallows his lack of control, shoving it into his heart. One slipped note, just one fuck up, and his mother is out of that brand new facility, and he’s sent back home into the literal clutches of death.

Do better, he rages at himself. Just as he’s calming down from his near slip, a sharp knock rings at the door. Old reflexes leave him tense, and after reminding himself that he 1) is not at home and 2) has a peephole that he can check, he opens the door to another student. This kid is a full head shorter than him, tan, covered in freckles amplified by his large glasses, and his brown wavy hair is up in a messy ponytail that shivers as he excitedly grins at Patroclus. If he could use the word ‘beach bum’ to describe someone, this person was it for sure.

“Dude! I’m your roommate!”

“Uh… okay?” This level of interpersonal communication is not something Patroclus is used to, and his roommate flounders only momentarily before trying again with a bright smile.

“Name’s Antilochus! What’s yours?”

“Patroclus.”

“Nice! Can I call you Pat?”

Replying ‘only my Mommy calls me Pat’ sounds lame even in his own inner monologue, so Patroclus nods instead.

“Neat! Nice to meet you, Pat! I noticed you’re new, so I was actually going to invite you to come hang out and get a snack? Those tours they give you here are boring, but I know the in’s and outs of this place and can show you around.”

Antilochus is overwhelming, an extrovert to his core. Patroclus wants to tell him no, that he wants to cozy up on his new bed and bask in the silence. However, it is very true that he ignored just about everything the administrator had told him, and he can sense that having Antilochus as a friend will reap more benefits than regrets.

“Sure, okay. Thanks.”

Antilochus seems to gain an energy boost right in front of him from the affirmative, and his eyes glow as he claps his hands together. Noticing Patroclus’ fearful response, he sensibly pulls his hands apart.

“No loud noises?”

Grimacing, Patroclus shakes his head. “No.”

“No worries,” Antilochus gently amends. “You’re a guy that needs his quiet, I can respect that. I’ll let you get cleaned up, and then we can head out in an hour?”

“Sounds good. Thanks, man.”

The tour of Mt. Pelion’s that Antilochus takes him on is indeed much more exciting. They start at the main mess hall, grabbing snacks to take on what turns out to be the beginning of a long walk. Even the honey crisp apple tastes better than anything he’s ever eaten as Antilochus explains the dining hours.

“The scrambled eggs? And the days when they make bacon too? Top tier. Those are days you have to get here early, or they’ll run out. I’m talking lines, Pat. But, if you can’t make it here, there are two more tiny stores in these locations-”

He points out the other food locations as they pass the athletic center. While the center is mainly for gym classes, it also serves as a practice location for all of the sports teams, and there’s a fitness center inside that is allowed to be used by any of the boys when it’s not being reserved by the teams.

“I’m trying to gain some muscle this year, so people who try to pick at me for being short can’t ignore these guns, Pat! I’m going to get some of the guys together to go; you ought to come with us!”

“Sure.” He’s never really been good at sports (nor does he intent to start now) but he’s always loved the idea of using a treadmill, and he’s got some new shoes with his gym uniform. Antilochus beams, elated with his new workout buddy.

The sprawling green that lays in between dining and the academic campus is full of students, some laid back on picnic blankets with visitors from other schools (girls, to note) while others played frisbee golf or ran with their families’ dogs. It’s only a seven-minute walk across the green, but Patroclus is floored- he’s never really seen so much free space, been surrounded by so much money before. His school at home was inner city and underfunded, where he was still mainly ignored by everyone around him, but that was because of who he was, and not because he was so noticeably not rich.

When they reach the academic campus, they make their way to the four-story library. The stoic white walls and deep brown bookshelves are balanced by the presence of the latest technology, boys all surrounding the desktops and lining up at the printers, whispers a constant around them.

“For some classes, study groups meet up in these rooms- it’s pretty cool, and I know we share a couple courses, we could study together!”

Antilochus points out the buildings that Patroclus will take his sophomore classes in, but it is when they’re passing the music building that he really gains energy.

“I love the music and arts building! Not only is it gorgeous on the inside, but there’s so much to pick from! Art? Theatre? Musicals? Amazing. Our program is top notch. Right now, I work sound for the musicals, and when I graduate, I want to go into music production! I’ve been practicing on this amazing software right now, but unfortunately, it’s not something they teach in high school. It’s fine though, I’m ahead of the game. I come here to listen to some of the performances and sample volunteer’s music for beats. Is there something you like to do, Pat?”

His voice wanes as he notices the wistful expression on Patroclus’ face as he stares at the beautiful stain glass doors leading into the building. “Pat?”

“Hm? Oh. No. I can’t- sing, I mean. I can’t sing.” His face is mysteriously sad, and Antilochus senses that there must be more behind the answer. Still, it’s not his business- he just met Patroclus- so he tries to nonchalantly brush it off.

“Meh. Understandable. We can’t all be Achilles around here.”

Patroclus turns, gasping. “You know him?”

Eyebrows raising, Antilochus glances humorously at Patroclus. “He’s in our grade. He’s not here all the time; a lot of times he takes his classes online while he’s off watching his mom tour or doing whatever the really rich and famous get to do while they go to school. But when he’s here on campus, everyone is always around him. He’s trying to be famous one day, and he’s taken the Mt. Pelion choir and Mt. Pelion acapella team to nationals twice since he’s been here. He’s pretty awesome, and his voice is amazing! I want to sample him personally, and I asked, but he told me no. He said that he’s going to be worth money one day and his mom says he can’t just give it away.”

The resulting pout from the expectable answer is adorable, and Patroclus can’t help but chuckle. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Like he was a right asshole!” Antilochus tosses his head back in laughter. “But you know, it makes sense in a way. I got over it. One day I’ll meet him in the studio, and then we’ll see who’s worth what.”

Antilochus’ explanation of Achilles fills Patroclus’ heart with mirth, though he’s also surprised to find that he’s a little sad. He’d hoped that he’d find Achilles on campus, to show him what he looks like when he’s clean and healthy and not terrified. But there was that disparity between them again- of course Achilles wouldn’t just be available to just spend time with Patroclus. He’d probably forgotten all about him.

“Let’s go inside! I heard there’s a visiting school for girls here using the auditorium this summer; St. Andromache’s, I think?”

Dragging Patroclus in behind him, Antilochus begins to rattle off the different studios and spaces, mentioning the types of classes that occurred in each room. Flashing a flirty smile to the fond upperclassman that stood at the door, Antilochus was able to take Patroclus into the sound booth over the black box theatre. A gaggle of girls in varying stages of costume all talked amongst themselves below, before the teacher began speaking through the mic.

“All right girls, we’re going to run Ultraluminary one more time. Bri, make sure you’re standing where you need to. Dei- Deidameia! Put that phone down! Make sure you’re dancing in line as well. Thank you!”

“Watch the magic happen!” Antilochus whispers, nudging Patroclus as he begins to pay attention to the buttons and knobs that he can’t make heads or tails of. Instead, he pays attention to the girl who begins to sing in the middle of the stage. Her skin is a milk chocolate brown, her frame broad shouldered and strong, her natural curls tied up into a pineapple on her head. The moment she steps away from the frivolity of her friends, her posture becomes more serious, closing her eyes as she sings.

I'm the light every night in your world

Are you ready to watch me be legendary?

'Cause I'm ultraluminary-

As the beat drops, an awe-struck Patroclus watches as the girls weave in and out of each other, singing the background vocals as ‘Bri’ begins to perform. His heart pounds as they begin to dance in earnest to the chorus, unable to help his swaying.

Whoa, welcome to Lunaria

Whoa, so spectacularia

Whoa, super singulary

'Cause I'm so very, very

Extraordinaria

“She’s awesome, right?” Antilochus whispers. “I heard that when she’s old enough, her old man says he’s going to take her right to Phthia Music Entertainment. I bet she’s a shoo-in, too!”

“Yeah, yeah, shh!” Patroclus hushes him, trying to focus on the routine.

It was a desert on the moon when we arrived

Gathering all of my tears, heartbreak, and sighs

Jade made a potion ignite and turned the night

To a radiant city of light

From tears I rise

I rise

The note gives him goosebumps, and for the second time that day, Patroclus is hit with an intense yearning to break into song. That yearning is then followed by an intense regret. He should have never entered the building; all he did was witness something that he would never be able to actually experience.

“Pat? Patroclus?”

The piece ends, and despite the whirlwind of emotion that Patroclus is feeling, everyone else seems to fall back into the same pattern. Unable to control his legs, Patroclus has already fled the dark room, instinctively finding the exit, and bursting out into the bright light.

“Hey Pat- you okay?”

“No, Antilochus, I’m not okay!” The sharp tone makes Antilochus flinch, hurt in his eyes as he grabs his arm. Backpedaling, Patroclus tries to placate him. “I’m sorry, man. I just… I have a bad history with music, okay? It was hard to watch, is all.”

“Bad history… But you seemed so happy watching the performance.”

“I know. It’s complicated and I can’t talk about it.”

They stand in an awkward silence, before Antilochus speaks up.

“Well… I think you should do what makes you happy, man. That’s what my mom says. But- but if you’re still looking for whatever that is, that’s cool too. We don’t have to come back here.”

It’s the most empathetic anyone has ever attempted to be with him, and Patroclus can appreciate that.

“Thanks.”

Relieved, Antilochus wraps an arm around Patroclus’ shoulders. “No problem! My friend Automedon texted me- I think they’re making grilled cheeses tonight at the mess hall- let’s go get in line for one!”

It’s almost the end of his first semester when Patroclus finally sees Achilles on campus. The energy in the chilled air feels different, buzzing with a sort of excitement that he hasn’t felt since classes first began at Mt. Pelion’s.

There’s no one to feel proud of him, but he’s done exceptionally well in his classes since he first arrived- turns out, when there’s no one menacing over his shoulder every night preventing his rest, Patroclus is intelligent, attentive, and ‘a joy to have in class’. His English teacher specifically likes him, citing his poetry as some of the best he’s read from his age group in a while.

He’s walking out of the mess hall, satisfied after the scrambled eggs and bacon he stood in line at 6am for when a crowd of boys run past him. No one is ever this excited this early (especially Antilochus, who very quickly amended his group workout schedule to be in the afternoons), so something must be up. Unbothered, Patroclus puts on the headphones attached mini-iPod touch that he’d won at a raffle as he heads to class. Today they were doing scheduling, which meant that they could finally pick electives. Patroclus was determined that he would pick something like an art class.

His desk next to the second-story window shows his favorite view of campus; the frosted green being covered in the first signs of warm sunlight, when he sees that same large crowd of boys approaching. Peering down, he gasps when he sees the unmistakable shock of golden hair surrounded by the throng, the space in front of him clearing every time he steps down.

“Hey, Pat!” Antilochus rushes into the classroom. “Achilles is here!”

Yes, and I’m not ready! Blushing furiously, Patroclus sinks down into the desk, hiding his face behind his textbook so as not to be noticed when the group enters the room.

“I guess it’s good that you got that fresh undercut like I said, since you think he’s so cute and all.”

The undercut had been a good idea, a gift from one of their dorm mates who was practicing with all textures of hair. His dark, conditioned curls rolled like tiny waves on the top of his head, giving him a sort of mysterious persona that Patroclus most definitely did not utilize, flipping his hair out of his eyes dramatically when he was looking in the mirror.

“That is not why I got it!”

Sitting in the desk next to him, Antilochus looks back and forth between the two events, before gaining a wicked grin. Patroclus knows this look; it’s the ‘pull Patroclus out of his comfort zone’ look, and glares at him.

“Don’t you dare-”

Their English teacher, Mr. Priam, calms the room down, and blessedly Achilles doesn’t turn to where he’s sat in the back. No one is looking his way at all, even when the schedule forms are passed back. There are the expected classes, math, chemistry, yet another gym class, English honors (as demanded by Mr. Priam). By the time he finishes filling out the form, there’s only room for one more course, 7^th bell, and Patroclus searches on the form for whatever art class might be available. His journey is interrupted when the teacher speaks up.

“Some of you may be wondering what electives to take next semester. Of course, I think that you all definitely have spoken and unspoken talents that would be discovered through taking certain classes.”

One student raises his hand.

“It’s okay, you can say it’s Achilles,” he teases good-naturedly. “We all know that’s who you mean.”

Laughter ripples through the class as Achilles pulls his hair into a bun, nonchalantly waving off the high praises from those sitting around him. Mr. Priam rolls his eyes.

“True, Achilles is an obvious answer. But I do think all of you have potentials that deserve to be recognized. For example, I remember when Hector was in my class- you know, my son, captain of the football team, untouchable Hector that you all worship?” Rumbles abound; of course, everyone knew about Hector- he was Mt. Pelion’s golden child before Achilles, and Mr. Priam brings him up at least once a class. “Hector also likes to paint, and he joined art classes. Now he has championship rings and art awards.”

Acknowledgement murmurs through the room; it was a fair connection to make.

“What about Pat?” Antilochus blurts, raising his hand. “You like his poems! What should he do?”

Antilochus you son of a bi-

It’s entirely too late to reach over and strangle Antilochus, and instead a petrified Patroclus is caught in the classroom’s stare when Mr. Priam turns and gives him a fond smile. He settles for screaming bloody murder in his head, pointedly avoiding the small sharp inhale from Achilles’ direction.

“I do enjoy Patroclus’ poems. They evoke a sense of soul that is wise beyond his years, a sense of passion that I personally think would thrive in music, or theatre. Songwriting, even.”

It’s a pointed suggestion, one of many that Patroclus has mastered the art of dodging from this particular teacher the entire semester. Flushing to his roots, he simply turns away, using his hair to hide his eyes.

“I think Patroclus should do it. Join a music class, I mean. He can learn an instrument and write my songs for me.”

The entire class gasps when Achilles speaks, but his eyes are completely trained on a stunned Patroclus.

“I mean, if I clearly have the singing, and he has the soul of a songwriter, I think we go together perfectly.”

With a flirty wink, Achilles turns back to the front of the class, and Antilochus begins to nudge Patroclus obnoxiously as he turns to stare at the paper on his desk.

His arm seems to move on its own as he signs up for 7^th bell guitar lessons with a ‘Mr. Chiron’, and Mr. Priam smiles approvingly when he takes his form.

When the bell rings, Patroclus is relieved to see Achilles sweep out of the class, once again surrounded by his followers. Antilochus quickly jukes his hits, beaming as he runs to his next class. The cold air hits him as he walks down the side stairs and outside, and two seconds later, another body slams him into the grass. Fearful for his life, Patroclus freezes when his eyes connect with sparkling sea green ones. His body relaxes, but he groans as a grinning Achilles rolls off of him.

“What the hell, Achilles?” he moans, standing up.

“What the hell, yourself! In my class, and you didn’t say anything!”

“You haven’t even been here all semester!”

Achilles shrugs. “I get my assignments in. But anyway, this is about you- how are you, Patroclus? It’s been so long!”

Patroclus resists the urge to fiddle his fingers. “It’s been fine. School’s good.”

“I’m glad! I’m so happy to see you. You- you look good. Healthier. And I like your haircut.”

All rage at Antilochus vanishes under the compliment. “Thank you.”

“I mean it! Though-” Achilles timidly lifts the hair from in front of Patroclus’ eyes. “It sucks that it hides your pretty eyes.”

The apples of Patroclus’ cheeks redden, though he’s going to blame it on the cold. “Anyway, where’s your clique?”

“Dodged them. Wanted to find you and give you my phone number so that you can’t avoid me anymore, like you tried to today. Give it.”

When the small burner phone lands in Achilles’ hands, he looks at it as if it were a rotting banana peel.

“What is this?”

“Emergency phone. Don’t have enough for a real plan. I use my computer if I really need to message anyone.”

Achilles turns away, putting his number in and texting himself. “Oh, philtatos, this is unacceptable,” he murmurs to himself.

“What?” Patroclus heard him mumble, but when he tried to get Achilles to clarify, the boy only flushed and shoved the phone back.

“Nothing. We’re going phone shopping this weekend. My treat. I’ll text you details. Now hurry up- you’re going to be late!”

With that, Achilles dashes across campus, running faster than anyone Patroclus had ever seen.

Under Mr. Chiron’s intense stare, Patroclus felt like every layer of himself was being peeled away. He was only in a class with five other students, some upperclassmen who paid very little attention to him otherwise, so there was no one to really take the brunt of this observation every class.

The first couple weeks are simple, learning hand and finger placement, refreshing on reading music, and practicing simple songs. To his surprise, and immense pleasure, Patroclus picks it up quickly. He enjoys the way the acoustic guitar buzzes in his hands as he plays, how it sings the notes that are barred to him. He’s tinkling away during the last couple minutes of Friday’s class when Mr. Chiron calls for his attention.

“Patroclus, I’d like to speak to you after class.”

The man’s voice is clear and to the point, and it makes Patroclus shrink in his seat as the other students leave the moment the bell rings, excited about whatever it is they have to look forward to that weekend. He takes a peek at his smartphone, the gift from Achilles still uncracked and well cared for. Of course, a notification waited from Achilles saying that he would be meeting him at his dorm and was currently discussing music with Antilochus (who texts complaining that he still can’t get a sample).

“Ahem.”

Dropping the phone into his bookbag, Patroclus looks up at the frowning man now sitting in a chair in front of him.

“Yes sir?”

Mr. Chiron gives him one more look, before folding his hands.

“Patroclus, I will start by saying you’re doing very well in my class. I think you can move to intermediate fairly confidently.”

Oh, oh okay that’s good news! “Thank you!”

“I do want to ask- why did you choose this class?”

“Sir?”

“Why did you choose this class, Patroclus?”

Mr. Priam said I had the soul of a musician.

Achilles said he wanted me to be his songwriter.

“I wanted to find a way to be close to music again,” he murmurs, talking to himself.

“Close to music?”

Realizing what he’s let slip, Patroclus chokes. “No! I didn’t say that! I-”

In panic, he begins to hyperventilate, and Mr. Chiron leads him through a couple breathing exercises until he can correctly breathe in and out.

“Are you ready to continue, or should we stop?”

“No,” Patroclus gasps. “I can continue. Why?”

Mr. Chiron nods. “I spoke to Mr. Priam, and he showed me some of your work in his class. I take pride in making sure I understand my students, and when I hear your music, and look at your work, I understand two things, Patroclus. One, I see someone who’s cut off from the thing he most wishes to do, and two, I see someone who’s been hurt.”

Patroclus tenses, squeezing his knees to his chest.

“Can you sing, Patroclus?”

He hides his face in his knees. “I can’t. I’m not allowed to.”

Given his loaded answer, Mr. Chiron takes a moment’s pause. Then he offers something else.

“Does playing the guitar help? I teach one on one classes for practice and composition after school twice a week, as well as one Saturday class; I would like you to attend.”

“I can’t afford lessons.”

“I did not ask that.”

Patroclus finds himself nodding. “Yes. I would like that.”

“Good. I’ll give you the schedule.” Mr. Chiron heads toward his desk to grab pen and paper. “Also, we have a great music theatre program here that could always use extra help around there with composition and songwriting when it’s time for performances.”

In a daze, Patroclus unravels himself, packing his things and walking to the front.

“Why are you helping me?”

Mr. Chiron doesn’t even look up as he writes down the details.

“Because, Patroclus, though I may not understand your traumas, I cannot bear to watch you suffer them alone. Music can serve as an outlet, a way to express feelings in a way we cannot otherwise. While I do not know what is stopping you from singing, if I can find a way to connect you with the music that you so clearly yearn for in another way, I will do that.”

Stunned, Patroclus pushes. “But how can you tell that?”

“You play the guitar as if you are singing. You learn the melodies, and you play them, but sometimes- and I’m not sure you notice- but when there are lulls in class, you play the melodies as if they are a voice, instead of just singing as you play.” Mr. Chiron hands him the paper. Scowling, Patroclus pockets it.

“That’s awfully specific.”

Shrugging, Mr. Chiron holds open the door. “I have no need to lie, especially to a child. I’ll see you tomorrow, Patroclus.”

With one last shady look, Patroclus scurries past the man. Whatever he was doing to hide his desire to sing, it clearly wasn’t working if Mr. Priam and Mr. Chiron could see it. If he weren’t careful, he’d end up slipping, and then it was all over. For a moment, he’s tempted to throw the piece of paper in his pocket in the trash and move on. Who cares what these teachers think, he rants in his head. I don’t need this!

Yet he can’t make himself do it. The idea of getting help, of finding a way to release some of the lonely, ever-present stress in his mind is far more tempting than the idea of isolating any further.

When he swipes his dorm room open, Achilles and Antilochus both glance at him in relief.

“Where have you been, Patroclus?” Achilles demands imperiously “Never mind. Tell this fool that the scrambled eggs at the mess hall are not the pinnacle of dining. I can’t stand it any longer.”

Patroclus giggles. “Well, Achilles, we can’t all eat fish eggs on toast every day, can we?”

Antilochus waves dramatically in his direction. “Exactly. And with Pat’s vote, you lose. Thank you, Pat!”

Scoffing, Achilles moves out of Patroclus’ way so that he can put his things away and sit on the floor. When Antilochus goes to grab something from his room, Achilles lays across his lap, scanning Patroclus’ face with a gentle expression.

“You’re smiling at something.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”  

“I did. If it’s me, you can tell me. My mom says I stun any and all onlookers.”

Smirking, Patroclus palms Achilles’ eager face away.

By junior year summer, Patroclus finds himself packed up and headed to Achilles’ father’s manor. It wasn’t where he’d intended to go, but when Achilles caught him having a mental breakdown about having to return to Menoetius for an entire summer, he’d quickly made some calls. Now, instead of returning to dark, unpaved streets and vengeful eyes, he watches as heavy hanging magnolia trees lead up a grand driveway to a white marble mansion that could very well be the entryway to heaven. It almost feels unreal, and he turns to face Achilles once more, who slouches in his seat playing some phone game, jaded by all the wealth.

“Thank you, Achilles. For inviting me here.” It’s at least the tenth time he’s said it.

Grinning, Achilles clicks the phone off and turns to him. “Of course, Patroclus. I would never leave my best friend behind- who else would play me the guitar beautifully while I basked in the sun? Or attend to my every whim on my 17^th birthday at the end of the summer?”

Rolling his eyes, he lightly punches Achilles. “You know I’m your friend beyond the future fame, right?”

It’s an insecurity of Achilles’ that he’s noticed- that he never really thought anyone was his friend, that they just wanted to admire him and share in the light that was admittedly always present. The grin on Achilles’ face melts into a small, bashful smile, and he reaches out for Patroclus’ hand.

“And it’s why you’re the only one I’d ever trust to bring home.” The car stops, and with one more squeeze, Achilles opens the door, pulling him out. “I can’t wait to show you around!”

If the tour of Mt. Pelion’s grounds had been overwhelming in its suggestions of wealth, Phthia was heart-stopping. Patroclus had never seen so much spotless examples of it. The white and black marbled floors practically shone with their reflections, the solid color schemes, and interior design in each room so well designed that they looked like they came out of the paint-swatch booklets that he saw on trips to Home Depot. Adding to the breadth of the space was all the light that entered every room. No wonder Achilles looked like a demigod- who wouldn’t in the glow of such an upbringing?  

On the first floor, he’s walked through: the sitting room, the living room, the dining room, the sunrooms, the laundry room, the music room, the library, and the mini theatre. The kitchen is his favorite part; the space has a small island in the middle, pots and pans hanging everywhere, and a full pantry.

“Patroclus, you look like you could consume the entire pantry,” Achilles teases.

“I could,” he whispers, licking his lips. Laughing, Achilles yanks on his sleeve.

“We’re going upstairs now- I’ll ask the chefs to make you your favorite sandwiches once we’re done, okay?”

Chefs? Patroclus must have died. He pinches his cheeks as they head up the stairs. The second floor is mercifully carpeted and is a little homier than the first floor. They pass Peleus’ suite, and onto multiple guest rooms, one of which has a large, bronze handle and keyhole.

“This is the suite where Mom stays when she visits. It’s all the way down the hall, because… well, she doesn’t like to talk to, or see Dad.”

Sadness doesn’t belong on Achilles’ features, and Patroclus nudges him out of whatever reverie he seems lost in. “Show me the rest, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah! Okay, enough of this hall, I’ll take you to my room- we’ll be sharing!”

All these rooms, why are we sharing? Patroclus wonders, but the moment Achilles tosses open his door, the thought shrivels and dies. Achilles’ one room could fit the entirety of the first floor of his house. The room is a soothing forest green, relaxing the eyes upon entry. There’s a queen bed that’s been moved to one corner of the room, making space for a full-sized bed that’s been placed in the opposite corner. A small pit is in the middle, where an entertainment system stands with a gigantic TV, multiple gaming systems, and sections full of games. A small couch sits across from it, a table in the middle covered in old snacks. Another section of the room has bookshelves and a sort of sitting area, a lamp for more focused lighting.

“If you’re wondering why there’s no desks or anything; there’s an office upstairs, though I usually study in my sitting area over there, or the library because I think it helps me focus better. The closet is over here, come look!”

The walk-in closet is enormous, full of neatly hung clothes. A small section has been cleared, with a post-it note labeled ‘Patroclus’ stuff’ in Achilles’ messy handwriting, and Patroclus can’t help but laugh at it.

“I don’t even have this much stuff, Achilles.” It’s a little embarrassing, but like everything else, Achilles has a solution.

“You’ll share some of mine! We’re close to the same size! Now, let’s go see the bathrooms- they’re my favorite.”

The bathroom is teal, with accents very similar in color to Achilles’ eyes. The clawfoot tub is deep, with golden handles and feet. There are two sinks, with loads of counter space. Achilles’ space is messy, full of leftover blond hairs and dried shaving cream. Patroclus is much neater in his habits, so he’s sure that even when he takes up his space, there will be a noticeable difference. Finally, there’s a grand shower, with glass doors instead of a curtain- the thought of having to be exposed in here makes Patroclus flush furiously.

“Okay! And that’s the basic tour!” Achilles announced, unaware of Patroclus’ inner struggle. “Now, unpack. We have to go swimming! I’ll meet you downstairs to go out; the door is right next to the living room!”

An hour later, Patroclus is unpacked, and changes into his swim shorts and a short-sleeved button up. Taking a deep breath, he timidly heads down the stairs. When he was with Achilles, it all seemed exciting, but alone, it feels hollow, like anything could hop out from any corner. Each step he takes is slow, measured, making his way back to the large kitchen. A small tray of ham and swiss mini sandwiches are on the countertop, and even though he knows he shouldn’t eat before swimming, a ravenous Patroclus consumes three, one after another. Pleased, he finally walks out to the back porch.

Well, ‘porch’ was underselling it. What lay in front of him, beyond the small sitting area he stood in, was a giant backyard, with a large cyan pool in the middle. The sun shone down right over it, and laying on a floating chair reclined Achilles, Gucci shades prominent over his eyes. Patroclus tries not to stare as he walks down, overhearing Achilles laugh as he talks to his father on the phone.

“Yeah, Dad, he’s here! I can’t wait for you to meet him; he thinks it’s awesome here already! Oh- there he is. We’ll be in the pool!” Patroclus screams when he’s hit with a splash of cold water the moment he walks nearby. “Come on, Patroclus! Jump in!”

Patroclus takes the chance to splash him back, and isn’t ready when Achilles, now off of his floatie, reaches up and drags him down into the water. For a moment, they simply float under the water, Achilles gripping tightly to him, and then they bubble to the surface, Patroclus gasping as he pulls himself back out of the water.

“Achilles!” Patroclus wails. “I just ate, give me a minute! And my shirt!” Achilles only cackles as he jumps back on his floatie.

“Oh- my bad. And it’s just a shirt, Patroclus! Take it off!”

Dismayed, he unbuttons the shirt and places it onto a chair, turning back to Achilles with a gasp. Sparkling from the water, Patroclus really gets the chance to observe Achilles’ new physique. He’s taller than he was when they’d met that fateful summer; broader. The extracurriculars at Mt. Pelion, along with the lifestyle that his mother makes him keep has him in top shape, golden hair laying on washboard abs that lead down to a slim waist.

“You look older, Achilles.”

Achilles only gapes, before turning away to pick at his glasses. “So do you. I don’t think we can share clothes like I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“You- you’re taller. Taller than me now that I look at you. You’re not skinny anymore, either.”

Blushing, Patroclus looks down at himself. It’s true; good diet, all the walking, and Antilochus’s workouts plus gym class have helped him gain some lean muscle of his own, though he’s not as hardened as Achilles.

“I bet you think you’re cooler than me with the little beard hairs, too.”

The tease makes Patroclus scoff. So maybe he was proud of the small tuftlets of hair on his chin. Grinning, he points his chin up in challenge.

“So what if I do?”

If he does, he has every right to.

Achilles knew that he was tempting fate when he invited Patroclus to come back home with him that summer. His main reason had been to get Patroclus away from the terrible home life that seemed to haunt him with every passing day, and after watching him wail into his arms, he needed to do something.

Of course, he’d already been planning to ask Patroclus before then. The boy truly was his best friend; where others followed like sheep, pining after his every move, Patroclus stood firm, holding his own in their space. When Achilles sang, other people preened after him, but Patroclus would watch silently with those wide, caramel eyes, or carried about his day as if it just made perfect sense for someone to sing in his presence. When he’d caught him playing the guitar one day, he begged him to play for him, and Patroclus refused.

“If you won’t sample for Antilochus, I won’t play for you.”

And just like that, Achilles discovered what it was to be refused. If it had been from anyone else, he might have fought, thrown some foul words, but with Patroclus, it was conversation over. At first it stung a little, but if anything, it had now become a way to tease back and forth, tossing the suggestion into their chats.

He just enjoyed being around him so much, and his doe-like looks didn’t hurt either. When Achilles first met Patroclus, he’d been swayed by those wide, sad eyes, but he’d accepted that his relationship with Patroclus was just friendship- that’s all Patroclus seemed to want.

But seeing him in front of him now, smooth, burnished brown skin, sharp collarbones, imperial jawline with those small curly hairs sprouting- Achilles wants to clutch him, wants to clutch those soft curls in his hand and bring that gorgeous face closer-

His thoughts are interrupted, a splash of water from a cannonball almost tipping the floatie over.

Stop being so serious, Achilles laments. He’s here, safe, and we’ve got all summer.

For hours they play in the pool, talking about any and all topics, until an amused laugh interrupts them. Looking over, Achilles cheers when he sees Peleus standing on the edge of the water.

“Dad! You’re home!”

The calm man in the Hawaiian shirt and dad shorts hardly looked like the owner of a multi-million dollar recording label, and it’s always been so wonderful because Achilles likes to pretend that he’s just ‘Dad’ whenever they’re home. Leaping out of the water, he runs to give him a hug, soaking him.

“It’s good to see you too, son. I came to tell you that dinner is ready. Now, introduce me to this friend you’ve wanted me to meet for so long.” 

“Right! Patroclus!” Achilles turns, and Patroclus slinks out of the water, timidly approaching Peleus.

Peleus holds out a hand. “Patroclus. I’m Peleus, it’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope?”

“All good things! Welcome to our home, I hope you find everything comfortable.”

“Beyond comfortable, sir. It’s amazing.”

Achilles beams, nudges his father. “See? Told you he liked it.”

Peleus studies Patroclus. “I notice the calluses on your hands. You play the guitar, yes?

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you sing?”

“No, sir. I only play.”

“No need for the sir, Patroclus. I’m not that old!”

Patroclus bites his lip, trying to adjust to the idea, and Achilles nudges him playfully.

“He writes poetry too- I’m trying to get him to become my official songwriter, Dad, it’ll be amazing!” 

“I’m sure. Now, let’s go eat. It’s beef ribs tonight, cooked just the way you like them.” They’re halfway up the stairs when Peleus stiffens, and then sighs. “Though… I do have to warn you…”

“What?” Achilles pauses, Patroclus coming to stand next to him.

“Thetis… I mean, your mother… is visiting tonight. She just told me, so it’s a little last minute.”

“Oh.”

It’s not hard to notice the immediate dampening on the mood, with his father’s shoulders drooping and Patroclus stiffening. It’s unfortunate, and all Achilles can hope to do is play peacemaker and try to keep her calm.

“It’ll be okay, son.” Peleus amends, squeezing Achilles’ shoulder. “Take Patroclus and go get washed up, okay?”

The idyllic mood of the afternoon disintegrates immediately, especially when they sit down at the grand table. Achilles and Patroclus sit right next to each other, Peleus, and Thetis on opposite ends.

“Mom,” Achilles begins. “This is Patroclus. From school?”

Thetis’ already frosty glare seems to get even colder when she glances over at the boy next to him.

“I am aware of Patroclus, yes.”

Peleus sighs, tossing down his napkin. “Thetis- surely we can do this later, not in front of the kids.”

“Well, if my husband weren’t making decisions behind my back, I wouldn’t have to approach him so directly.”

“Oh, now I’m your husband?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Mom,” Achilles pleads. “We have a guest-”

“Who need remember his place if he knows what’s good for him.” Thetis hisses. A small hiccup makes Achilles turn to Patroclus, who is now covering his mouth with his hand. The fear in his eyes is heart-breaking, the way Patroclus tries to bite down on it filling Achilles with fury. Finished with his mother’s sudden threats, Achilles stands up from the table, grabbing Patroclus’ hand.

“Okay. Enough. I’ll send for some food from the kitchen later.”

“Achilles!” she glares. “Sit down!”

“No!”

Yanking Patroclus, he dashes out of the dining room and up the stairs, not stopping until he gets to his suite. Letting Patroclus’ hand go, he slams the large doors as hard as he’s able, locking them for good measure. He has to calm down from his heavy breathing when he finally notices that Patroclus is no longer near his side, and he scans the room in a panic until he sees a lump in the bed across the room.

“Patroclus?” he whispers, slowly approaching. Patroclus only curls up into a ball some more, hiding his face. Face falling, Achilles sits on the bed next to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up with her today. Her and Dad fight a lot, but it’s not usually like this. She never just shows up randomly.”

When Patroclus doesn’t reply, Achilles lifts the cover, laying down but still giving him some space.

“You can talk to me, you know? I listen. It’s okay if she made you sad, I won’t get mad.”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” Patroclus finally mumbles, revealing downcast eyes.

“Okay, so what do you want to talk about?”

Patroclus takes a moment, and then looks at him tearfully. It’s the first time that Achilles has seen that old sadness there from when they’d first met, and he hates it. He hates that bringing Patroclus to a place he’d thought safe would make him look like this.

“I can’t tell you everything. I can’t. But… I can tell you a little bit.”

“That’s fine! I’m listening.”

After hearing Patroclus finally unload about just how terrible life at home was, and how demeaned Thetis had made him feel, Achilles swore two things. First, that if Menoetius ever laid a hand on Patroclus again, he’d kill him himself. So, no matter what, Patroclus needed to never go back. Second, that the rest of that summer, and every day afterwards that Achilles was by Patroclus’ side, he’d make sure that he was happy.

That next morning, Thetis was gone, and Peleus profusely apologized to Patroclus for the entire incident. There’d been a buffet breakfast of his favorites, requested by Achilles- scrambled eggs with cheddar, bacon, sausage, French toast, and plenty of fruits. Patroclus, wonderful as he was, happily forgave him. Over time, Peleus began to expect his presence just as much as Achilles’, even going so far as to nickname him Skops, ‘Owl’, for how much he listened and observed in comparison to his rambunctious son. They’d even discovered a word for their relationship, suggested by Peleus- he considered Patroclus to be his therapon, his closest companion.

“You’ve got a good friend, Achilles,” he told him, squeezing his shoulder on the last day of summer as Achilles visited him in his office. “Loyal, intelligent, sharp. Keep him around. It’s good to keep someone real by your side, especially in entertainment. He’s always welcome here.” 

Fiercely proud and grateful to have such a good father, Achilles hugged Peleus, who laughed, rubbing his back.

Ever since then, whenever there’s a holiday or a break, Patroclus is right by Achilles’ side. During the school year, when Achilles gets to attend class on campus, he’s immediately by Patroclus’ side. Over time, he watches as Patroclus slowly leaves his shell, smiling more often, speaking, joining groups, and going out with Antilochus and the rest of their friend group. His heart warms the more Patroclus blossoms, especially when he turns that gorgeous smile to him to tell him the little things that made him happy that day.

By their last semester, senior year, Achilles and Antilochus had even convinced him to be a part of their last musical production, as assistant songwriter.

“It’s combined again, with St. Andromache’s. Their normal lead actress is out, focusing on ‘personal matters’, which we as gentlemen did not inquire into,” Antilochus explained. “Therefore, someone else is taking the lead role, but still- girls will be there, Pat!”

Patroclus grimaced offhandedly, turning back to whatever he was writing on his phone.

“I’ll try out! I’ll perform lead,” Achilles declares. “I’ll be right there to support you.”

“How do you even know you’ll get the spot?” Patroclus asked him. When Achilles scoffed, tossing his hair back arrogantly, Patroclus laughed, and then agreed. Antilochus crowed with delight, so pleased that he immediately dropped Patroclus in the production group chat.

“You just want me to play for you, huh?”

Sometimes, Patroclus’ new voice- dropped lower, richer than when they were younger, but still soft- made Achilles wish deep in his heart that Patroclus would have learned to sing, but playing for him was the next best thing. Instead, he sprawls out dramatically on top of him, sighing.

“Woe is me. You’ve caught me. I’m so desperate, I’m allowing everyone to hear your music so that I can pretend it’s mine.”

Smirking affectionately, Patroclus pushes Achilles off of his lap. Achilles wishes that he could have laid there forever.

It wasn’t until early in the production, when the team was learning the new songs that they would sing for each portion, that Achilles realized just how much further he had to fall for his friend.

“Okay,” the director called, gathering the actors to attention. “Achilles, Deidameia, for this next scene, you both will be learning this melody- a lullaby, rather. It’s used at different parts of the show, background, but this is the first time it’s played out loud.”

“Sure thing,” Achilles comments, sitting down. Deidameia, a bubbly girl with long black curls, ivory skin and sharp grey eyes, goes to sit on his lap, either unaware or uncaring of his discomfort.

“I cannot believe we get a theme to sing to our baby, Achilles!” she squeals, as if she hadn’t read the script and known beforehand.

“Quite.” The director finishes. “Now, Patroclus, are you ready?”

Patroclus seems out of sorts, looking away, and Achilles cocks his head.

“Patroclus?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“The song.”

“Oh! Right.”

He leans to the side, pulling out the mandolin from its case. Achilles was so proud of him; he’d learned an entirely new instrument for the sake of ‘capturing the sound’ he wanted. After fidgeting with it, Patroclus sits and waits for everyone to calm their talking.

“Okay. So, it’s a lullaby. It doesn’t have any words, it’s just vocalized. I was trying to think of words for it, but then I thought- it doesn’t really need them. The power of the song depends on the singer, and how they translate it into the moment.”

Patroclus’ eyes light up as he explains his thought process, and everyone nods along in understanding until Deidameia sighs.

“Yes, okay Pat, let’s hear it.”

Her disdain and impatience are clear, causing Patroclus to stutter. Annoyed, Achilles drops his leg just enough for Deidameia to slip off, turning away nonchalantly as if to suggest it was an accident. Gathering her pride, she scoots away to some of the other gossiping St. Andromache girls.

“Go ahead, Patroclus,” he urges. Smiling, Patroclus looks over to the harpist and violinist that he’d specifically asked to collaborate.

The soothing notes of the harp start off low, immersing everyone in an instant sort of peace. Achilles can already picture the green farmland that’s supposed to surround them, sunlight flittering down, butterflies floating around him. Patroclus’ eyes close, and it almost seems like he’s caressing the strings as he begins to play. He begins to rock back and forth to the slow beat, smiling privately to himself as he caresses the strings. The way Patroclus plays the mandolin, Achilles can almost hear it being sung out loud. As the background rises in energy, Achilles’ heart pounds in anticipation. It’s so hopeful and so full of longing; it’s perfect, powerful.

Patroclus finishes, looking around. “Well?”

Achilles is looking at him with entirely new eyes. Eyes full of pride, happiness, tenderness.

Love.

He’s so in love with him, it hurts.

Behold, my Patroclus, he wants to proclaim. Look at what he can create! Look how amazing he is!

Not that he needs to; several of their cast mates are sniffling. They begin to congratulate him on their own, fawning over the piece and how well he played it.

“I’m ready to sing it now.” Achilles is already on his feet, eyes locked on Patroclus. Onlookers be damned, he has decided that this is their moment.

“Achilles, it’s my song, you know,” Deidameia quips. “You just need to be in the scene for it.”

He wrote it for me, and you don’t deserve it. “Okay, well I’d like to try singing it. I like it. And then you can all say you’ve heard me sing it. No, Antilochus, you don’t get to sample it.”

A barely visible middle finger comes from the sound booth, followed by a muffled ‘one day!’. Patroclus gives that quiet laugh, his ‘public’ laugh, but then obliges. “All right. From the top, then.”

Everyone settles in one more time, tight with anticipation. Patroclus goes through one more verse of the song, allowing Achilles to pick up on the mandolin’s melody one more time. When it starts over, he begins to hum. Though he sings in a lower key than the feminine voice required, his voice blends in like velvet with the harp and violin. He tries to reach for the power that Patroclus’ playing evoked, vocalizing perfectly with every note. As he lets the last note fade, he sees tears filling up Patroclus’ eyes.

“How did I do?”

“Perfect.”

Before Patroclus can say anything else, Achilles is swept up in the crowd that begins pouring praise on top of him.

“It was amazing!”

“You sing like a god, Achilles!”

“I’m salty that Deidameia is going to sing it, now.” 

Wickedly pleased with that last one in particular, Achilles makes sure to turn back to Patroclus’ seat. Dismayed when he doesn’t see him, he searches until he finds Patroclus walking toward the sound booth. They lock glances, and Patroclus offers him a gentle smile and a nod before turning away.

He knows then that their relationship is not as permanent as he’d like it to be. That moments like these were potentially coming to an end, that one day the world is going to try to come between them. Achilles knows he has to do what he can to keep him nearby. To keep him from drifting away.

The summer after graduation is different than all of the rest. By early August, both Patroclus and Achilles are eighteen- meaning, Achilles is finally of the age Peleus required him to be to officially join the Phthia Music Entertainment label. It’s a day that Patroclus has both waited for and dreaded.

They’ll be going their separate ways, now.

He was on his way back to Peleus’ estate for the last time after a tense, terrifying meeting with his father and Thetis, and her lawyers. Despite doing everything he could to hold up his end of the bargain, Thetis seemed uncomfortable with the idea that he was still sticking so close to Achilles and questioned whether or not they could continue as is.

“These checks don’t seem to be necessary anymore,” she commented, sinister.

Even though he’s eighteen, and six foot two, the moment Menoetius clenches his fist on the table, Patroclus’ heart immediately chokes, before beating into hyperdrive.

“I- I’ve done everything you’ve asked! I don’t even need to sing around him- or to anyone! I just want to go to college and live my life!”

“Watch your tone, boy.” Menoetius hisses.

“No!”

Menoetius stands from the table, and Patroclus hates that he flinches back in his seat, and out of the memory altogether. The agreement had been extended; Patroclus’ undergrad would be paid for.

It’s all so stupid; what does it matter if he sings anyway?! Why would it bother Achilles? Does Thetis think that Peleus would somehow pick him over his own son? He would never do something like that!

It’s probably about control at this point, he thinks. Thetis hates that Peleus has had more jurisdiction over Achilles lately, that he favors his father. Having Patroclus in her back pocket means that she has some connection to him, some control over something. It’s sickening.

By the time he pulls up to the estate, it’s second nature to him to head up to Achilles’ suite. He’s well into packing when he notices Achilles lingering in the doorway, unusually nervous. Chuckling, Patroclus  beckons him to sit next to him. Beaming, Achilles runs over and jumps into the bed like it’s his.  

“You know, it’s been almost three years- you have a queen-sized bed, Achilles, and we’re both six foot plus. Use it.” It’s only a fake complaint; having Achilles near him has always made him feel more safe and secure.

“Yours is softer,” he replies nonchalantly.

“Right.” As if Achilles couldn’t ask for a new bed. “What’s up?”

Biting his lip, Achilles’ gaze flits back and forth before he leaps from the bed and into the hallway. Shocking Patroclus, he returns with a large guitar case, and if that wasn’t enough, he returns with a second case.

“Achilles? What is this? What is this for?”

“Open them.”

The first case contains an acoustic guitar, an expensive brand that Patroclus could have only dreamed of owning. Shocked, he rushes to open the second- inside lays an electric bass guitar.

“I know Mr. Chiron trained you personally while we were in school,” Achilles spills. “So I talked to him about it, and he said that he thought you would thrive with both. So, I bought them for you!”

“Achilles! I- thank you, but- two guitars?!”

Achilles seems to fidget some more in his seat before finally exploding.

“Write my first single!”

There’s a pause in the room, as Patroclus tries to translate what he just said.

“What?”

With a sigh, Achilles flops into the bed. “Look. I know you’re going to school for…”

“English Literature and Music Composition double major.”

“Yes. Those. And I respect you for that. It’s just that, my dad finally said I’m going to be entering the booth, and I’ll have people writing for me if I don’t feel like writing my own songs.”

“But you’re capable of writing your own songs.”

“I know that, Patroclus, but I like your songs better! And… well… it would feel better. It’s got to be something pop, light, and fun, but still- I want something from you. To have of yours, before you go.”

For the first time that he’s known him, Patroclus realizes that Achilles looks scared. Cooing, Patroclus wraps him in a hug.

“You can always call me, you know.”

“It’s not the same.”

“And I’ll be going to school nearby. We’re in the same town. Even Antilochus is here, we’re still going to be apartment mates.” Though he wasn’t ‘Achilles’ rich, Antilochus was still well off enough that he could afford an apartment that he gladly offered Patroclus a room in. “Besides, you’re the one who’ll get the deal and travel the world- not me.”

Pushing his lips out into an exaggerated pout, Achilles places Patroclus’ hands on either side of his face. “Patroclus- please?”

He’s never been able to refuse that face anything, and he wonders if Achilles knows the amount of power he truly holds over his heart.

“Fine. I have a little bit more time before classes start.”

“Yay! You’re the best!”

In his excitement, Achilles reaches for Patroclus’ face and pulls him in, shoving their lips together. By the time he realizes what he’s done, he gasps, pulling away to stand and flush furiously.

“I- I, um- I got overwhelmed.”

Touching his lips, Patroclus can only gape. “Right.”

“It- I- I’m gonna go now!” Like lightning, Achilles is gone from the room.

He doesn’t see Achilles when he finally leaves, moving the last of his things to his new apartment.

It’s a couple weeks later, when Patroclus and Antilochus pull up next to the exclusive club that Peleus had texted him.

Achilles is nervous, but he wants you to be there. Thank you, Skops, for doing this for him.

“Why do you get all the credit, I helped you come up with some of the music,” Antilochus whines.

“Yes, and I thank you for that. It’s also why you also got a ticket to get in tonight.”

The club’s lighting is red-tinted, the location and people inside practically dripping with money and excess.

“We’re only eighteen, Pat,” he continues nervously, getting his hand stamped. “I understand drinking in the secrecy of our own home, but this just seems a little… beyond us.”

“Maybe this is what fame looks like?” It’s already overwhelming if so, full of smoke and mirrors and frankly, if no one was going to meet them at the door, Patroclus would have rather stayed home. He’s about ready to text Peleus when a man taps him on the shoulder.

“Are you Patroclus?”

“Uh…yeah?”

The man holds out his hand. “Odysseus. Nice to meet you. Follow me.”

Odysseus? Strangely, the moment he says it, Patroclus recognizes him. Olive skin, dark hair cropped short, the same, teasing smile under eyes that hid many secrets. Shrugging, Antilochus follows behind Odysseus, and they walk until they end up in a quieter space. This room has just as much alcohol flowing, but the music is low, and the windows open into the breeze outside. Someone guards the door, though they move the moment they see Odysseus.

“You know, when I heard two young boys wrote this future hit of his, I questioned it. Now that I see who you are, I question it further, but there’s no denying it- this is going to be effective. Good job, you two. I’ll have to give you both my card if you’re interested.”

Patroclus can hardly think, but Antilochus is quick to reach out, delighted as he takes the business card.

“Say less! You know, I am actually going to school for music production, and-”

Smiling, Patroclus follows behind as he elaborates on his goals. Occasionally, he notices Odysseus give him a side eye, as if he’s waiting for something.

Finally, the crowd quiets as a mic is turned on. Peleus stands in front of a projection screen set up, beaming in pride.

“Hello all, and welcome! I am so pleased to announce three things tonight. First, I am officially introducing you to my son, Achilles, as the next face of Phthia Entertainment!”

Waving his hand, a bashful Achilles is pushed up on the stage and he falls into his dad. His adorable smile immediately makes Patroclus melt.

“Next, I’m pleased to announce that his first single is complete and will be airing on the radio as of tomorrow morning!”

More, louder applause follows. Antilochus, finally having lost Odysseus’ attention, grins.

“They’re going to play our work on the radio, Pat!”

“No one’s ever going to know.”

“I mean, not right now, no. But when we’re writing our autobiographies, this is something we get to mention! I mean, how many people can say they wrote someone’s first hit?”

Patroclus turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “You all are so confident.”

Antilochus shrugs. “If Odysseus says it will be, it will be. And not only that, but if we made something a hit by just fucking around crossfaded, imagine what we’ll create when we’re actually trying!”

This is true, Patroclus concedes. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to him until now that actually being a songwriter for Achilles was a real option. Obviously, he’d have to compete with the more seasoned vets once Achilles actually took off, but he’d never really given it thought beyond a pipe dream.

“Finally, I want to announce that tonight, we are actually showing all of you the music video for the single!” Oohs and ahs travel around the room. “We request that you put all phones away, at risk of lawful intervention. Please, enjoy!”

All phones are shuffled into bags or pockets, and everyone watches as the video begins to play. Patroclus grins as the first light notes begin to pluck, followed by small chimes as the camera pans onto Achilles wearing purposefully bad makeup and a top hat. It somehow doesn’t take away from his looks, eyes mischievous as he sings to the viewer.

Oh, well imagine

As I'm pacing the pews in a church corridor

And I can't help but to hear

No, I can't help but to hear an exchanging of words-

Antilochus hums it next to him, trying his best not to sing over the audio. It’s been years, and Patroclus still finds he has the urge to sing along, especially to his own work. The guitars come in heavy as the Achilles on the screen bursts in the wedding, bringing a cacophony of other carnies.

I chime in with a

"Haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?"

No, it's much better to face these kinds of things

With a sense of poise and rationality-

It’s unbelievably silly when he looks back on it. They’d been messing around, crossfaded, just because they had the freedom to do so in their new apartment. Not only was this completely illegal, but in his ascended state, Patroclus had realized it was the perfect time to write a song for Achilles- he wasn’t even nervous anymore! Antilochus agreed- he even had a song idea!

As for the lyrics, the reason he chose the lyrics was that he was thinking of Achilles’ unending frustration with his parents, and after a couple leaps and jumps into a new narrative, pen connected to paper. Patroclus is almost embarrassed when he realizes that he and Antilochus might have actually screwed Achilles over. Thetis is going to kill him if she finds out.

They were so fucking stupid.

“Why are you hiding your face, Patroclus?”

“Oh my god, Antilochus it’s one of the most basic things I’ve ever written, and we gifted it to him. We weren’t even at our best. What were we thinking? How are they so happy with this?”

“I don’t know, but look-”

The listening audience seems really excited, laughing as they immediately pick up on the pop beat and the repetitive lyrics.

Well, in fact

Well, I'll look at it this way

I mean, technically, our marriage is saved

Well, this calls for a toast

So pour the champagne, pour the champagne…

And to be fair, however silly the words may be, Achilles sings them with every ounce of soul that he can. His dramatics are perfect for the performance, and between that and his talent, everyone seems to be incredibly pleased. When the song ends, the room rises in applause.

“It’s so adorable! Teens are going to love it.”

“Oh, it’s going to trend. I can see it already.”

“I’ll bet it hits number one within a week. It’s the perfect thing to get him on the map.”

As they all comment, Peleus returns to the mic.

“Well, be on the look out for I Write Sins, Not Tragedies, dropping tomorrow!”

The party offers one more applause before the music in the background picks back up, and everyone returns to their prior conversations, revitalized with gossip and big news. More time passes, and Patroclus is ready to go when someone wraps their arms tight around him, spinning him in a circle.

“Patroclus! You came!”

“Yes, yes Achilles, I did!” he exhales, kicking his legs. “Put me down!”

Achilles puts him back on the ground, spinning around and smiling at him giddily.

“Oh, hey Antilochus.”

“Sup.”

“How did I do, Patroclus? Was it just the way you imagined it?”

He looks so excited, like a puppy wagging its tail waiting for praise, and Patroclus pokes him in the nose.

“It was better than I ever could have imagined, Achilles. Excellent delivery.”

Bringing his shoulders to his cheeks, Achilles beams. “I made sure to add all the drama and flair that I could, especially when I saw what you were going for.”

“I’m glad you saw it. I was worried.” I’m still worried…

They’re about to fall into old conversation when Antilochus taps Patroclus.

“Hey Pat, uh- I just got a text, like a text-text from a certain girl I’ve been into. Um, I’m going to have to take you home now if I do at all because, I’m about to go.” He seems a little sheepish, but also distracted.

“That’s fine, I was ready to go.” Patroclus turns to a visibly dampened Achilles. “Sorry, Achilles. We can hang tomorrow- you know my address, right?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow?”

“Unless you’re busy?”

“I mean… I might be, but I’ll let you know.”

The light leaves Achilles’ eyes, but he lets Patroclus go as they take off. Antilochus is quick to drop him off at home before peeling off into the night toward his date. Sighing, Patroclus goes inside. A hot shower and a cold water bottle later, he’s getting ready to go to bed when there’s a knock on the door.

Immediately suspicious, he’s tempted not to open it. One had to go through a locked front door to get into this building; anyone who had to knock was not Antilochus and therefore didn’t need to be in his home at this time.

He’s shocked when he opens the door and Achilles stands in front of it, breathing heavily.

“Achilles? Wha-”

Achilles rushes in, bringing their lips back together in a desperate kiss. Stunned, Patroclus parts his lips, tilting in order to deepen it, drawing a moan from Achilles as they back away from the self-locking door. After a couple moments, Achilles pulls away only to grasp Patroclus’ face to his, breathing heavily.

“I- I’m so sorry. I should have asked. Both this time and last time. I just couldn’t leave things like that.”

Patroclus doesn’t mind at all, blissful.

“How do you want to leave them then?”

Lust ripples across Achilles’ expression as he draws a slowly draws a hand down from Patroclus’ cheek to his neck, down his chest and pausing right at the top of his pelvis. “But only if you want to, philtatos.”

Between hearing the love of his life finally call him ‘most beloved’ and yearning for that hand to move just a little lower, Patroclus throws out all inhibition. Snaking a hand around the small of Achilles’ back, he pushes them together, grinding just a little bit.

“Please.”

Grinning, Achilles places his soft lips into the crook of Patroclus’ neck, sucking just a little before he draws them into Patroclus’ room and closes the door.

Strange sensations tingle all around Patroclus’ body when he awakes. His limbs are somewhat stiff, like he’s gone through a full workout. However, more than that, there’s a building warmth near his groin…a hand firmly grasping…

“What the- Achilles-ah-”

Lively, mischievous eyes flash at him, the orange of the sunrise giving Achilles’ hair an ethereal glow.

“Well, I see my gorgeous lover has awakened. How are you feeling, Patroclus?” His wrist twists perfectly with the question, causing Patroclus to arch his back in ecstasy.

“You’re teasing me, and you know it,” he gasps, returning the teasing look with burning eyes. “Were you not sated after hours of love-making last night? I practically threw my back out last night giving you what you wanted, you beast.”

With a short cackle, Achilles plies kisses upon Patroclus’ exposed chest.

“What we wanted. You sound like such an old man; ‘threw my back out’. With the passionate love I experienced last night, I’m not sure when that happened. Who knew you were such an honest, fierce romantic?” Achilles slowly crawls on top of Patroclus, releasing his dick from his tempting grasp to run desirous hands up his sides. “You were right here, in my ear, just like this almost every time you took me,” he whispers, voice heated next to Patroclus’ nape. “Your moans are delectable, you know? Every time you gasped my name, I just-oh, Patroclus, I just couldn’t help but to-” He locks his knees and thrusts up, the slick feel of them hardening while between each other almost pushing Patroclus over the edge.

“And the best part, is that I know you’re all mine. I waited for so long, wanting- I told you last night just how long, yes? About how I wanted this, and this, and this-”

Achilles smiles when Patroclus grips his waist, using just enough bruising power to lift Achilles on top of him, eyes rolling back in pleasure when Achilles bottoms out.

“Tell me again, Achilles. Please.”

Patroclus’ voice is low, raw, sizzling with desire. Their lips come together, breathless as they swallow each other salacious moans, rocking back and forth. Last night, Achilles made sure to categorize every spot that especially pleasured Patroclus, making sure to devote extra attention to them. As a result, the gorgeous brown skin around his collarbones and shoulders were now adorned with love bites. His curly hair was messy with how much Achilles had gleefully run his hands through it, gripping tightly so that Patroclus would growl in his ear and push that much harder. His own tan skin was covered in finger-shaped bruises from being held as tightly as he demanded, his chest, thighs covered with red bites of his own (and surprisingly, one each on his feet, which he plans on delving more into).

Best of all, was the look of pure adoration, vulnerability, and love in Patroclus’ molten caramel eyes as Achilles made sure to tell him how loved he was.

“I love you, Patroclus. I adore you. Ever since I saw you at that audition, saw those wide, exquisite brown eyes and those striking curls and that lost expression, I knew something was different. The day you appeared in my class, with that sexy haircut and that pretty red blush, it was like the gods blessed me.” Still slowly riding, Achilles leans down to run a gentle finger over Patroclus’ lips. “Every time you opened these soft, sensual lips to say anything I wanted to behold your intelligence and your wisdom. When you wrote the music and played for our musical? Patroclus, you have no idea that every night I burned with desire- I wanted these lips everywhere on me, around me. Whatever notes you might have played, I would have gladly sung for you through my moans. I wanted those adept, long fingers to hold me, to leave marks on me that I would bask in, to play with me the same way you played the guitar.”

Achilles’ voice has risen in pitch by the end, his orgasm close. Tears have begun to fall down both of their faces, a potent combination of jubilance and rapture. Patroclus, feeling like he’s not returned the favor, opens his mouth, but Achilles shocks him into silence by pinning his hands above his head.

“I know you’re the poet with the golden tongue between us, but while we do this, I want to be the one to sing your praises. I want to use this time to lavish you, to tell you just how much you deserve to be exalted in this way. You’re my muse, Patroclus, and I have every intention of worshipping you. Let me do this for you.”

A broad, happy smile breaks across Patroclus’ face, his bright white teeth shining as he accepts the love. The look is too much for a triumphant Achilles, who comes gasping Patroclus’ name. Patroclus finishes a moment afterwards, and they lay there panting together before Achilles collapses onto his chest.

Patroclus is tired of the stupid grin on his face already, but he can’t get his face to relax. When he looks at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror, he tries to calm his cheeks, to take a deep breath. Achilles’ words echo through his mind, and soon he’s beaming once more.

He’s no fool- the moment Achilles walks out of that door and goes to the studio with Peleus, Odysseus and the rest of the studio big wigs, their lives will change. Achilles will be on a fast track to stardom, and Patroclus- well, while he will always want to write for Achilles, he also has his own degree and career to worry about. So, it’s hard when Achilles- looking edible with his damp hair in a ponytail, his undershirt boldly exposing some of his hickeys, and sweats- sweeps him into a kiss at the door.

“Nope, you need to go,” Patroclus comments, pulling away from curious fingers sliding under his shirt. “And put on a jacket. You know you can’t spend your first day famous like this.”

“It could be a record,” Achilles teases, removing his hands. “First day in, a scandal already. The headlines will read ‘Who is Achilles’ intense lover and how do we get one like him?’ And I’ll never share my secret!”

Patroclus tosses the jacket at him, gives him one more quick kiss, and kicks him out of the apartment before he can succumb to any more of Achilles’ brash ideas.

“I’ll text you!” is the last thing he hears as the door closes, followed by those quick, lithe feet racing down the hall. With an affectionate eye roll, Patroclus pushes away from the door. It’s now late morning, the yellow sun filtering in through the billowing white curtains and giving everything in the apartment a sort of happy glow to match his own. Without meaning to, Bill Withers’ Lovely Day comes to mind, and he begins to hum the soft melody as he sways around the room.

When I wake up in the morning, love

And the sunlight hurts my eyes,

And something without warning, love,

Bears heavy on my mind,

Then I look at you,

And the world's alright with me,

Just one look at you,

And I know it's gonna be,

A lovely day-

“Holy shit bro, you can sing!”

Horrified, Patroclus turns to see Antilochus giving him a goofy smile and a thumbs up, his eyes wide in awe. He was supposed to be out, Patroclus panics. He was supposed to be gone. Was I really singing?! The look becomes even worse when the cogs start to turn, Antilochus’ eyes appraising him.

“How long have you been this good? Why didn’t you ever sing in school? Can I sample-”

Moving with an inhuman swiftness, Patroclus slams Antilochus into the back wall, grasping his shirt.

“How much did you hear?” Maybe he can explain it away, a sort of one-off note he hit.

Antilochus nervously looks down at his ruined shirt, lifting his hands.

“Hey bro, I can understand being nervous about the noises this morning, but I swear I had my headphones in-”

“From the song!”

“Uh, the whole thing?”

Patroclus wails, letting Antilochus go as he places his head in his hands. “You sang it so well! What’s the problem? Why are you so upset? Was it supposed to be a secret from Achilles?”

When Patroclus gives him a defeated look, Antilochus’ jaw drops. “Oh. Oh okay. I’m gonna grab some orange juice, and I guess you’re going to explain to me what’s up? Please don’t kill me man, I thought we were cool.”

Patroclus realizes that he’s crouched over, and likely looks very capable of the murder Antilochus is worried about. He tries to relax his posture, falling onto the couch.

“Sure.”

Antilochus takes a moment to waver at the fridge before grabbing the entire bottle of orange juice and two cups and bringing them to the living room table. He pours it as if it’s expensive liquor, pushing the cup to Patroclus.

“All right, I’m ready. How wild could it be?”

The story turns out to be quite ‘wild’ as Patroclus essentially relays his life story to Antilochus, from Menoetius’ abuse and his ailing mother, to a cruel Thetis and a doting Peleus, to a clueless Achilles. After hearing that Patroclus’ education and life are essentially running on not opening his mouth, Antilochus furiously shoves up from the couch.

“Excuse my French, Pat, but what the fuck?! What is wrong with them? You’re not a toy, you don’t deserve to be beat up and mistreated all so that greedy people can get their kicks! Are you sure Achilles doesn’t know? Shouldn’t he know?”

“Please don’t tell him! He can’t know!”

Patroclus falls to his knees in devastated tears, cutting Antilochus’ rage short. He hasn’t seen Patroclus this distressed ever since Achilles had invited him to crash with him every holiday during school- he knew it wasn’t great at home, but to hear it like this- well, it was hard to stomach.

“Aw, Pat, don’t do that. Here, sit back on the couch, it’s going to be okay.” When Patroclus begins to sob into his hands, Antilochus vacillates before patting his back gently. “Pat…do you want to sing?”

It’s maybe the first time that anyone has ever directly asked Patroclus, and he’s tired of lying about it.

“Yes,” he sighs. “But I can’t.”

Antilochus lets him calm down, and then says

“Why don’t you just do it incognito?”

Patroclus chuckles. Of course, Antilochus would have such a simple answer.

“Thetis has heard me sing before. I could never do that without being discovered.”

Antilochus rolls his eyes at her name. “She heard you sing when you were like, what, fourteen? Your balls have dropped since then, Pat- you sound completely different. I know.”

“Antilochus!”

“It’s true! And besides, you don’t have to post it or anything. You could just sing here, in the privacy of our home. She doesn’t have to know.” His eyes glow with humor as he nudges Patroclus in the side. “You could sing to my beats. It’ll help me advertise what sounds could go with them.”

Patroclus purses his lips. “Ever the businessman. Besides, your beats are public.”

“Your voice doesn’t have to be! Though, Pat- I know it doesn’t matter, but I think you should be heard, you know? I hate that they’re stifling you like this; you did nothing to deserve it.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does. And if Achilles were to find out, I think he’d agree with me.”

For the first time in a long time, Patroclus allows himself to think about it. Antilochus is right- he doesn’t deserve this. But he also doesn’t want to jeopardize what he now has. And finally- he’s scared. He hates it- he hates that he’s now an adult, and yet he’s still truly terrified of his father, of Thetis, of everything that has led to this point. The thought of going against them after so long is sickening, leaving him nauseous.

Still, while there’s been the bad, he’s still gained many good things- Achilles and his love, Antilochus’ boldly honest friendship, Peleus’ kindness, Mr. Chiron’s faith, a good education, a relatively safe life…

An indignant flame lights inside of him. Why can’t he have this? What gives them the right to stop him from singing at all? Why do they deserve to scare him so badly that he can’t even do more than hum a song without feeling sick? He just wants to use the voice that he was born with to sing. What would be the problem? Besides, as long as Achilles didn’t find out- why not?

As the small smile builds on his face, Antilochus begins to nudge him some more with an excited grin.

“I’m hearing a yes!”

“It’s not a yes. It’s a maybe. I still don’t want to be recorded! Just… I’ll just sing to your beats if I want to.”

Antilochus crows with delight, tossing off his now stretched shirt to spin in the air while Patroclus laughs.

“Sorry about your shirt, man,” he sheepishly apologizes. “I’ll get you another one.”

Antilochus slingshots the shirt to the other side of the apartment while dashing to his room. “Bro fuck the shirt, the songs we’re gonna make one day will be legendary! We’ll buy Gucci wardrobes easily!”

“We’re not recording!”

What begins as rebellious fun becomes therapeutic as years of emotional suppression pour forth in Patroclus’ voice. He didn't sing with any real direction, preferring usually to just practice different singing methods, breathing properly, or intonation. Sometimes he sings songs he's heard, remixing some he's written for Achilles, or he'll just do runs on a melody that particularly catches him. It brings him joy to finally be able to let it out. Antilochus still marvels at it; even after three and a half years in, Patroclus sings with a sort of raw sort of yearning. 

“Your pitch is insane, man,” he comments one day as Patroclus vocalizes on one of his more mellow tunes. “I can’t believe you had no training- this is unbelievable!”

“I’ve been studying some YouTube videos for extra help, but for a while I also paid attention to some of Achilles’ private classes. It’s really just been observing how he learned to sing for a while.”

“And you copied it like that? Stop downplaying yourself. Patroclus, when someone writes your biography, it’s going to say-”

“Enough.” Lately the idea has been crawling its way inside Patroclus, knocking on the door of his heart every time he sings to another of Antilochus’ productions. Would it really hurt to get some applause? It tempts. To see that sort of positive feedback that you’ve always craved?

He tries to shove it down, checking his notifications. A message from Achilles beams at the top, inviting him and Antilochus to a local listening party and promising VIP seating- complementary of course. He sends back an acceptance with a small heart emoji at the end, that’s immediately replied to with plenty of heart eyes and other suggestive emojis.

Another glaring issue that adds to his secret desire has been his relationship with Achilles himself. They’ve been dating in secret- while Peleus swore that it had nothing to do with their sexuality, and that he was delighted for both of them, the label came to the conclusion that it would ruin Achilles’ ‘free-spirited, carefree aesthetic’ if consumers knew he was in a relationship upon his release. When they demand to know who could possibly outrank Peleus in his own company, they learn that Phthia Music Entertainment is not just a singular entity- the lead investors, whom Odysseus teasingly calls “Olympus”, know what they want, and the money won out in the end. It’s not at all what Patroclus wants, and Achilles was furious about it.

He’s written four songs for Achilles since Sins. Emperor’s New Clothes, Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time, and Victorious were early on in his career, and they immediately hit the charts to immense success and opened up Achilles to the mainstream. By now, Achilles has enjoyed a couple tours, has featured on movie soundtracks, modeled in plenty campaigns, all to a roaring fan base that idolizes him. For the latest album that is still being recorded, Pray for the Wicked, he only wrote one song, and King of the Clouds is the closest to his own emotional state that Patroclus has ever slipped.

As with every song, Achilles always sings with his entire being for Patroclus, and makes sure Patroclus is properly paid for his work. However, over time, something began to feel…different. There’s a small resentment festering inside of Patroclus; writing these songs, getting squished into the credits with what always seems to feel like an illicit check- this is not what he thought writing for Achilles would be like.

By now, though his love has never wavered visibly, it almost feels like Achilles expects Patroclus to do it when he asks. Though he never refuses, he can’t help but feel taken for granted. What used to feel like shoving it to the higher ups- that of Achilles’ hits, Patroclus is the only one who has written multiple- no longer feels like adequate reinforcement.

Fortunately (and unfortunately) every time Achilles returned from a tour, or found space in his now jam-packed schedule, they made long, desperate, passionate love, and between the emotional sex, wonderful cuddles, gifts and stories he received afterwards, Patroclus simply pushed how he was feeling into a box. In the throes of passion, absolutely nothing felt too horrible. When they were themselves, alone as Achilles and Patroclus, everything felt completely right in the world- even if it was temporary. It was foolish, and Patroclus was a fool in love.

Shaking off his frustrations, Patroclus shows Antilochus the invite. No need to think about this right now.

“Did you want to go to a party tonight?” he asks.

“Of course, I do; listening parties are always awesome. I always come back feeling…inspired.”

“High. You come back feeling high.”

“Inspired, Pat. Change the narrative.”

Later that night, they Uber their way to a high-rise in the middle of the city. As predicted, there’s practically nowhere to park, and they get out to a large crowd of flashing lights and screaming fans despite the biting temperatures.

“This is ridiculous,” Patroclus murmurs, slipping on the same sunglasses he’s always worn to go to these events. You say that every time, Pat, he tells himself. They’re only going to get larger as he becomes more famous.

It’s the truth, but it doesn’t do less to crush the squeamish feeling in Patroclus’ stomach. It only seems like yesterday where they were attending Achilles’ first listening party, able to make their way through the smaller crowds to be greeted by Odysseus. Now, they wait in a freezing cold line for forty minutes to be checked before taking the elevator up to the dark, smoky penthouse that is clogged with grinding partygoers and loud, bass filled music.

There’s absolutely no way to figure out where to go to find Achilles, his text messages not even marked read after a certain point. Because the crowds are so packed, it takes about fifteen more minutes before they even find the section that has been roped off for “VIP”. When they finally pass those ropes, Antilochus gives him a sorry look.

“I got to pee, bro. I’m going to go find a bathroom; text me when you find Achilles.” With that, Antilochus scampers off. Sighing, Patroclus turns and ends up receiving a face full of smoke. It’s suffocating, and his eyes are searing as hands drag him through the crowd. It’s heavenly when a blast of fresh air hits him in the face, and he takes multiple heaving breaths.

“Sorry, kid. Gotta watch where you’re stepping though.” When he opens his eyes, an apologetic lady stands in front of him. Her light makeup covers small signs of age, though she still maintains a classic beauty. Her chestnut brown skin is unmarred, her plush lips beautifully red, her long black hair wavy in its high ponytail. She wears a simple white miniskirt and black top, her eyes covered in kohl black eyeshadow.

“Kid?” he wheezes, scowling, and she shrugs.

“I’m a wizened woman, and I can tell you’re new to this. Not much you can do at these parties when it hurts to breathe, other than finding a window- no way you wanted to leave after spending all that time getting in?”

It’s all fair judgment, and Patroclus agrees as he stands.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Achilles.”

The woman lets out a harsh cackle. “Aren’t you all, honeybee?”

“No, really, he invited me.”

Giving him a suspicious look up and down, the woman scoffs. “Look. I can acknowledge you’re VIP, but that doesn’t mean he invited you. I can’t tell you how many times guys and gals used that trick in my day, though the means have become more modern. Let me guess- you have a text from him?”

Oof. That is exactly what Patroclus was going to show her.

“You do look his type, though. You’re really cute, kid, a catch. Maybe you’ll grab his eye and one of his many wandering hands.”

Though her words are nonchalant, they petrify Patroclus.

“Wandering…hands?”

“Oh yeah. I mean, I don’t know if he sleeps with them, not my business, but he’s always surrounded by a pretty entourage. Hard to believe he wouldn’t. If you think he’ll fall in love with you at first sight, go for it. But that’s not usually how it goes with the famous.”

Heart pounding, Patroclus pushes away from the window. “Where does he usually sit?”

“Didn’t you-”

“Just tell me where he usually is, please.”

After a strange look, she starts to lead him to an inner pit in the middle of the penthouse.

“To be honest, kid- you look like a good person, so I’ve got one piece of advice. Go home. This place isn’t for you.”

“What makes you think it isn’t?”

“You still believe in love.” He cuts his eyes at her, and she gives him a serious look. “I’m not saying that some of these famous people don’t love. Naturally, they do. But you’re going to have to fight for it, for a long time, and I’m not sure I wish that on anybody who could have unconditional love in any other way.”

They make their way to the edge of a circle, and inside relaxes a large group of people on a giant red recliner. In the middle is a gigantic, color-changing electric platform, where men and women dance erotically surrounded by bottles, ashtrays, and lustful onlookers. In the middle of the throng on the couch lays Achilles, grinning roguishly as he entertains the ‘pretty entourage’. The decadently dressed people curl around him and his every word, clucking and gasping at all the right parts. The entirety of the scene looks like a painting- delectably sinful, it’s as if it consumes all it invites. The hardest part is when Achilles’ eyes glance his direction, almost as if he can see Patroclus- and he continues on. He knows that the logical answer is that it’s likely just too bright near Achilles, and yet the action crushes Patroclus’ heart. 

Not for a second does he believe that Achilles would betray his trust in that way- surely he has that much respect left over for Patroclus. But at the same time, he wants to pull him out of here. The Achilles that he’s observing is not the Achilles that he knows. This Achilles seems beyond his reach, the fame rising him into a pantheon that Patroclus can never hope to join him in. This is the Achilles that asks him to write his songs without any of the love or respect he promised behind it; the Achilles that kisses him one day and goes to shine in the spotlight as if he doesn’t exist the next.

Also, some self-righteous part of him wants Achilles to notice him first. He was the one that invited Patroclus to this mess- the least he could do is look for his guest! Instead, he doesn’t look like he’s concerned about Patroclus at all. Do they know you like I do? Have they done for you what I’ve done? He wants to scream. Here, am I just a fan? Like the woman said, he wants his unconditional love, and he doesn’t want to have to fight this throng of sirens that have him in their clutches.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” Patroclus murmurs, looking down at his phone as he texts Antilochus.

“Call me Calypso.”

Calypso. The journalism heiress and infamous socialite, known for her ‘inescapable’ parties for the rich and famous. Hers was one of the many stories Odysseus regaled them with before Peleus demanded that he stop because they were ‘too young’ to hear them. Patroclus chuckled as he turned away- of all the people, he’d come across the Madame of the home.

“Well, Calypso. I’m Patroclus. Thank you for your advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Calypso looks him up and down once more, before smiling approvingly.

“I like you, kid- no, Patroclus. A little too soft-hearted for me, perhaps, but I like your temperament otherwise. You ever come back here, you find me- we could discuss some things.”

Patroclus isn’t sure he’ll ever be back here, and he certainly doesn’t think he wants to ‘discuss some things’ if he is. Still, after a short departing smile, he begins to make his way back from where he came- and down the elevator, and out the doors into the cold night.  

Achilles pushes away from the crowd when Calypso struts towards him, face bright as he wraps an arm around her.

“Auntie Calypso! This party is amazing!”

“Naturally, child, my parties are spoken of in urban legend,” she coos, pinching his cheek. She leads him to a quieter space in the VIP area, using her bodyguards to block off the space from nosy fans.

“What’s wrong?” Achilles asks, frowning when Calypso leans back into her seat to appraise him. “Is it Mom? Did she call you again?”

Calypso rolls her eyes, scoffing. “I’m not worried about the stick up your mother’s backside. It astounds me that she’s still being a helicopter parent with you at this point.”

Thetis never could stand Calypso, even when they went to school together. Though Thetis always had her natural singing talent, Calypso matched her in beauty and brains, managing to build her own empire out of the fame around her. The woman didn’t even love her husband, yet she made a big deal out of claiming that she and Peleus had once had an affair, just to malign Calypso’s name. Luckily, Peleus was a good man, and they’d always been friendly enough for her to let it go, even spiting Thetis and naming Calypso godmother to his son.

That son was following a dark path she’d seen many times before, and though Calypso was usually one to let things lie, after meeting Patroclus, she was feeling a little compassionate.

“Hon, is there someone you’re waiting for tonight?” She watches as Achilles somehow lights up even more.

“Yes! His name is Patroclus, and he’s bringing our friend Antilochus too. Have you seen him?”

“I have.”

With a gasp, Achilles stands, but Calypso raises a hand, and he slowly sits back down.

“Listen to me, silly child,” she chastises. “Don’t ever invite a loved one to these parties if you aren’t going to stand by their side.”

“What?”

He looks so genuinely confused, and Calypso sighs. She remembered the pain and humiliation she felt when Odysseus finally chose his wife over her; of being the second option. She knows that no amount of fame and fortune will ever make up for the yearning she felt- feels.

“I met your Patroclus. Lovely man, truly. I watched the look on his face as he watched you surrounded by all the men and women that clearly want you. If you are going to invite someone that you claim to love, stay by their side. If you aren’t going to be open with and about them, don’t force them to watch you receive the love that they can’t offer you.”

Achilles gives her the same wide, puppy dog eyes that he’s always given when he didn’t understand.

“But… I wanted him here tonight. And we’re not allowed to be together publicly, because of the whole ‘image’ thing the label is pushing. But I want him by my side! They could never offer me anything the way he could! I would never purposely hurt Patroclus, Auntie Calypso, I wouldn’t!”

Guilt and despair begin to tear across his face as Achilles runs through everything he could have done to upset Patroclus, and he smacks his forehead. It makes sense that Patroclus would feel sad to see him surrounded by all those sycophants. He didn’t even bother to go find him, too busy trying to entertain the crowd the way he always did. Calypso nods as it clicks, and Achilles raises his head.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that as someone who still believes in love, this might not be the place for him. That if he wants the love of someone famous, he’s going to have to fight for it, and that I wouldn’t wish that on anyone who could have unconditional love in any other way.”

Calypso isn’t going to lie in her own home, to someone younger than her nonetheless, so when Achilles glares at her she shrugs it off.

“Why would you tell him that?”

“Because it’s the truth. I would tell you that, if you appeared and saw Patroclus surrounded by a throng of potential lovers. To be fair, I wasn’t sure that he knew you, so my words were a little sharper than they may have been had I believed he did.” She lights a new cigarette and takes a puff. “Listen. Let him calm down tonight, and then you find him and make things right.”

Mr. Chiron analyzes the poems thoughtfully, Patroclus giving him a hopeful look as he waits. Finally, he puts down the papers and takes a sip of his coffee. For years they’ve kept in contact over his poetry and his guitar skills, and when Patroclus asked him to meet about something important, the teacher was quick to offer a safe place to meet.

“These lyrics,” he begins, already keying on the issue, “they’re about Achilles, aren’t they?” He turns the paper with House of Balloons on it, pointing out the verse.

If it hurts to breathe, open a window

Oh, your mind wants to leave, but you can't go

Oh, this is a happy house (a happy house)

We're happy here (we're happy here)

In a happy house

“More specifically, they are about you trying to pretend that everything is okay with Achilles, though you despair at the state of his fame and the façade that comes with it. Your more personal frustrations with him are more present in The Hills, here-” He points out the repeating chorus.

I only call you when it's half past five

The only time that I'll be by your side

I only love it when you touch me, not feel me

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me, yeah

I only call you when it's half past five

The only time I'd ever call you mine-

“I’ve noticed of late that your poetry has tones of resentment, Patroclus. I’m not judging the work- some of the best works have come from expressing pain, and you are projecting onto these characters in your poems. But I do worry that you are suppressing yourself again.”

Mr. Chiron’s opinions on his work have always been sharp and to the point, but today it leaves Patroclus a little defensive.

“How could I be suppressing myself when I’ve been writing more for years? I’ve been expressing my feelings!”

Nonplussed, Mr. Chiron takes another sip of his drink. “House of Balloons was borne of your fear of the darkness of fame that is growing around Achilles; The Hills borne out of your desperation to be acknowledged by him beyond the relationship you currently have.”

Grimacing, Patroclus only offers a curt nod.

“I have asked you this many times, Patroclus, and I will ask you again- what is it that you really want?”

“You just said what my problems are.”

“Maybe so, but these problems are coming from you focusing on Achilles and your relationship with him, and not on yourself. You’ve lived your life fawning over and protecting him, and it is clear you adore him. But you cannot live for him. What is something for you, that would make you happy?”

They sit in silence while Patroclus dwells on the question. The night that he abandoned the party, he’d run away with one goal in mind- to escape the emotional turmoil that he was feeling about Achilles. No matter how much he loved Achilles, and how much he knew Achilles loved him in return, their relationship was not what he wanted- not like this. Calypso’s words lingered as a response to Mr. Chiron’s question- unconditional love. But it was supposed to be an answer that had nothing to do with his relationship.

“I want to be at some sort of peace,” he replies questioningly, and Mr. Chiron nods thoughtfully.

“Okay, you’re almost to the truth. I can understand that. What might bring you that peace?”

Mr. Chiron’s eyes direct down at Patroclus’ fingers, and Patroclus follows the gaze to see the way he’s been grasping at the poems like a lifeline.

Before he can stop himself, Patroclus picks up his phone and texts Antilochus.

I want to record a song.

He shows Mr. Chiron the text, turning away his red face as Mr. Chiron smiles approvingly.

“No one can know it’s me. It’ll be anonymous.”

“I look forward to hearing it. I bet it will, as Antilochus here says in this enthusiastic response, ‘slap’.”

Hearing the term come out of his old teacher’s mouth leaves Patroclus rolled over in laughter.

“Oh my god, I really spend my weekends hanging out with old men,” he wheezes.

“You do.”

Patroclus is about to retort when another breathless voice cuts in.

“Patroclus.”

The long hood on the expensive coat almost hides Achilles’ face from onlookers perfectly, but Patroclus would know the eyes peering over those sunglasses anywhere. Expression slipping into a hardened scowl, Patroclus turns away from him. He’d blocked Achilles’ number temporarily for space to think- he hadn’t expected to deal with this right now.

“How did you know I was here?” he growls, viciously satisfied when Achilles visibly flinches at his tone.

“You wouldn’t reply to any of my calls or texts,” he replies defensively, “so I dropped by your place and Antilochus said you were here. Hey, Mr. Chiron.”

“Hello, Achilles,” Mr. Chiron greets, voice calm.

Damnit, Antilochus! “Right. I’ll see you later, Mr. Chiron,” Patroclus says, rising from his seat to put on his coat and hat.

“Remember what we discussed.”

“I will.”

Patroclus storms out of the coffeeshop, picking a direction and heading that way aimlessly.

“Why aren’t you responding to my calls?”

“You’re blocked- I haven’t received a thing.”

“You couldn’t just tell me that you didn’t want to talk right now?!”

“If I opened my mouth, I would have said worse.”

“I’ve been looking for you all morning!”

“How cute.”  

“Patroclus!” 

The anger in Achilles’ voice is enough to spin Patroclus around, his own fury matching it.

“What? You took the time to find me? Again, adorable! As if that isn’t what I’ve always done for you!”

He refuses to see the pain in Achilles’ eyes, the regret that will make him melt the way he always has. Even when Achilles races to his side, considerately pulling him to a side alley so that the snow doesn’t blow past their faces, Patroclus refuses to cool his temper.

“Look, Patroclus, I know I messed up. I spoke to Auntie Calypso, and-”

“Auntie?” he tosses his hands in the air. “Oh, the surprises are endless!” Auntie Calypso- oh how the famous do mingle! It really isn’t surprising when Patroclus thinks about it, and he has nothing against the considerate woman, but it’s still annoying.

“If you could just listen to me!”

“Today, I don’t think I will! That’s all I’ve ever done, Achilles, is listen to you! And look where it’s gotten me!”

Patroclus tries to yank his arm away, Achilles refusing to let go.

“I was wrong!”

The admission is enough to freeze Patroclus in his tracks, and seeing this, Achilles barrels on tearfully.

“I was wrong, Patroclus. I shouldn’t have invited you to that kind of party without meeting you, or being by your side. It sickens me to my core to think that you felt unloved and unseen in my presence. I’m sorry. There will never be anyone but you, Patroclus. I don’t care about a single one of those leeches around me, I entertain them as part of the job, but they will never hold my heart the way you do.” Achilles brings Patroclus’ hand to his chest, pressing it there. “Talk to me, philtatos. Please.”

Sniffling, Patroclus focuses on a low hanging branch in the distance, anything to not cry with this man in front of him. If Achilles wants the truth, he’ll tell him. “Last night, I realized that I can’t take it anymore. You take advantage of me when I write your songs. You don’t appreciate them. I don’t feel appreciated and I’m sick of it.”

He can’t even pull it off; by the end of his sentence, he’s broken into tears. Horrified, Achilles rushes to pull Patroclus into a hug.

“I do appreciate you, and I do appreciate your songs! Is that how you feel? You’re the only reason I’m famous right now, Patroclus! I love them! People love them!”

“You don’t act like it. You just ask for hits and then expect that you’ll get them, as if I’m just a service. A fuck for a song!”

“Patroclus, that is not how I feel and you know that!”

“No! I don’t!” Patroclus shouts, shoving Achilles away. “And it wouldn’t even be so bad that others don’t know, except for the fact that you know! But, once you get your songs, I become another faceless fan that you can’t even bother to acknowledge after you invite them to stand in the cold to come to your stupid parties! Parties where I watch you laugh it up with people that have invested nothing in you, but somehow mean more than I do!”

“None of them have ever meant more to me than you! Are you being like this because you’re jealous?”

Patroclus can’t tell what’s worse- the fact that Achilles really thinks that that’s all there is to it, or that there might be a small grain of truth to it.

“No, I’m being this way because I’m offended, and if you’re not going to appreciate me and my work, then I’d like you to never ask me for anything again and just leave me alone.”

Stunned, Achilles pulls out his phone. “If it’s attention you want, to show my appreciation, I’ll tell them! I’ll get on social media right now and tell the world that you wrote them!”

Scoffing, Patroclus rolls his eyes. “As what, Achilles? Your ‘best friend’? One of your songwriters? Since you can’t be dating somebody, otherwise they won’t see you as available? Because you aren’t, though at this point, you might as well be!”

The revelation leaves Achilles thrown, and he veers a couple steps backward.

“Well… What do you want me to do?” he asks, voice small. “I’ll do it, Patroclus, please just tell me. I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want to lose us…”

Sighing, Patroclus tosses off his hat to run a frustrated hand through his hair. “I want you to appreciate me. To recognize my work. Give me your time, at least some of it- something more than just a catch up and a request. Acknowledge my presence when I’m in the room- I’m not a part of your stupid entourage. You once said that you wanted to behold my intelligence and wisdom when I spoke. That you wanted to lavish me, to worship me. It’s been years since you said that, and for years I believed you… but now I’m starting to believe that it was just pretty words said by the man with a silver-tipped tongue who just wanted to take advantage of me like everyone else in my life.”

He bites his tongue after the last part, almost having revealed too much. Still, Achilles hangs on every word he says, swallowing as he accepts the terms.

“Yes. Yes, Patroclus, I will do that. I meant what I said, please believe me when I say I meant it, and I still mean it. I would have stood up to meet you last night, I was waiting for you when you saw me. Honestly! I didn’t mean to make you feel unappreciated; I know with all the tours and parties I’m not always available, but my time is automatically yours when you need me. If you call, I will come- I’ve always felt that way, but if I didn’t make you feel that, then I messed up. I got too comfortable in your love, and I shouldn’t have. I will make up for everything, I swear it, philtatos.”

He’s now close enough to place warm hands around Patroclus’ face, peering for forgiveness. He looks like a kicked puppy; an adorably stupid kicked puppy, and Patroclus is struggling to resist- he’s never been any good at it. After he can’t find any deceit in Achilles’ eyes, Patroclus relaxes into his grasp.

“Fine.”

He meets Achilles in the middle, bringing their lips together softly. It’s the first time they’ve kissed since Achilles left for his last tour; it’s been months, and the amount of hunger lingering from that time crashes into them full force when Patroclus pulls him closer.

“Thank you for your forgiveness- I don’t deserve it. I missed you, Patroclus, I wanted to see you so badly last night and I messed up.” Achilles murmurs, giving him as sexy a look he can manage with a red nose. It’s not very effective, and Patroclus giggles, squeezing his waist.

“You did. But I missed you, too. Hopefully, things will be better now that you’re back.”

“Mm,” Achilles waggles his eyebrows before backing up, grasping Patroclus’ hand. “Well, you look as handsome and marvelous as always, but I know I look a mess in this weather. Why don’t we go back to my place and consummate this new beginning properly?”

“You will be doing no such thing, now or ever.”

The frosty voice, colder than the winter breeze could ever manage, leaves them quailing in its presence as a furious, mink-coated Thetis steps into the alley.

Patroclus wants to throw his hat into the wall, to punch his pillows, to smash things and wreak destruction. He wants to show that he too is capable of senseless and cruel aggression, but it’s just not in him. The mere thought of such harmless actions fills him with a sense of disgust. Even now, he can’t succumb to any behavior that reminds him of Menoetius.

Unfortunately, this leaves him stewing in his own fury with nowhere to direct it.

If Thetis’ sharp words could leave physical wounds, his body would be scourged. The moment the guards stood in front of the alleyway, blocking off any potential onlookers, she’d exploded.

‘I spend all this time working on your image, Achilles, building you a growing empire, simpering to Olympus, and you spend your days kissing some poor, future English teacher?!’

What had she done, really, that Achilles couldn’t have achieved with the same support from his doting father?

‘This ugly, talentless nobody?!’

Now you’re just lying; you’re always lying! Patroclus wanted to scream.

The only thing that could have mildly soothed his insult was how fearlessly, how furiously Achilles had responded.

‘First, not that it matters, but Patroclus is beautiful, so you are just blatantly lying. His majors are English Literature and Music Composition, not education, and his stunning talent is part of the reason my music was ever popular! I will not let you speak of him like this, nor forgive you for doing so!’

Thetis slaps away Achilles’ pointed finger, glossy red nails seconds from clawing into his beautiful face in retribution.

‘How dare you?! Everything I’ve ever done for you, the pain I’ve gone through to have you and bring you here, and you dare associate his name with your success?!’

‘Oh, it’s not a competition! Everyone else likes him, and he’s a good man! I love him! Father and Auntie Calypso support him and support us! Mother please, why can’t you?!’

Patroclus had noticeably snorted, before biting his lip in bitter humor. Witnessing the way Thetis went puce at the mention of two of the powerful people she hated most had almost been worth all the fuss. That is, until she turned to Patroclus with eyes so frosty the snowy weather seemed balmy.

‘So, this is how it is. You think you can turn my son away from me? You think you can mock me?’ She’d turned to her security. ‘Take Achilles to the car. We will discuss this further at my penthouse.’

Achilles had bristled, taking off his coat and tightening his fist as he stood defensively in front of Patroclus.

‘Unacceptable.’

That hard earned muscle was capable in a fight, and with the gleam in the four security guards’ eyes, it was clear there’d be mutual blood. As he stepped forward, Patroclus placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Just go, Achilles. We’ll talk later.’

‘What? No! She’s wrong, Patroclus, and-’

‘I know, love. There doesn’t need to be any violence about it.’

Eyes still aflame, Achilles had straightened himself out. Before he left, he kissed Patroclus on the cheek, lingering just long enough to send the message.

‘Love you, and I’ll call you, okay?’ he’d whispered.

‘Don’t disappear on me again.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

The guards try to grab Achilles as he passes, but he aggressively tosses off their hands. It was clear from whom Achilles had inherited that famous icy condescension when mother and son didn’t spare the other a glance.

Instead, Patroclus held that inhuman gaze head on, refusing to look away despite the fear that coiled inside him without Achilles at his side.

‘Your presence disgusts me, and it tarnishes that of my son’s, and of the hard work I’ve put in to care for him- don’t you dare open your mouth.’

The hiss shuts Patroclus’ defensive response down immediately, the click of his jaw instinctive. Thetis’ eyes soften, a misleading gaze that might lure in prey to relax their guard.

‘There. This is how you should look. Born of trash, stood amongst the filth, defeated and accepting your place, while those of us who were always meant for more ascend.’ She’d yawned, as if ruining Patroclus’ self image was somehow boring to her. ‘Besides, even if Achilles does keep you around, you’ll lose your luster. Ask Calypso, since her opinion suddenly means so much- you’ll never be the one that he should love.’

And with that, she’d turned away and swept toward her vehicle. The two shiny cars pulled off into the traffic, and Patroclus was left there shivering from cold and humiliation. He’s not sure how he made it back home, he just remembers wandering aimlessly, hopping on and off a bus, and now he’s here, head in his hands.

Some noise in the background alerts him to Antilochus, who breezes into the room with a wide smile and freezes.

“Uh- whoa there. That is not the vibe I expected. Everything okay, Pat? What’s going on?”

Patroclus bites his tongue. He doesn’t really feel like rehashing all of the mildly traumatizing things that he’s heard about himself today.

“Finally talked to Achilles today.”

Antilochus sits at the desk across from the bed, nodding. “Sounds good?”

“Nope,” Patroclus replies, shaking his head. “Thetis caught on.”

Antilochus grimaces, fidgeting. “Damn. I’m sorry, dude. That sucks. She sucks.”

Patroclus’ blank look morphs into hysterical laughter at the absurd yet genuine response.

“Yeah,” he says, wiping tears from his face while Antilochus nervously chuckles. “Yeah, she does suck.”

“…So… I’m guessing this means no song tonight. Which is totally fine! I was excited and all, but it can wait!”

Actually… Patroclus reaches under his bed and pulls out a small leather journal, turning to a blank page. Pulling out his blue pen, he pens a couple words.

“Just… give me an hour to work through this, okay?”

Grinning, Antilochus jumps up and rushes out of the room.

An hour later, Patroclus has infused his emotions into one simple poem, the triggered hopelessness that the day had brought. He hands the journal to Antilochus.

“Hm… Tales of Dominica. I like it! What inspired the title?”

“That’s the name of the street I grew up on.” His shyness at the response is interesting, but it turned out he had nothing to worry about. Antilochus only takes it from him and mutters over it, eyes darting back and forth from the page to the screen. It’s so boring to watch that Patroclus ends up leaving the man to his literal devices as he finally texts Achilles.

Achilles, are you okay?

Did you make it home?

I’m sorry about today.

An hour later, he has a response.

No

We yelled at each other forever and then she started crying

So then I felt bad

we’re out to eat to try to soothe things over

IM sorry about today.

I’m sorry about many things Patroclus

Ik I was supposed to call

She’s gonna get pissed

Just focus on your dinner for now.

Thank you for checking back in.

I’ll call you tomorrow philtatos

I promise

“Okay!” Antilochus suddenly shouts from his studio, almost making Patroclus drop his coffee all the way in the kitchen. “I’ve got some vibe ideas! Come listen to some of this and see if it fits!”

Patroclus sits next to him as Antilochus explains, all of the edit clippings and jagged wavelength lines still making absolutely no sense to him despite three years of vocalizing.

“I like the speed of it, but I think it needs… hold on. Do you still have the little Casio piano?” A few seconds later, Patroclus is back with his guitar. Antilochus is quick to set up the tiny piano and other recording needs in the small closet attached to the office, then lets Patroclus play a few melodies until they agree that he’s found the right one. Because the office is jury-rigged as a studio, the best they can do is open the hot closet door over and over to communicate.

“All right, Pat, if you think that’s a good one, I think you should sing over your guitar. I can add more or take out some afterwards.”

The closet is getting suffocating, and Patroclus is ready to quit already. “Okay.”

When the door closes once more, and the cue rings, Patroclus begins to strum.

Woke up on the floor,

Oh, this plastic bed don’t blow up no more,

In this broken home,

Everyone becomes predictable,

Oh, sometimes you’re angry,

Sometimes you’re hurting,

Sometimes you’re all alone…

His heart burns as he gets to the main lyrics, everything that happened that day all rushing back to the surface. Mr. Chiron’s calm support, Achilles’ confusion and his promised devotion, Thetis’ caustic disdain.

(Oh) Finally grown, ain’t nothing like I hoped it would be,

Out of my own, I’m floating in an ocean-less sea,

Could I be wrong, was everybody right about me?

Scary things in my head, I can’t dream and I just-

He can only be grateful that it only takes two takes, and he’s quick to vanish to his shower to wash off the sweat while Antilochus works feverishly. It’s a little after midnight when Patroclus finally checks in.

“How does it sound?” Though he’s recorded with Antilochus before, it’s never been a full, original song, and he’s never added his own details without being asked. Antilochus beams, nonplussed despite his hair being everywhere and multiple coffee stains on his shirt.

“It’s fucking amazing, Pat. Short, simple, yet it fills you with this… vast loneliness. Like, it gives me lone ranger vibes, like you’re out there wandering in the wild.”

“Forced to go forward because you cannot go back,” Patroclus murmurs. 

“Crazy. You want to hear it? Here!”

The moment the song plays, Patroclus hears his guitar melody, followed by his own voice. It’s a bizarre feeling- singing just to sing was one thing, but hearing his own voice amplified to him, the way Antilochus modified his vocals for him to harmonize with himself the way he asked, it’s otherworldly. He can hear what Antilochus heard, the addition of the clapping, the small metal tinkling giving it a western vibe, the violin at the end playing as the voice croons out…

“Is that me?” Patroclus asks, stunned.

“That’s you!”

“That’s…wow.”

“Yeah! I’ve just got a couple more edits to make, and it’ll be ready for the posting! Oh- I meant to ask, what do you want your name to be?”

The question throws Patroclus. “Huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Antilochus gestures at the journal. “Well, if you’re trying to hide your identity- which is gonna make for an excellent origin story, mind you- you can’t just say ‘Patroclus’ on it.”

Right. That makes sense. Of course. Patroclus can’t think of anything if the goofy look on his face indicates anything.

Antilochus sighs. “Fine. No rush! We can record some other songs while you figure it out; it’ll be baby’s first EP! I’m so proud.” Without a by-your-leave, Antilochus flips to the page beforehand in the song book.

“Excuse you!”

“The Hills, huh…”

“Antilochus!”

“Oooh, this one is spicy- is it for a story? Are you writing a story?”

Flushing so hot that he might faint, Patroclus covers his eyes. “It’s a narrative, inspired by my own emotions if not exactly real.”

Antilochus, finally seeing the damage his teasing is doing, puts the journal down.

“Hey man, I’m sorry. I just think it’s cool! As much as I think you should really get out there and sing, I also think that you have a lot of leeway with this secret singer thing. If you wanna write about some shit you’ve never done and sing about it, why not?”

His words spark a memory in Patroclus, of dancing down a stairway, pretending that the world was watching him perform. “You don’t think it’d be lying?” he asks, tempted.

“I mean, loads of people do that. People don’t look up the details on regular people as humans, unfortunately; they buy into the image. Thus, a lot of singers sing about what the people wanna hear, not what they’re actually doing.”

It’s the truth; he’s learned that with Achilles. The man who’d rather play in the pool, messily eat grapes and figs, have footraces in the sun with the many friends he didn’t truly have and long yearned for; instead, an untouchable pop princeling with a gilded court that only loved what his talent could provide.

Perhaps Patroclus would like a persona. He looks down at his lyrics for The Hills, thinking deeply.

“Someone aloof from his feelings, sexy, full of imperfect, vulnerable love that the listener will want but can never have,” he ponders. It’s so close to how he feels about his relationship, the way that there’s so many things in the way of he and Achilles just being together and loving each other. “Inherently toxic, but in a way that makes you yearn for it anyway.”

“You okay there, pal?”

Blinking, Patroclus snaps out of his reverie to see Antilochus staring with an eyebrow raised.

No, I need therapy and instead I sing as my OCs. “I’m building the mystique!”

“Hey, I’m just asking! Anyway, like I said, take your time. Now, before you go to bed, do you mind giving me a vibe idea for this song? Something that you’re going for, so I can maybe build around it.”

Patroclus takes one more look at his phone screen. No notifications from Achilles. He knows he told him to focus on dinner, but he guesses some part of him was secretly hoping that Achilles would come to him anyway.

“…Fine. But I’m not going back in that hot ass closet tonight.”

The next evening, Patroclus and Antilochus are back in the ‘studio’ recording, and it’s a little harder than Tales. This time Patroclus has to be there for the whole thing, with at least twenty takes so that Antilochus can create the sound that they’re looking for. It’s a good thing that they’re on the top floor at the end of the hall, so that the recording doesn’t bother any neighbors (and Patroclus’ deranged screams of frustration in that damned closet are muffled).

“I heard that scream, and I’m using it in the song!”

“Antilochus you’d better fucking not!”

“It’s already modified!”

Antilochus was his other best friend, but Patroclus never knew how much he’d be ready to strangle him for his stubbornness and need for perfection. He’d never been like this before! To help, Patroclus even learned a little bit of the system Antilochus used, making his own changes and additions whenever his friend rose to shower or take a piss. Sometimes the additions would be welcomed, other times they’d be immediately erased, and it’d be back to the arguing.

Finally, it was finished.

Five songs, less than thirty minutes of content, all produced in one long, inspiration and determination driven, arduous week. A sleepless Antilochus slumps on the couch, unveiling the playlist.

1. Tales of Dominica
2. House of Balloons
3. Lonely Star
4. Thursday
5. The Hills

“You look like Squidward after his magnum opus,” Patroclus notes, frowning at Antilochus’ dark eye circles. “Get some fucking sleep.”

“You don’t look any better. Besides, sleep is for the ambitionless!” Antilochus croaks. “Now let’s listen to my damn magic.”

Tales is a unique introduction, the origin of yearning from a distant new arrival on the scene. House of Balloons is frightening in its tale of a toxically doomed hookup caught up in a life that demands false happiness from chaos. Lonely Star sings of someone who was willing to give up everything and had, all to no avail, blending into Thursday, the melancholic, heartless result of that unrequited love. The Hills is a hardened version of this man, though if one is listening closely enough, it makes them wonder- is the singer singing about themselves, or are they singing about how someone else made them feel? Is this vengeance? Or have they come full circle?

In an odd way, it was extremely fun to create this new sort of storyline and life through music, even if it had been a grueling process. The results spoke for themselves, and Patroclus got what he wanted- a lost, agonized, alluring soul that could sing all his pain and yearning, plus all the benefits of not ‘being’ Patroclus. 

“It’s amazing, Antilochus. You did a good j-” A loud snore cuts his praise off. Antilochus is fully asleep in his hoodie, face shoved into his knees. Smiling, Patroclus covers him with a blanket and makes his way to his room.

Now all I need is a name, he thinks. It’s frustrating really; all this work into coming up with this character, and he can’t think of the finishing touch. As he slumps into his bed, he checks his phone again.

Now, sometimes Achilles is incommunicado for a couple days. A man who is on tours and constantly recording doesn’t exactly have time to text any and everybody, and though he’d promised to answer when Patroclus called, Patroclus has tried to give him space. Just because he had access to the privilege, didn’t mean he was going to abuse it. They were grown, with vastly different schedules. He’s had his own project to focus on, something that gave him renewed purpose (and distraction). That being said, he’s just about at the end of his patience.

Sometimes he feels like he’s been struck by cupid’s arrow, because he certainly didn’t to ask to be capable of this sort of passionate, all-consuming love-

“Oh my god, what a perfect title!” Patroclus almost rolls off the bed reaching for a broad-tipped felt pen and his journal. He scrawls out the name and rushes to the couch, thrusting it in Antilochus’ face.

“Bro, I can’t even see, I don’t care right now, man,” Antilochus pathetically whimpers, and Patroclus scoffs.

“I’ll leave it here then. You’ll care in the morning.”

“You know,” Antilochus comments, “I knew you had it in you the moment you started recording, but I gotta say- quite the name you chose. Very sexy.”

“Yeah,” Patroclus nods. “I knew it’d be perfect for the playlist title.”

Antilochus’ brow furrows. “…Just the playlist title?”

“Yeah. Playlist title.”

“You mean… and the artist’s name?”

“…No. I wrote the playlist title, and I figured we were coming up with a name.”

“So… that wasn’t… your name? You weren’t using your name as both?”

The grimace on Antilochus’ face widens as Patroclus full body inhales.

“What?!”

“I thought you settled on a name!”

“I didn’t!”

“Well… I kind of already posted the playlist?”

“Take it down!”

“It’s too late! I clicked submit!”

“Why?!”

“Because I figured it was both!”

“Okay, you know what, fine. It’s fine.” Patroclus groans, trying to calm himself. No one else will know it’s him, so if that’s the name he’s got… fine. There’s another looming problem that he thought he had more time to think about. “What are you going to say if people ask where you picked up this person?”

“I’ll just say artist-producer confidentiality! And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just say some awesome singer has been hitting me up to produce them, with a mysterious email and some money, so I didn’t ask any questions. Anyway, just to help you out, I even sent the playlist to Automedon- you remember him?”

“From school?” It’s like Antilochus wants him to have a heart attack.

“Yeah! He has a music blog that’s pretty popular these days. Ever since he got that internship at PME, he’s suddenly ‘knowledgeable’ and everyone wants his takes.”

Patroclus’ heart drops. “Phthia?! They might hear it!”

“Who’s gonna prove it, Pat? Oh, look! Your first couple comments! You want to read it?”

Shaking his head fervently, Patroclus curls into a ball to try to contain the anxious storm in his stomach.

Oh, this was a bad idea, I’m so stupid, I can’t believe I did this, they’re gonna find out it was me; I’m going to get in trouble, Thetis is going to cut off the money. My education, my mother, that goddamned man is going to kill me...  

He’s just about to stand up and demand Antilochus find a way to delete it when Antilochus inhales.

“‘Gods, this voice…it’s so mournful and I love it’. ‘Sad strip club vibes? I must have more!’ ‘Sir, please, replace that old flame with me I’ll make it worth it’. ‘T where did you FIND this man?!?’” Antilochus smiles. “Sounds like they love it so far.”

Because it’s the weekend, they are free to chill, and Patroclus spends most of that time split between doing homework and staring at the screen as the counter fills with views. He’s not sure how it managed to take off so quickly, given that it’s a short playlist, but this question is answer when Antilochus shows him Automedon’s texts.

The VIBES

And you know I’ll support you any time, ofc I’ll play em

Who is this guy?

And your production, amazing bro

Especially on Tales and The Hills

The warmth of true self-satisfaction is something that Patroclus has never experienced. True, he’s had many a success in his life, but it always felt reciprocal in a way. But this, taking such a risk and feeling the reward- this is new, and it’s intoxicating. He can see why Achilles likes the attention.

Speaking of Achilles, he still hasn’t heard from him. Out of a morbid curiosity, he types ‘Achilles’ into Google- perhaps something has happened? The first results pop up on his phone screen-

And he drops the phone face first onto the ground.

“Pat? Pat! What’s up? What’s wrong?” Antilochus reaches for the phone, noticing a stunned frozen Patroclus unable to reach for it. When he sees the headline, he hisses, and it isn’t from a cracked screen.

Spotted in Scyros! Pop’s darling princess Deidameia spotted sticking to the arm of pop’s gilded prince Achilles on the beach. Is this the start of something bigger?

It is not an exaggeration to say that Deidameia is sticking to Achilles like glue; both her arms are wrapped around one of his, her manic smile so wide it’s uncomfortable to look at. Achilles’ eyes are covered with sunglasses, his expression neutral, but there’s no sign from the picture that he’s moving away from her embrace.

“Hand me my phone.”

Flinching at the cold command, Antilochus slips Patroclus the phone.

The moment he’s locked into his room, Patroclus calls Achilles’ number.

This call cannot be completed as dialed.

Again.

This call cannot be completed as dialed.

This call cannot be completed as dialed.

This call cannot-

Wrath builds in his throat, but he swallows it down. Finding Peleus’ contact, he clicks the number and lets the phone ring.

“Hey there, Skops.”

“Hey, Peleus, sir,” Patroclus whispers, voice low and quaking with anger. “Where’s Achilles?”

Don’t lie to me, please don’t lie to me.

“Achilles…” Peleus sighs. “About a week ago, Thetis called to tell me that she was taking ‘her’ son somewhere for a retreat.”

“Oh.” It’s all Patroclus can manage.

“I saw, Patroclus. I saw, and I’m sorry, son. I didn’t know she would do something like this.”

“Something like what?” The phrasing allows worms into Patroclus’ heart, allowing space for hope.

“I’ve been told that she’s trying to encourage a relationship between Achilles and that girl.”

The line goes silent for a moment, as Patroclus tries to crush down the overwhelming sense of betrayal and hatred in his chest.

“Patroclus, there’s a small concert that they’ll be holding on the island where Scyros Entertainment is located. If you’d like, I can get you to the island for-”

“Yes. Please.”

After that, Patroclus’ state of mind goes on autopilot. Peleus sends him the flight and show tickets, even books him a hotel. Antilochus even manages to book a flight to come with him, citing something about the blank look on Patroclus’ face indicating murderous intent. It’s not intent, Patroclus wants to tell him. It’s not anything. He can’t afford to feel anything, not when he doesn’t know the truth. Before he can allow himself to feel anything, to allow emotion to tear his heart and soul apart, he needs to know the truth.

The island is balmy, perfect for a vacation getaway from the freezing cold weather of home. The night in particular is buzzing with energy. The moon and stars were out in a clear sky, only dimmed by the flashing lights of the arena stadium coming from the stage and from phones. For a small moment, Patroclus closes his eyes and imagines that he is the one the arena anticipates, the bundle of nerves in his heart as he would walk out onto the stage and-

“I heard that he personally chose the entire set list for tonight,” someone whispers. “We’re getting all of Achilles’ favorites tonight!”

Oh. Okay, Patroclus thinks. Why is my heart pounding at that?

Because he told me all of my songs were his favorites.

“It’s starting!” someone shrieks, and the crowd begins to roar for the opener for the performance. Large, bulky muscles where Achilles was lithe, chestnut brunet to Achilles’ burnished blond, ruggedly handsome to Achilles’ refined beauty, Ajax is a beloved part of Phthia’s next musical generation. The crossover collaboration had been a brilliant idea of Diomedes and Odysseus, millions of fans utterly delighted that their favorites from different genres could work together so well.

The first song fades out, the drums tapping a simple 4/4 beat, when Ajax strums the opening to the next song- Patroclus’ personal favorite of their collabs is next up! The crowd loses it when Achilles walks to the mic, beaming as always, as he prepares to sing. Smells Like Teen Spirit is always an experience, if not for the eerie buildup of Ajax’ hello, hello, hello how low? or the reckless chorus over the destructive drums, but for how Achilles performs it. It cracks the façade of the princeling and showing a more carefree, rebellious side to the man as he headbangs around, jumping up and down around the stage to amp the crowd.

That crowds screams as the notes for the next song plays, and Antilochus nudges Patroclus, who laughs for the first time since they arrived in Scyros. It seems that no matter how many times they hear it, Sins will always be a funny memory. Achilles certainly seems to enjoy himself, doing a call and response with everyone during the chorus. He’d always thought that Achilles would get sick of it, but he really never has. Patroclus is tempted to sing along, but he’s having entirely too much fun watching Achilles perform.  

When the next song is Emperor’s New Clothes, happy tears begin to fall down Patroclus’ face. He doesn’t even know I’m here, why is he doing this? It doesn’t matter. If no one else here knows, he knows that Achilles thought about him when putting this set together. How he managed to do it despite Thetis’ influence is something Patroclus will have to ask him once he can get into contact with him.

The thought sobers his excitement out some, compounded when the crowd screams at the latest arrival on the stage.

It’s a given, that in a private arena located near Scyros Entertainment, that someone would represent them at this event. Deidameia is the pearl of her father’s eye, having never wanted for a thing, and has headlined for her company since she graduated high school. Her beauty has only amplified in that time as well, the last of her baby fat long gone. She is stunning in her sparkling jade green lowcut tank top, the A-line skirt cut perfectly to allow her long, pale, muscular legs maximum “classy” exposure. Her curly dark hair is in a bun crafted to look messy and ooze sex appeal, some hair slipping out in the front as she confidently struts her way to the middle-

And right into Achilles’ arms.

Now, the deafening screams are hard to think over, but Patroclus focuses. He knows Achilles well enough to notice the slip in his composure. It’s surprise, though the minute slip is immediately wiped away as the soft music starts.

Now, Patroclus is not stupid. Just because two people are singing a love song does not mean they’re in love, and if Phthia and Scyros are collaborating, it’s natural that there’d be music as a result.

But this? This is unnerving for him.

The song, Music to My Eyes, is deceptively simple. The slow downbeat and guitar melody allow for Achilles and Deidameia to showcase their clear voices separately, then allowing them to crest perfectly with one another. Their small sway on stage is like a slow dance that leaves many of the fans sobbing with the visualized romance. If the goal was to sell the audience on love, it’s successful.

The lyrics themselves are what really cut into Patroclus.

…I’ve had to listen just to find you,

I’d like for you to let me sing along,

Give you a rhythm you’d feel,

I wanna learn your every line,

I wanna fill your empty spaces,

I want to play the part to reach your arms,

Sing you a song that you feel, oh,

Love, let your music be mine…

It’s illogical. It’s just a song. And yet, there’s this burning, hateful possessiveness overtaking him. He should be singing this with Achilles. That is his lover, his best friend, the melody in his heart. How the hell did Deidameia’s writers (because he doesn’t believe for a second that she writes her own music) manage to hit on some of his key insecurities?

The song is about to end, this is the last song in the set, and then I’ll be able to talk-

Patroclus’ mind goes silent, his heart stone still, when he watches the two seal the song with a passionate kiss.

Achilles has been labeled many things in his wrath- dramatic, a diva, a prima-donna, a spoiled brat, and a selfish asshole were only part of the range. Some days they were misunderstandings, and others they were completely correct assessments. But frosty and silent- those were rare, and they only seemed reserved for one person. The moment the curtains fall, Achilles tosses Deidameia off him, storming away into the back of the arena, teeth grit so hard they could break iron.

“Achilles!” Her heels click in frustration, faster and closer. “Achilles, wait up!”

He doesn’t know what else he has to do to get this girl to take a fucking hint. Deidameia has been a constant presence since high school, always mooning around him, sending him flirty, undesirable messages, touching him when he didn’t want to be touched, and laying claim to his space despite him never indicating that he wanted her there. Worst of all, he has to pretend that they get along, if only to sell this new single.

Tonight was their first live performance of the new single, and each note pulled barbed wire from his throat. He hates it, he’s hated it since the moment Thetis and Lycomedes lay the lyrics in front of him at the boardroom table, with Deidameia grinning so hard she was practically grimacing. It had taken everything not to slap her off when she kissed him. When her lips touched his- bubblegum-flavor, overly-excited, and wrong- his entire world stopped, save for the flashing of cameras. That image is going to spread everywhere, which was likely her fucking point.

Nausea rises in him, and he almost trips over a thick wire as he weaves through the stagehands and crew. He’s in a relationship. He can’t come out to the world and say it right now, but he’s deeply in love with someone, and it makes Achilles sick that she would take liberties with him like this. He didn’t know, he didn’t know she’d do this, and now he’s caught in something that they can’t take back.

I need to call Patroclus. I need to get to him before they do. I just need to explain, I just need to tell him-

Sharp claws grasp his forearm, tearing him from his thoughts. Tears run down Deidameia’s devastated, blotchy face.

“Just talk to me for a second, love, please-”

The disgusting endearment makes him swivel around, his sinister face freezing her sobs instantly.

“Don’t call me that,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare. I have had it with you! I have been patient for our families and our businesses’ sake, but that was entirely too fucking far! Why would you even do that?!”

Deidameia begins to cry anew. “Because I love you, Achilles, I always have, and I thought we finally had something! We have our song together!”

The girl is delusional. She must be. “Singers feature all the time, and they’re not in love! ‘We’ have never had anything!” Achilles gestures in between them for good measure, and Deidameia stomps her foot in anger.

“Then why did you even come here?!”

He’s on this damn ‘retreat’ because his mother pleaded with him to spend more time working on their relationship after that fight. This was their mutual olive branch, rather than not speaking to her ever again as he conveyed quite emphatically, in fact. She’d cried, it was bad, and he regretted speaking to her that way. They’d come to the balmy island of Scyros and left their phones behind in the hotel, sharing meals, going to boutiques and spas, and even cuddled while watching a movie. Thetis hadn’t seemed so relaxed in a long time- he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her without full makeup. Things had been so nice, at peace in a way they hadn’t been in a long time. It only made his disappointment even more shattering when suddenly, Lycomedes showed up to one of their brunches, toting a visibly elated Deidameia behind him.

He’d turned to Thetis, eyebrow quirking. “Mother,” he’d said. Only one word, heavy with implication.

I thought this was for us.

Thetis had only sipped her Bloody Mary, before gesturing for another table to be brought to their own. No conversation. Time that he intended to spend with his mother, suddenly, she began to cancel, and Deidameia would appear.

Well, it’s deeper than he’s about to explain to this woman, anyway. Huffing, Achilles turns on his heel and storms away.

“Your mother told me to!”

It’s not even remotely surprising, and yet Deidameia might as well have just shot him through his ribs with how much the betrayal stings. Still, it’s enough to slow him to a stop, and he draws a couple shuddering breaths.

“She said,” continues Deidameia, voice quiet and defeated. “She said that you would understand once we kissed, what we could have.”  

Something in Deidameia’s voice makes Achilles face her eye to eye, to really see her in that moment. Deidameia, in all her cute clothes and polished image, is small. Small, scared, expression and heart full of hopes and dreams, except in fulfilling his own, she will never have all of hers. A little bit of pity slips into his expression, but the clicking of those damned cameras returns once more- VIP and backstage access are approaching, fast. He turns away for the last time, striding to his dressing room. She doesn’t follow.

He slams the door behind him, locking it and pushing a small chair in front of it for comfort. The windows in the room have been barred and covered in curtains, a measure that had to be taken after it was quickly realized that the paparazzi would do anything to reach him.

“Is the chair necessary?”

Achilles groans, wiping his lips off a couple times with another shirt, then plopping down onto the small chair in front of his makeup table. He’s exhausted, and just needs to breathe, just for a little bit. Automedon waits for a response, and when he doesn’t reply, he gives Ajax a questioning look. Ajax, comfortably tucked in the corner amongst some outfits and shoes despite his giant size, looks Achilles up and down.

“It was Deidameia again, wasn’t it?”

“It’s always fucking Deidameia.” Though, something about the finality of this last interaction… he thinks she might leave him alone now.

“I do not understand why you don’t like that babe,” groans Automedon, leaning back in his chair. He huffs his black curls out of his face, piercing Achilles with a curious look that belies his relaxed pose. Finally, Achilles sits up and sighs.  

“Well one, she’s like a groupie with the privilege of power,” he admits. “It’s like you can’t get away from her, no matter how nicely you try to put it to her. Two, well- my heart doesn’t belong to her. My heart doesn’t belong to any of them, and I wish they’d get that. I wish I could tell them that, but… that doesn’t sell.”

Sell. He’s so tiring of selling, of being sold. But how else will he achieve his goal? Superstardom doesn’t come cheap, his parents once told him. Achilles has poured blood, sweat and tears into this career, this image that he makes look so easy. To lose it all- he’s not sure who he’d be without it. Still, it’s all he can say right now to these two whom he now considers his friends. They’re two of the only people allowed in his trailer, and they’ve certainly made a habit of being there. It’s only fair- Ajax understands the need to hide away from the crowds just as much as he does, and Automedon is an old classmate and works under Diomedes and Odysseus as a quick liaison and representative. The struggle has brought them together, stress building bonds faster than any love of music.

“That’s understandable,” Ajax comments, always short-spoken. Automedon grimaces, but then nods his head.

“I mean, I’ll never be pretty and famous enough to pull a pop princess,” he mutters pettily, dodging a shoe from Ajax. “But I can understand if you just don’t like her. She has followed you around since Mt. Pelion; I can imagine that would get annoying.”

“Yes!” Cracking his neck, Achilles looks around for his bag, where his phone is hidden. “Where’s my bag?”

“Maybe if you cleaned this trailer, it wouldn’t be so hard to find,” jests Ajax. Achilles rolls his eyes, leaning Ajax to the side.

“Ha ha ha, so funny, really. Move your gigantic ass so I can find my phone.” He’d gotten it back tonight, specifically for taking beach selfies and ‘mingling’ purposes. Always business.

“Keep in mind,” Automedon reminds him, “that tonight you have to stop by that party at the beach. You’ve got, what, an hour? I’m sure you’ve got something in here to wear, or if you’re really trying to get some attention, go shirtless?”

Achilles just heaves a sigh, not that it relieves any of the pressure in his chest. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll wear my best smile.” A quick knock from the security guard interrupts the peace, and Achilles scowls. “I’m not taking any VIP visitors in my trailer tonight. You told him that, right Automedon?”

Automedon frowns. “Yeah. I’m not sure why they need you.”

They hear the guard going back and forth with someone outside, and while the responding voice is muffled, it’s clear that it’s agitated. Achilles, finally finding his phone, presses his power button, his annoyance increasing with whoever it is outside his trailer causing problems. Just as he’s about to demand Automedon go out there and demand security drag the offender away, Automedon’s phone starts to buzz.

“Is it the guard?”

“No,” replies Automedon, eyebrow quirking. “It’s Antilochus.” He answers the phone. “Bro is everything- yo, dude, chill out, okay, I’m coming to the door!”

Ajax cocks his head. “Who is Antilochus?”

Achilles is just as confused. “Friend from high school.” Why is he here?

Moving the chair, Antilochus is gone for only a moment, then the door slams open and Antilochus storms inside. Behind him, Automedon is bemused. Still sitting, Achilles slips his phone into his pocket.

“Wh-” Achilles’ question stutters off. Antilochus is one of the calmest people he’s ever met, but the potent expression of sheer terror with hints of fury stops his heart with one gaze. Instantly he thinks he knows what this is about.

“It’s not what you think, Antilochus. I can explain what’s going on.”

“It’s not about what I fucking think, Achilles.” Antilochus says no more, unsure of the people around him and how much they know. There’s a pause, nothing but silence filling the space, then horror dawns on Achilles. The chair behind him goes flying as he jumps to his feet, horrified.

“It’s not what he thinks either, it’s not!”

Antilochus scans his face, skeptical. “Then you’d better catch him and tell him that before he strangles you, jumps off a fucking building or goes back home.”

Achilles is already throwing on a jacket, a black mask, and some sunglasses. “Automedon, give me your keys.”

“But the beach-”

“I don’t have time for this, give me your keys! Antilochus will bring the car back!”

Antilochus startles but gives Automedon an affirmative nod. Automedon tosses Achilles his keys, and Achilles races out of the trailer. He’s always been fast on his feet, and Antilochus heaves as he sprints behind him. Luckily for both of them, Automedon’s car has tinted windows, and they’ve made enough headway that none of the swarming paparazzi can catch up fast enough to determine which car Achilles has hurled himself into.

“Pull up the GPS,” Achilles commands Antilochus, whipping the car into reverse. A feminine voice picks up, telling him which direction to turn, and soon Achilles is weaving through traffic, ten over the speed limit. Many furious cars honk at him. Antilochus’ eyes are wide, fingers gripping the seat.

“What happened?”

“Wh- What the hell do you mean ‘what happened’?”

“Why are you here?” When Achilles reaches the exit, he gracefully and dangerously slips in between two cars. Antilochus feels like vomiting.

“You’re going to kill us.”

“Antilochus.”

“He came here to talk to you, then he saw you pull that shit with Deidameia and he just- oh my god at least use your blinker dude, come on- it’s, it’s like the light in his eyes died and he just turned and left the arena. I tried to get him to confront you, that maybe it was just a performance, but he wasn’t trying to hear me! When he wasn’t listening, I thought I had to come get you, because you weren’t answering your phone.”

Shit, shit! “I don’t have my phone on me when I perform. Someone could take it, safety protocols.” Achilles’ response is muttered, repetition of a never-ending list of rules that he has had to learn. Finally, they pull up to the front of the hotel, and he holds out his hand.

“Give me your room card.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

“Take the car back. Automedon will let you stay with him, go to the beach. ‘Hot babes’ and whatever the hell he says about those things.”

“The beach? Babes?”

“The card, Antilochus.”

Antilochus hands Achilles the card, and Achilles hops out of the car. The valets can’t even speak to him before he’s breezed in the sliding doors and to the elevator. He desperately pushes the up button, praying that Patroclus hasn’t left yet and no one will get in his way. The doors open, and a gaggle of excited ladies in swimsuits exit. He pushes inside, pushing the fifth-floor button and leaning against the back wall, tilting down his glasses to scratch his eye. As the doors close, one of the girls in the group turns back toward the doors. A surprised shine flashes in her eyes, and just as she opens her mouth to scream, the doors close.

Please go up, please go up, please go up-

The universe must be on his side because the door doesn’t open again until he reaches the fifth floor. It is at this moment that he realizes he didn’t ask which room it is, and he curses himself. Hands shaking, he pulls out the card. Blessedly it’s labeled with the door, and Achilles makes his way to last door at the end of the hall. He raises the card to swipe it, and then a wave of anxiety and dread overcomes him.

What if Patroclus doesn’t give him a chance to explain? What will he do if Patroclus rejects him? Music would no longer have any meaning- he wouldn’t be able to sing any of his catalogue without thinking of the man. The entirety of the pieces chosen that night were his favorites, and all of them were written by the love of his life. What was he going to do?!

Achilles steels himself. If he doesn’t try, he’ll definitely lose Patroclus. He has to try. Biting his lip, he swipes the card and pushes the door open, locking it behind him. The foyer is dark, the double bedroom in the back glowing with warm light. Patroclus’ back is turned to him, and Achilles is tempted to laugh. Even in his fury, Patroclus is still properly folding every piece of clothing that enters the suitcase.

“Antilochus,” Patroclus speaks, voice rough with yet unshed tears. “Sorry for the way I was acting, earlier. I shouldn’t have done that. I got it all written out, and… I’ll feel better at some point, right? It’s perfect material-”

He turns around just as Achilles enters the light, choking on his words. His expression is heartbreaking, shock, then betrayal rippling across his face and settling in his glittering, tearful eyes. Patroclus bites his quivering lip, preventing whatever deluge of righteous anger might come from it, and he turns his back on Achilles.

“Get out.”

“Patroclus-”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

“It literally isn’t what you think it is-”

Patroclus swivels around once more, piece of clothing wielded tightly in his hand as though he’s stopping himself from throwing it.

“‘The famous Achilles finally sealing his love with the beautiful Deidameia’” he seethes, shoving his phone in Achilles’ direction to see the headlines. “‘Pop Royalty’, ‘A loving getaway finally confirmed with a kiss’? Or no, have we passed that, onto ‘Next comes baby?’”

A burning anger rises in Achilles, and he swipes at the phone. “You know those are just headlines, Patroclus! They’re almost always lies! Why are you acting like they’re so true, now?”

“Are you going to tell me what I saw tonight wasn’t real?”

“Yes, it was- it happened, but it didn’t mean anything!”

Achilles’ heart pounds, he knows just how bad it sounded the moment it left his lips. It’s only compounded when Patroclus flinches backwards.

“Right,” he whispers, hoarse with anger. “Well, it’s nice to know that it doesn’t take much.”

In that moment, as Patroclus turns around once more, it’s Deidameia that appears in his mind- the way she looked, her eyes, full of crushed hopes and dreams- he can empathize with her now. He can empathize with how she followed him, how just maybe this time, he’ll turn around. Instinctively, his hand shoots out to grab Patroclus’ arm. “Philtatos,” he whispers, tightening his grasp when Patroclus tries to reject him at the endearment.

“I didn’t want to kiss her. I didn’t. I didn’t like it. I didn’t even know she was going to do it, I demanded to know why she did and-”

“She’s always liked you.” Patroclus’ voice is thick.

“Yes,” Achilles admits. “But I don’t care for her. Not at all. I told her, directly, there’s nothing between us. I felt even more violated when she did that, and I was already upset that we had to close the set with that horrible song.”

A chuckle, followed by a sad smile softens Patroclus’ features. “It’s not a horrible song. You sounded beautiful together. I wish… Never mind.”

Patroclus’ voice is so quiet, so lost, that rather than try to get him to finish what he was saying, Achilles scoffs, nudging him. “Well. For one, I’d rather duet with a feral cat.” The dramatics are worth it when Patroclus laughs softly. They stand in the silence, shoulder to shoulder, until Patroclus’ shoulders loosen.

“So, she really came onto you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t… like it?” You don’t like her?

“God, no. It was-” Abysmal, weird, disgusting- “not you.”

He’s finally able to place his hands on either side of Patroclus’ warm face, thumbing the soft cheeks to dry any remaining tears. It’s a strangely vulnerable look, the way Patroclus glimpses from under his lashes, and Achilles leans in to kiss his forehead. This is what I need, he thinks, lips still pressed firmly to the smooth, russet skin.

“I wanted to tackle you backstage and demand answers, but I would have had to fight through a wave of people, so I just left.” Patroclus admits, and Achilles giggles. The thought is hilarious now that their issue has been tentatively resolved.

“I don’t know, Patroclus,” he murmurs, slyly lowering his hands to Patroclus’ waist. “You might have landed on top of me, and something else would have happened. It’s been a long time.”

Rolling his eyes, Patroclus pushes out of his embrace and thumps his head, making him squawk.

“This is a million-dollar forehead you’re flicking!”

“I have to let the air out, somehow.” Patroclus smirks, and Achilles grins. He waits until Patroclus moves the suitcase, and just as he goes to sit, he tackles Patroclus onto the bed. He’s laughing maniacally, and Patroclus rolls his eyes. Still, he’s giving Achilles that adoring look that’s only meant for him, and contentment spreads throughout his body.   

“Why can’t you ever just hug me like a regular person? Maybe you should have been a football player or a fighter, instead of a singer.” He runs gentle fingers through the gleaming blond hair. “Then again, you’d have to fight to defend this pretty face.”

Achilles shrugs, tucking his face in Patroclus’ shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Football player, fighter- I’d be the greatest. They couldn’t touch me, and they damn sure couldn’t touch you.”

“Who said I was there?”  

“I did. You’re always there, Patroclus. There isn’t a single lifetime I can imagine without you there with me.” He nuzzles even closer, inhaling the delicious smell of vanilla as he softly kisses down the line of Patroclus’ throat. Moaning softly, Patroclus bares his throat even more, allowing Achilles to bite firmly on his collarbone, leaving red on top of cinnamon.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be,” murmurs Patroclus, twitching when Achilles runs his hands under his shirt and up his sides. Patroclus gasps when Achilles tosses their shirts off and flips him over, kissing down the column of his spine.

“Don’t care,” Achilles replies, laving his tongue from the small of Patroclus’ back to between his shoulder blades. It’s perfect, as he slowly crawls on top of the other, grinding slowly against him. Before Patroclus can say anything, a possessive hand creeps up his neck, and his lips are sealed in a deep kiss, his groans from the slow rocking movement swallowed by Achilles’ fierceness. It’s only when they are gasping for air that Patroclus manages to speak.  

“Unless you brought a vibrator with you, someone absolutely cares where you are.”

Blinking, it takes a moment for Achilles to realize that his pocket has been buzzing. Annoyed, he pulls his phone out- Automedon has facetimed him at least four times. He swipes to answer, and at once Automedon’s angry face glares at him from the screen.

“Bro, what the fuck? Is- are you shirtless right now? That better be because you’re at the beach already!”

Another voice pipes up from the back, and soon Antilochus’ face is squishing into the camera.

“Oh, no! Do not use my bed!”

Automedon looks like he’s been sucker-punched, fury renewed. “Do you want me fired? This is how you get me fired!”

Achilles’ patience is at an end. “Just tell them I got sick or caught up or something? Just blame me. I don’t care. I’m hanging up.”

“You jacka-”

Patroclus’ body jerks with held-back laughter, and Achilles grins wickedly.

“You’re allowed to laugh. He’ll be okay. I specifically prefer working with Automedon, and Diomedes and Odysseus know that.” He tosses the phone over onto Antilochus’ bed and slowly pushes Patroclus down onto his back. “Now, if you’ll let me, Philtatos, I plan on fucking you silly, tonight.”

Patroclus’ eyes near pop from his surprise, and he flushes a delectable shade. Though they have experienced both, it is usually Achilles who receives. Still, Achilles is strong, almost unnaturally so. Many a day in training was spent daydreaming about how each time he lifted a heavier weight, he was this much closer to sweeping Patroclus off his feet and fucking him against a wall. This strength comes in handy as he easily lifts both of Patroclus’ feet onto his shoulders, running his fingers up and down until they come to the pert cheeks.

Humid, thick air fills the large bathroom, a potent mix of steamy water and even steamier sex. The slap of skin is consistent, followed every time by Patroclus’ cries of pleasure. As promised, Achilles has had him everywhere in the room (except for Automedon’s bed). Thoroughly eaten and fingered until he sobbed, Achilles had been ruthless in his ministrations, voice heavy with raw desire as he drank in every sound.

I want you to want me, Philtatos-

I want you to feel pride in knowing that you’re the only one for me-

I want you to covet me-

I want you-

I love you-

Both of their bodies are covered with marks, with bright bruises and scratches running up Achilles’ back, rounding his shoulders and coming back down his chest. He wears them with honor, having begged for them, wanting Patroclus to claim every part of him. Patroclus’ legs and ass are covered from top to bottom with hickies, and Achilles is sure that there are finger-shaped bruises on his waist and thighs.

“How’s your back,” Achilles whispers, pausing in the aggressive piston of his hips. He has Patroclus pressed against the shower wall, clasped tightly around him. It takes Patroclus a couple moments to reply, his breaths slowing.

“You ask me that now?”

“Had to ask you before you passed out,” teases Achilles, enveloping him slowly in a kiss. Patroclus rocks his hips forward and Achilles hisses.

“Fuck, that was-” he growls, pleasure from pressing back inside cutting off his words. By the end, he is crying out Patroclus’ name, coming as Patroclus keens, tightening around him.

The next day, Achilles goes to the beach with Ajax and Automedon, to ‘get some sunlight after a hard night’.

The headlines go insane.

Achilles cannot find it within himself to feel regrets. He knows he’s lucky- he works with an excellent company that knows damage control, and all the marks did was solidify him in media as a phenomenal lay. Nothing brought him more joy than sending Patroclus the articles absolutely oozing jealousy for who the ‘lucky person’ was in his bed that night. Meanwhile, a bashful Patroclus could only wear a jacket as he escaped from Scyros and screech in shame. Naturally, his mother had torn him a new one, expecting him to show some sort of deference and humiliation, seething when Peleus, Diomedes, and Odysseus were unwilling to step in.

“He’s a young man, he’s got to ‘sow his oats’, and what not,” Odysseus commented jokingly, biting his lip to hold in his laughter as he dodged a whole orange chucked at him. Peleus had only given him a knowing look, disappointed yet not surprised. Diomedes, ever practical, had explained the situation and how it would be managed, and that he expected it would not happen again.

Suffice it to say, his mom’s not speaking to him or anyone else right now, and this time, Achilles doesn’t feel nearly as guilt-ridden about it.

Now that he’s back in town, most of his time has been spent working on a new album and attending events. There’s been no moment of peace, so when there’s finally an hour and a half bloc in his schedule, he hops into his discrete rental and calls Patroclus.

“Hello?”

“Patroclus! I’m on my way to you!” He already checked the location.

“Achilles, you could at least ask me.”

“Oh… Can I be on my way to you?”

Any nerves he feels dissipate at the silky laughter on the other end. “Sure. I’ll be waiting outside.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s pulling up at a nursing home. Patroclus waits for him at the door, and because he hasn’t spotted Achilles yet, Achilles gets the chance to simply admire him. Patroclus wears a long, tawny peacoat, with a rose-red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck and tucked in the front. It fits his form naturally, allowing him an elegance that the sun and snow lend to with their sparkle. He’s recently gotten a haircut and shape up, so his hairline and facial hair are precisely trimmed, and when Patroclus finally notices him, the white of his teeth against the lovely brown of his skin completes the look.

“I think I actually look better than you, today,” he teases, taking in Achilles’ incognito look. The grey puffer coat and black beanie, followed by the black glasses allows absolutely zero sign as to who he is despite the golden curls peeking from underneath. “It’s giving ‘soccer mom’ vibes.”

“Whatever. And you always look better than me,” shrugs Achilles, pulling him in for a quick kiss. Patroclus laughs, then takes a deep breath.

“You know why I’m here.”

Achilles does. He’s known that Patroclus has privately visited his mother for a long time, and how it was always something that he kept to himself. He’s never wanted to intrude. It fills him with a sense of stage-fright he’s not had since he was a tiny child, and his fidgeting makes Patroclus lift an eyebrow.

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“Achilles, she- she’ll like you just fine, I think. Why, are you nervous?” Despite the levity of his tone, it’s clear that Patroclus understands the gravity of the moment.

“Yes,” he honestly replies. “Only you can manage to make me feel so… vulnerable. I’ve never had to question myself around anyone else, and yet, around you, I feel like I need to be…” Real. Better.  

Kindly, Patroclus doesn’t force him to finish speaking, instead walking inside, greeting the secretary at the front desk, and making his way to the room. When they reach the door, Patroclus’ entire body language shifts, becoming gentler, quieter.

“Mommy,” he coos, “I’m back.”

The woman reclining in the bed fills Achilles’ heart with both love and pity. The lovely, delicate woman can only be middle-aged, yet her body is frail, her motions weighed down by life and untold stress. Her hair is a sleek black, flecked with grey. They share the same golden-brown eyes, though where Patroclus’ are always alert and discerning, hers are almost opaque, and as she feels along Patroclus’ face, he realizes- she cannot see her child anymore.

“She has trauma in her brain,” Patroclus explains quietly. “Both physical and... mental, the doctors told me, from later in her life. Sometimes she doesn’t always remember who I am, and sometimes gets forgetful. It doesn’t help that her vision isn’t good anymore, so we do this to make sure she ‘recognizes’ me.”

Achilles doesn’t know what to say. He’s never had to deal with something like this before, and a cowardly voice in his mind almost wishes that he’d never come today.

“Is this my baby?”

“It is. I brought a friend today, Mommy. His name is Achilles.” Patroclus holds out a hand to Achilles, who swallows as he moves closer. Patroclus pulls a chair closer and sits Achilles in it. As Patroclus’ mother reaches to his face, Achilles fills with fear. What if she realizes that he’s nervous? What if she finds something wrong with him? What if she realizes that he’s not good enough for her son?

“I like this friend,” she simply comments. Achilles realizes that he’s missed the entirety of their interaction. “He has a noble face.”

Flushing with happiness, Achilles suddenly finds his footing. What is he doing, acting like this during his first meeting with Patroclus’ mother? He has an impression to make!

“Hello, Mother,” he calls her, voice suave as he winks at Patroclus. It works; she smiles widely, flattered. Their smiles are so similar, he notices. The same genuine kindness is in their laugh lines and high cheekbones.

“Sing me something today. I’ve missed your voice.”

It’s Achilles’ turn to look at Patroclus with curiosity. Patroclus flushes, turning away.

“I… She doesn’t know who she’s speaking to, sometimes. I’ll play her music while I’m here. She really likes music, when I was little, we used to sing together in the kitchen. Little kid singing, you know.”

It’s clear that Patroclus is not telling the whole story, but Achilles won’t push it. Who knows what traumas are arising with the childhood Patroclus had? Instead, he turns to the patient lady, softly grasping her thin hands.

“What would you like to hear, Mother? I can try to sing it for you.”

She dwells on it. “La Vie En Rose.”

“La Vie En Rose, it is.”

He hums the beginning trumpet notes of Louis Armstrong, the simple, lovely notes filling the space with a romantic nostalgia, of walks along a Parisian street full of cafes and salons.

Hold me close and hold me fast

The magic spell you cast

This is la vie en rose.

When you kiss me, heaven sighs

And though I close my eyes

I see la vie en rose.

When you press me to your heart

I'm in a world apart

A world where roses bloom.

And when you speak, angels sing from above

Everyday words seem to turn

Into love songs.

Give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be

La vie en rose!

Though he makes sure his voice is quiet, it is still strong and true, the crooning vibrations of each note settling between the three of them. He holds her hands, but his loving gaze is pinned on Patroclus, who looks as though he’s going to cry as he sways slowly to the beat.

Patroclus’ mother’s hand rises to touch Achilles’ face once more, pinching his cheek.

“Your voice sounds different today, dearest. Sweeter, sharper, but it’s a lovely sound, nonetheless. You sound happy.”

Confused, Achilles looks at Patroclus, who shakes his head. “It happens. It’s okay. Thank you for that, Achilles. Really.”

Love swims in those eyes, buoyant on top of long-held sadness. For the next thirty minutes, he sits silently as Patroclus updates his mother on how school is going, that he’s graduating in the spring, that he’s enjoying his composition courses. He’s so soft with her, even when she sometimes forgets who she’s speaking to- he just patiently reminds her. By the time they’re buckling into the car, Achilles has been deep in thought.

“Do you want to come with me, today, Patroclus?”

“Where?”

“It’s a meeting, but it’s not something super serious.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you and I miss having you around.” It’s a flirtatious answer, but the reality is, he doesn’t want Patroclus to be alone right now. He hates thinking that this whole time, Patroclus has been leaving his mother’s side and dealing with such things on his own. Patroclus shrugs, acquiescing.

“Yeah, okay. I got all my homework done, so I don’t see why not. Take me to get some coffee first?”

Elated, Achilles salutes. “Got it!”

It’s hilarious when they go through the Starbucks drive-thru, with Achilles taking off his glasses to wink at the barista, who screams when she sees who’s taking the two cups. They end up getting an extra lemon cake, which he joyfully gives to Patroclus.

“Look! Benefits of being with me, you get free lemon cakes!”

Patroclus sips from his caramel mocha, unable to help the pleased expression. The bassline from the next song on Achilles’ playlist reverberates, and Achilles jolts with joy.

“I love this song!” he cries, turning it up and shimmying the best he can while driving. It’s this new indie musician that Automedon introduced the office to, swaying and dancing despite his lack of coordination. The song, How Long, is the latest release, and its vibe is very different from the normal releases. Its bass line is funky and upbeat, helping carry and emphasize the melody of the lyrics. By the second chorus, he’s singing loudly.

I'll admit (I'll admit), it's my fault (my fault), but you gotta believe me

When I say it only happened once, mmh

I try (I try), and I try (I try), but you'll never see that

You're the only I wanna love, oh, yeah!

She said, "Boy, tell me honestly

Was it real or just for show?", yeah

She said, "Save your apologies

Baby, I just gotta know”

How long has this been goin' on?

You been creepin' 'round on me

While you're callin' me "baby"

How long has this been goin' on?

You've been actin' so shady (shady)

I've been feelin' it lately, baby,

It’s wonderfully crafted, the way one can zero in on each instrument if they try, and yet they all flow together seamlessly. Achilles is dying to know who this mystery singer, this ‘Eros’, really is, and how he does it. How does he manage to convey so much emotion, to be the one completely in the wrong in this argument, and yet manages to evoke not only pity, but to make the listener want to dance to his misery? It leaves him in utter awe. The last chorus is his favorite part, the way it all slows, then climaxes back into the ending. He harmonizes with the singer, making sure to sing the ‘how long has it been going on, baby’ with full power. As it ends, Achilles feels refreshed, grinning ear to ear as he parks the car.

“I love this artist! Like, Automedon has been trying to get Antilochus a job at Phthia once he graduates- which, we need to set up for you, too, Patroclus- and with this person on his resume, he’s a shoo-in. It’s a shame that Antilochus doesn’t know who he is and has agreed to those terms. It’s integrity, I know it, but still.”

“Why do you love them?” Patroclus’ voice is clipped. He looks noticeably uncomfortable, gaze burning a hole through the window and pointedly away from Achilles.

Um… “Well, he’s got the range when it comes to sound, for sure. This song proves it. But I enjoy his first playlist too! He’s so soulful, so melancholy, and yet it works for him. You feel the catharsis of the misery, but not miserable. It’s sexy, emotional, overwhelming- and yet you love it. You want to be with him. You hear his heartbreak, his story, and the way it makes him behave, and yet you still want to be there for him. And choosing to be anonymous, truly brilliant! He gets to sing what he wants, feel how he wants, and no one can do anything about it.”

It's the opposite of himself, really. He’s not allowed to be anything other than powerful, bright, and happy, beloved by all. Meanwhile, Eros croons promises of heartbreak and sadness, and damnit if Achilles wouldn’t walk right into it while listening to the man. His explanation seems to trigger something in Patroclus’ expression, and he watches as Patroclus tries to school it. He used to be a lot better at that, but as they’ve gotten older, Achilles likes to think he’s learning to see through it.

“Are you jealous, Patroclus?” he teases, trying to get him to laugh.

It almost works, and Patroclus’ expression is wistful. “No, I just… wish I could sing like you. Anyway, we’ve got work to do today, yes?”

It’s a clear dismissal cloaked in a soft reminder, but Patroclus is right- Achilles is just barely making it on time to the studio. They badge in, getting Patroclus a visitor’s pass, and make their way to a recording room big enough for a band. Everyone else already sits inside, including Ajax and Automedon, who stands up and greets them both. He has a knowing look, having been let in on the secret by Antilochus (and really, it was only fair).

“Ah, Patroclus! I’m so happy to see you! Achilles. Anyway, Pat, there’s a guitar and a bass over there if you want to jump in for a jam session at some point.”

Achilles snickers, poking Automedon and high-fiving Ajax. “You’re gonna get over it one day.”

They sit a couple rows behind Agamemnon, Diomedes, and Odysseus, who are rifling through paperwork and typing fiercely on computers. A new potential artist has been brought in, and they’ve come to see her perform through the last part of her vetting process. She looks vaguely familiar, with her chocolate brown skin and high-curl pineapple, but Achilles can’t seem to put his finger on it.

“Oh! I recognize her!” Patroclus gasps. Automedon nods, pleased.

“Her name is Briseis, and she used to attend St. Andromache. She was technically training under Helen, so they have high expectations from her.”

Helen and Menelaus are on ‘vacation’, after a recent cheating scandal with a potential artist (aptly fired from the company and blacklisted) and so they’ve trusted the girl to handle it on her own. It isn’t fair, really. They’ve left her to the wolves. Agamemnon has clearly been awful to this girl, with how she seems to shy away from him and retreat into herself with every command. It’s a fair assessment, Achilles allows. He’s rich, powerful, and a major part of Phthia Music Entertainment, but he’s also a stubborn asshole and mildly misogynistic. It’s the one thing he and his mother completely agree on.

Numerous times throughout the conversation, Agamemnon dismisses her, poking and prodding at her appearance, her songs, and her overall quality. Though it seems to be going beyond the regular heat that normal auditions lay on artists, Diomedes and Odysseus only watch her reactions with sharp eyes and typed commentary.

“She’s scared, Achilles,” Patroclus murmurs, frowning. “He’s not even giving her a chance to do well.”

“He’s right,” grunts Ajax. Achilles only shakes his head.

“It’s unfortunate, but this is how being on the world stage will go. You have to be able to push through the discomfort, no matter the naysayers.”

Patroclus grimaces. He cannot fault the truth of the comment- fame is a harsh world and devastating to those who cannot face it head on, and yet- “Sometimes people just need a chance, Achilles.”

Just as it seems like the girl is about to burst into tears and run out, Patroclus stands. Achilles watches as he grabs the guitar from the wall and goes over to sit next to her, tuning it and whispering a couple words.

“And who do you think you are?” booms Agamemnon, causing Briseis to flinch. Patroclus, for his part, doesn’t bat an eye, still tuning the guitar. Achilles quickly moves to the front, sitting just on the edge of light, so that he is right in sight of the three men.

“You know who Patroclus is, Agamemnon,” he replies, quiet voice sinister, “and you know that he’s here with me and my father’s blessing.”  

“Do you think that your presence means something?” Agamemnon challenges, glaring at him. He’s always had a problem with Achilles, yet he’s not managed to produce anybody better, and as such their relationship is contentious at best. He smiles, the image of a perfect angel- the smile that Agamemnon has always wanted to slap off his face.

“See if it doesn’t, and then take that up with me privately. Not on them.”

A small smile curls on Patroclus’ face as he snorts, eyes glowing with approval as he swiftly bats them his direction, and Achilles burns with pride and delight. Automedon, lips pursed nonchalantly, sits behind to Achilles in solidarity, and Diomedes noticeably chuckles. When Ajax sits as well, Agamemnon visibly scowls. Patroclus plays a couple scales on the guitar, then waits behind Briseis for their next command.

It's as if the girl is renewed, her back straighter and her chin higher, and her notes purer and truer. Patroclus plays excellently by her side, complimenting her sound without eclipsing her, never once questioning any suggestion she tosses his way which increases her confidence in their teamwork. It’s a beautiful scene, and yet something ugly and unfamiliar is building in Achilles. The way Briseis’ smile shines in the light, the way her strong, evocative vocals linger as goosebumps on Patroclus’ skin.

He hardly notices that the audition is over until a sharp pain comes from a pinch in his side.

“Well, Achilles, looks like you have some competition,” teases Automedon. Achilles rolls his eyes, affecting an unbothered air.

“Whatever do you mean,” he asks dryly, hoping none of those pressing emotions show on his face. Ajax snorts, and the derisive sound only makes Achilles burn even more.

“Look who she’s been singing to,” he comments, as though Achilles hasn’t noticed. Briseis is absolutely glowing, except her astute chocolate eyes have long left the judges in lieu of the kindly smiling guitarist.

Agamemnon storms out, head held high to bely his indignity. Odysseus follows behind, unruffled as he continues to poke the raging bull in front of him. Ever practical, Diomedes gives Automedon some directions and paperwork.

“Achilles,” he calls from the door. “We expect you to be on time for this meeting. Ten minutes.” He gestures to his expensive watch then strides away. Ajax is behind him, in conversation about his latest single.

Achilles only rolls his eyes in response, standing and stretching his toned limbs. “Automedon,” he summons, waiting for smart gray eyes to peer over his typing. “Make sure Patroclus gets the application for Phthia’s songwriting department. His absolutely has to be the first seen.”

Without missing a beat, Automedon’s got it typed in his ever-growing to-do list, and Patroclus raises a mirthful eyebrow. It’s not that he’s not interested in the position, but he hadn’t even said anything. He already feels like he’s skipped the line, with the way his streams have skyrocketed after Achilles shared his EP on his Twitter. Antilochus had sent him a text in the middle of the audition, showing how his listens were shooting through the roof.

“Achilles, I didn’t even say anything,” he chastises, and Achilles shrugs. He strolls over to where Patroclus sits, tilting his head up and bringing their lips together. Patroclus’ surprised yelp is quickly bit off, swallowed by a fervent, possessive kiss. Achilles leaves only a breath of space between them when he pulls away.

“You shouldn’t have to. I want you to have what you deserve, Philtatos.” His voice is nonchalant, beautiful pink cupid’s bow upturned in a pleased grin. Quick as he approached, he’s sweeping away, and Patroclus feels like he’s missed something.

To Achilles’ side, Automedon rolls his eyes and smiles.

“I just sent it to you- hope you don’t mind, but I stole your number from Achilles after that whole debacle in Scyros. Naturally you didn’t really have to say anything. Not only are you pretty awesome at composition and lyric-writing, but your resume includes Achilles’ first hits, and Peleus loves you. You’ve practically already got the job.”

Though none will ever manage to reach Achilles’ effortless nonchalance, Automedon’s tone is quite similar. The power that must come with such easy belief in your own words, Patroclus muses. Must be nice.

He turns toward the door, jumping when he locks eyes with Achilles’ burning gaze. Something is off about it, his eyes unusually unstable, vulnerable in how wide and hard they are.

“Achilles… love, are you okay?” Patroclus walks toward him, concern rife in his expression. The odd look disappears, replaced by the classically beautiful façade.

“I’m fine. I’m just thinking about what’s about to happen in this next meeting. Agamemnon is sure to throw his weight around some more.”

By the end of his words, Patroclus gently cradles his face in one hand, shaking him a little.  

“Are you sure?” he whispers. Achilles’ gaze softens, relieving the stress in his heart. He kisses Patroclus’ palm, flipping his hand over and kissing his fingers.

“I am, I promise. Get home, or to class, safely. Tell me when you finish that app!”

With one more quick kiss to his nose, Achilles breezes out, Automedon swiftly saluting before chasing behind him and demanding he pay attention to his notes. Patroclus heaves a sigh, watching them go out of sight.

It’s such a fast paced, high-stress life, and he’s always admired how Achilles dealt with it, shoulders held firm and chin tipped high despite any oncoming blows. Hell, this audition was hard enough, and it wasn’t even his. If this was the sort of environment potential stars had to face, if this was what he would have had to go through as a teenager, he’s fully grateful that he never bothered trying that day so many years ago. He wouldn’t have survived; it might have destroyed what lingering self-esteem he’d managed to patch together at the time.

And Menoetius…well… if he had survived it, he’s sure Menoetius would have found something else to destroy anyway.

“Um… Patroclus, right?”

The gentle voice does nothing to prevent Patroclus jumping into the wall like a jackass, and Briseis quickly holds her hands up in apology.

“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry…”

“No, no!” he placates, trying to regain a little bit of dignity in his posture. “I just-” forgot you were still in here, to be honest. “Yes. I’m Patroclus. How can I help you?” With every word, he feels every level of cool he might have obtained helping this poor girl drain away. ‘How can I help you’, great fucking going.

Luckily, Briseis seems to find his fumbling endearing, because she only smiles in response, ivory teeth shining against flawless coffee skin.

“I just wanted to thank you for your help today. I was really going through it, and you- well, suddenly you just appeared like a knight in shining armor. You and Achilles, who I wanted to thank but- well, he seemed a bit busy, and a little untouchable.” She blushes a little by the end, eyes cutting away awkwardly. Suddenly, Achilles’ earlier display of affection makes sense, and Patroclus grimaces.

“Yeah, he can be that way. I’ll let him know that you’re thankful.”

“Anyway, I’ve heard about your skill! I mean, even before Automedon mentioned it earlier. I really like your style, and I can always tell when it’s your work. I’d be honored if you helped me write one day.”

It’s Patroclus’ turn to blush, scratching his head as he smiles. “No one’s ever noticed that before. I mean, the people who knew, knew what I’d done, but I don’t think anyone who wasn’t a part of production has ever said that to me. I’m honored, really. Thank you for noticing.”

Briseis’ gaze is intense as she nods. “You deserve more credit! I… um… I was actually wondering if I could ask you for help again. You heard what Agamemnon said.”

He had. Before gathering his things and storming out, Agamemnon’s last command was for Briseis to come up with a new song. It needed to be ‘sexy, mainstream, and short’, so as to ‘showcase her boldness’. The lascivious grin he wore revealed to anyone who dared to look his real motivation.

“If I can be honest with you- he’s hazing me. I can see why Phthia is a male-dominated environment. I’m pretty sure Achilles was never told to be ‘sexy, mainstream, and short’.” Bitterness infuses within her voice, and Patroclus can’t help to feel pity. While he’d been asked to be many things, sexy included, no, Achilles hadn’t been told to be sexy in those exact, misogyny-soaked words.

“Anyway, did you want to get a coffee? I can treat since I’m asking for your help! I can at least afford that.”

Patroclus takes a moment to look at Briseis, really take her in. She’s objectively beautiful, with lovely brown eyes, flawless skin, high cheekbones, plump, smooth lips. Her well moisturized 4c curls are held up in a pineapple with a scarf that perfectly accents her navy blue peacoat. Even her simple outfit of a white tee-shirt and jeans show a nice, athletic figure and a proud, regal demeanor. Articulate and talented, there’s absolutely no objective reason that she should be refused by Phthia Music Entertainment.

She just had the misfortune to work under a notoriously difficult man during a really bad time, and she had none of Achilles’ power or privilege to protect her.

“You don’t have to pay me in coffee, Briseis. Unfortunately, I already had coffee today, and I have to meet a friend later.” Her shoulders slump in defeat. “But, if you give me your number, we can plan something. I don’t have a problem helping.”

Tears fill her eyes, and she wipes them away quickly, pulling out her phone.

“Thank you so much! I promise I won’t fail you! I’ll collect some ideas together and I’ll let you know- of course, you can let me know if I’m annoying you, or-”

“You won’t annoy me. I might take some time to text back, but I’ll make sure. I consider myself a professional.”

If he’s being honest, Patroclus feels like he’s full of hot air. Imposter syndrome weighs heavy on him- he was just Achilles’ boyfriend, that’s how he managed to get noticed! - so he just tells himself that this is just practice. His professional practices course taught him how to sell himself appropriately, so as long as he just sounds confident, surely Briseis won’t think he’s full of it! It’s his first business interaction!

“Can I ask one thing of you?” she asks him.

“Sure.”

“Don’t be… like them. With the…airs.” She gestures around her head, and then looks directly at him.

So much for fake-it-till-you-make-it.

“You noticed me, doing the-” His shoulders collapse in a mix of embarrassment and relief, and he can’t help but laugh alongside her.

“Yeah. I think you’re pretty cool as yourself.” The moment she speaks, Briseis’ face heats once more, and she’s quick to take her phone back. “Anyway! I’ll talk to you later, Patroclus! Thanks again!”

It begins as a professional relationship, with Briseis facetiming him every other day to discuss the goals of the project, followed by potential melodies and lyrics. Even Antilochus helps occasionally, plopping down on the couch with dinner and suggesting different ideas. However, over the next two weeks they become fast friends, and their conversations quickly become venting sessions about things including but not limited to Agamemnon’s behavior, Odysseus’ suspicious knowledge, Patroclus’ upcoming midterms, and Antilochus’ side hustle of selling instrumentals and his skills.

One day Briseis calls him sobbing about a horrid day.

“I can’t reach Helen, and she’s been practically useless this entire time. I don’t understand why she doesn’t know how to tell her fucking brother-in-law to lay off! I’m trying to do what he asked, and it’s not even due yet!”

Patroclus feels helpless. There’s nothing much he can do to get Briseis out of Agamemnon’s range of hate, nor to get the elusive Helen to stand by her abandoned ward. Even Achilles can’t change who she’s working under, nor is it his place to interfere with that family’s messy business.

“I just wish I had another woman to talk to. Not that you’re not important, Patroclus!”

“No offense taken.”

“But it’s like… what would any of these guys know?”

Helen, Thetis, Deidameia of Scyros… yeah, Patroclus doesn’t have much experience with women in entertainment, and the ones he does know are not people he would ever send poor Briseis’ way.

Except, maybe-

“I think I might know one person who can help you. Do you mind if I hang up, and try to get her information for you?”

Briseis sniffles, rubbing her already red eyes rawer. “Sure. Anything at this point. Thanks, Pat.”

Fingers crossed, Patroclus calls Achilles, praying that he’ll answer. He’s unsure of Achilles’ schedule anymore, having long given up on trying to track the man. He’s been better about answering Patroclus when he calls, or at least texting back that he’s busy, recognizing that the situation with Deidameia had almost been a deal-breaker. Soon enough, the screen lightens and a tired Achilles beams into the camera.

“Philtatos,” he whispers, voice heavy with sleep.

“Aw, did I wake you up?” Guilt weighs the words. Achilles yawns, slow blinks leonine as he lays his head on his hand.

“Yeah, but it’s fine. My alarm was gonna go off in five anyway, then it’s off to something else.” He blinks again, confused. “Can’t remember. Automedon will tell me what it is.”

“Well, I’ll be quick. Could you text me Calypso’s number?”

“Auntie? Why?” Unfortunately, it won’t be as easy as asking if Achilles’ now sharpened green eyes are any indication. Patroclus decides to go for broke; there’s not enough time to dally.

“Briseis hasn’t been able to get in contact with Helen, and she’s miserable in that sausage-fest at Phthia. I was hoping that maybe Calypso would be willing to help her out, be another woman in her corner.”

Achilles pinches his lips, silent for a couple anxious moments.

“Auntie Calypso isn’t in music, more so in entertainment like TV and journalism. I’m not sure what she’d be able to do.”

“Something is better than nothing, and Calypso rubbed shoulders with Odysseus and stood her ground against your mother. If anyone knows enough to help Briseis, she might.”

“I don’t know…”

“Achilles, please. I’m not expecting you to convince her, I just need her number to ask.”

Achilles tsks, adjusting to type into his phone. “I wouldn’t let you ask Auntie without my help; of course, I’ll have your back. I just- no, never mind. I just texted her info to you, and I’ll let her know to expect you.”

Patroclus’ phone buzzes with the notification, and he smiles. “Thank you, Achilles.”

His voice is syrupy sweet, and after a kiss blown through the phone, Achilles is blushing with happiness.

“I can’t refuse you anything. Don’t do that, you’ll make me miss you too much. I’m just kidding, keep doing that. Don’t ever stop doing that. Even if you only call me when you want something.”

His petulant tone concerns Patroclus. “I do not only call you when I want something. Why don’t you tell me what’s really wrong?”

Achilles starts to move in the background, his voice carrying from the room. “You just- you’ve been helping Briseis a lot lately. First at the audition, and then every other text you send me is about something she’s said. Now this. I just- I don’t want you to get in over your head trying to help her.”

“Over my head? Achilles, if I worked for Phthia, I would have to do this sort of thing as a job.”

“Yeah, but it would be with me.”

“That’s awfully bold. What if my talents are desired throughout the whole company?”

“They can suck it.”

Patroclus rolls his eyes. “First, you have no control over who I work with. If I want to work with someone else, I can. Second, you don’t need to be jealous. You know you’re my favorite.”

It works, and Achilles seems placated as his grin re-enters the camera.

“As long as it stays that way. Let me know if Auntie doesn’t answer, and I’ll ask her for you. She’s so used to paparazzi breathing down her neck that even with me saying it’s you, she might still be cautious.”

The day arrives for Briseis to record, and Patroclus and Antilochus are the first to arrive at the pristine, awe-inspiring private studio. The private location had been suggested by Calypso, who was now firmly in Briseis and Achilles’ corner.

She’d been delighted to hear from Patroclus, even happy to hear that his relationship with Achilles was stronger than it had been the first time he’d met him. Convincing her to help Briseis had been a little harder, but the moment she’d learned that Briseis was a young Black woman and future artist (and was against Agamemnon), she’d been completely on board.

“You’re like Achilles’ heart and soul,” she’d commended. “This will reflect very well upon the both of you, later. Such perfect networking. I love it!”

Briseis had been over the moon with happiness about it, crying about it over the phone and even calling Achilles to thank him for the support. Achilles, for his part, had been thoroughly thanked in all the bodily ways he’d wanted by Patroclus, so he’d been perfectly polite about the whole thing.

“Look at this set-up! These panels! The colors!” Antilochus’ excitement breaks Patroclus from his reverie. “This is insane! I’ve never seen this many buttons that I have free reign over!”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“She’s gonna sound so good in here! This is no closet, Pat!”

“It is not, in fact, a closet.” Sarcasm aside, he can’t help but agree. The thought of recording inside this clean room, with its white walls, blue sound-mufflers, air-conditioning, and comfy seats sounds a whole hell of a lot better than recording in a hot, stuffy closet. He can’t let himself become too jealous.

“Like, look at this,” Antilochus frantically gestures towards something Patroclus can’t see, and wouldn’t know to look at even if he could see. “If you thought Lonely Star sounded good on my little computer set up, imagine how the recording would have sounded in here! Your voice would have real echo! Try it!”

“Antilochus-” Don’t tempt me, I’m already struggling…

“Just try it! Please? Old buddy, old pal?”

Sighing, Patroclus taps the soft mic and sings.

Not on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday,

But on Thursday, Thursday…

Not on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday,

But on Thursday,

(ooooh)

The bass reverberates through the room, the delicious echo of the end vocalization raising goosebumps on both of them. Antilochus shivers with delight, and even Patroclus has to close his eyes. God, he thinks, it really is beautiful.

“Eros?”

………………………………………………………

The unstable silence is shattered by the sound of headphones hitting the floor, both Patroclus and Antilochus staring in horror at Briseis’ wide eyes and limp hands. Patroclus’ panicked eyes dart for the door to her right, followed astutely by her own.

“Patroclus… don’t you do it. Don’t you dare-”

Briseis hurtles to the side to shoulder-check Patroclus as he stupidly sprints for the door, and she grips tightly to his leg as he flails to pull himself up from the wall.

“If you- don’t- calm the hell down- Patroclus!”

Suddenly, Patroclus finds his chest kneed into the floor; his arm held tightly behind him. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot move.

“Fuck!” he shouts. “Why are you so good at this? Antilochus, do something!”

Antilochus’ voice squeaks over the speaker in the room, terrified. “Bro, she has you in a professional wrestling move! I’m not opening this door!”

So much for friends! “Fine! Fine, Briseis, Briseis, please get off of me. We can talk this out.”

Briseis, for her part, seems just as shocked as he is, breathing heavily. “You promise you won’t run?”

“I clearly won’t get far! Shit, did you take martial arts?”

Ruffled, Briseis lets him go and stands, dusting herself off as she tries to gather her dignity. “Siblings. And then kung fu, for years. Helen said it would come in handy; she was right.”

Patroclus heaves himself to his feet, his spine cracking obnoxiously loud as he stretches. It’s stupid, but he wants to try to maintain the silence, just maybe if he doesn’t have to say it out loud, it won’t be as bad-

“We’re friends, right?”

Oh, that’s not fair. “Of course, we’re friends.” 

“You wouldn’t try to lie to my face about this, right? You’re better than that, yes?”

Hope and potential disappointment linger in her voice, and Patroclus holds the scales. It would be an insult to Briseis’ intelligence to lie at this point and given that he’s already made a fool out of himself, he might as well tell the truth.

“Yes, Briseis. It’s-” It’s me. “I’m the one recording as Eros.”

Gaping fear spreads thick in his chest, and he closes his eyes. He’s not sure what he’s afraid of- anger, rejection, blackmail; all of them tenable reactions.

“Patroclus.” The look at me is implicit, and after a deep inhale, he turns shaky eyes to her.

She’s beaming.

Widely.

In fact, the expression of wonder is as if she’s seen a movie star, a look reserved for people like Achilles, not somebody like… Patroclus.

It’s… kind of nice, actually.

“Sing with me.”

His budding smile crashes back into a frown, and Briseis’ own expression falters.

“I can’t.”

“Uh, yeah you can. You sound amazing!”

“That’s not- that’s not the point. I can’t be caught up in this, Briseis. I legally cannot do it.”

“But,” starts Briseis, putting her purse and coat down on the counter. “Okay, I don’t quite understand that, but if it’s a matter of maintaining your secret persona, I won’t tell on you! I-I-I can come up with something, some reason or another as to how I managed to contact The Pop Princeling’s favorite artist right now! It’s perfect! They could never refuse it!”

He wants to tell her that ‘The Pop Princeling’, and more specifically his Queen mother, is the problem. But that would require a longer conversation and they don’t have that much time today in the studio.

“I just can’t.”

Frustrated, Briseis folds her arms. “You could at least tell me why it’s a no.”

Her tone sparks something within Patroclus, who scowls. “I don’t owe you any explanation.”

“I don’t mean it like that!”

They go back and forth a couple more times before Patroclus finally snaps, slamming his hand on the wall.

“Enough!” he bellows, cutting off her retort. “Do you know how much danger I would be in?”

Flashes of Menoetius’ violent rage run through his mind, Thetis’ disgust, the old nausea from traumatizing threats and actions overwhelming him. Clenching his teeth, he forces himself to breathe, finally realizing what he’s done when a visibly shaken Briseis steps backwards, raising her hands around herself. Repentant, he places his hands behind his back and leans against the wall.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you, no matter how upset I might be.”

Antilochus lingers at the door, as though ready to finally step in, but Patroclus shakes his head.

“It’s for Achilles, isn’t it? They have you silenced to make sure he gets the spotlight.”

Ice cold resentment steels her voice, made somehow worse by the fact that it’s not directed at Patroclus. Briseis’ eyes thin with anger, her nostrils flaring. Her assessment is so correct that it rocks him to the core.

“I ought to call Agamemnon right now and- I don’t know what I could do, but I want to cuss them all out, how could they? And I thought Achilles was cool! But then, he-”

Her flurry is interrupted when Patroclus grasps one of her hands, now the one desperate.

“It’s not just that simple, Briseis. He doesn’t know. If it were only about Achilles, believe me I would have said something to him by now.” Confusion still clouds her eyes, and Patroclus sighs. “My safety and my mother’s health depend on me keeping all of this a secret. I did it anyway, because it was supposed to be fun, supposed to be sneaky. It was stupid, really, I never should have started any of it. But Achilles has supported me from day one in every way he’s known to, I promise you- he’s never had to care about me, yet he does.”

Briseis turns to Antilochus, who averts his eyes and walks back towards the booth. He’s not vocally denying it, and they know he would if he fervently disagreed.

“You…you defend him so easily, but for yourself you…” Her lip quivers with unspoken emotion, and she bites it. Her adrenaline finally runs out, and her legs collapse like softened noodle. Patroclus is quick to grab her, and she covers her eyes as he gently sits her in a chair. She takes a couple deep breaths, but they do nothing as her voice hitches.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to guilt you into it. I just… I need this to work out. I cannot go back home a failure, Pat. I can’t look my family in the face after years of hard work, times missed, everything everyone invested in me…” she sobs. “I’m not like everyone else at Phthia. I don’t have shit to fall back on anymore and I’m… I’m just scared. But I won’t ask you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m sorry. I- give me a few minutes alone, please, and I’ll be ready to sing. Show must go on, right?”

With red eyes and a shaky smile, Briseis nudges him away, pulling out her phone. Dismissed and feeling defeated, Patroclus limps back into the booth where Antilochus noticeably avoids his gaze. He listens to the other man tinker around with everything until he can’t take it anymore.

“Your thoughts are loud as hell; you might as well say them.”

Still not looking at him, Antilochus raises his hands in placation.

“I just think that, like you said, Achilles had the power to invest in you. I remember when we wrote Sins and it could have gone either way, and yet he fully believed in you and what you could do. I can’t imagine what would be happening now if he hadn’t.”

And with that, he continues with what he’s doing, leaving Patroclus to stew in his own emotions.

He knows that he’s in a position to help. He’s known that since the moment he stepped down to defend Briseis from Agamemnon, and he’s only grown more responsible ever since he offered to help write and record her project. He always assumed it would end there, that she would be okay on her own, but… more than anyone, he’s familiar with how she’s feeling.

Patroclus knows that he’d personally rather die than turn around and go home after years of pointedly running away. Achilles could have always ignored him, not invited him home that fateful summer, but he didn’t, and it changed Patroclus’ life. This isn’t that, but if there’s something more he can do to help, why shouldn’t he?

After a drawn-out groan to the sky, Patroclus pushes back into the studio.

“Fine! Okay, we’ll do the song. But this is a one-time thing! And I refuse to let you send it in until your excuse is air-tight!”

“Really?” Ecstatic, Briseis launches him into an extremely tight hug. “Thank you so, so, so much because I was going to break down! You won’t regret it! I will do my best to match your energy in this song!”

Antilochus smiles at Patroclus from the booth, and Patroclus rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. All right. You don’t have to do…that. Let’s just go over what we have, what we can use and what we’ll have to scrap.”

Briseis’ goal with the instrumental is for a sensual, tantric, reverberating sound, something ‘to lose the listener in the music’. The lyrics are needed to be more direct, heavily sexual in nature to show that she’s willing to be bold as necessary.

“Hold on,” Antilochus pauses, making some quick edits to the instrumental he’d originally planned for the day. “Those were his exact words? ‘Sexy, mainstream, and short’? Not exciting, exhilarating, powerful, nothing else?”

Briseis nods, and Antilochus scoffs. “What a jerk.”

“Why does he hate you?” It’s something that’s been on Patroclus’ mind for a while, but he never found a good time to ask.

“He doesn’t hate me,” explains Briseis. “He hates Achilles. He’s somehow both disgusted by and desirous of me. Not only is he generally misogynistic, but he thinks, because I was in some of the same circles with Paris, that I must have helped him cuck his brother and get to Helen.”

Antilochus hisses in sympathy. “…Did you?” He quickly regrets the question when Briseis glares at him.

“Of course not! I tried to mind my business the entire time, but it wasn’t like I was going to run and tell on her- that would be shooting my own career in the foot! Not like it matters, if Agamemnon has his way, I just went through all of this to embarrass myself.”

As she continues bantering with Antilochus, Patroclus gnaws on his pen cap, deep in thought. It annoys him, really, that Agamemnon is taking his anger out on Briseis like this. He’s tired of Briseis being unable to do anything about it, under the guise of ‘earning her place’.

Hm.

Antilochus had mentioned Sins, earlier, and it reminds Patroclus of a younger, more innocent time. They’d been on some substances that he doesn’t have access to right now (and is now more inclined to brownies), and in his inebriation, he’d really delved into Achilles’ spite at his parents’ situation. He’s much further removed from this situation, and forbidden love is one of the oldest tropes in the book…

“Antilochus,” he interrupts, holding a hand out for the man’s headphones. “Play me what you have of the instrumental so far.”

The music does the trick, triggering a deluge of simple, scribbled lyrics and a chorus for Briseis. He holds out her half, allowing her to read over the work. She takes her own pens and changes a couple things, then grins wickedly.

“You are evil,” she cackles, at once understanding what’s going on. “I love to see it.”

Antilochus looks over, reading the lyrics upside down, and tries to bite back his laughter.

“Oh, this is going to be hilarious. And if this is good enough, he’ll have to live with knowing you made his family’s dirty laundry a club hit!”

Fifteen minutes later, Antilochus is ready to record. Patroclus works on his own lines. It’s not that long, and yet he feels strange about the whole thing. He knows he’s not cheating on Achilles, but singing these seductive lines toward someone else… was this how he’d felt with Deidameia? He shudders in revulsion. No. Briseis is much preferable, and it’s just a song.

“How you are you both feeling?” asks Antilochus. “Personally, I’m geeked about this. Better studio, singing friends, this is amazing!”

Anxious. Hopeful. Fearful. Excited. My stomach hurts.

I feel like I could sing.

“Well… I’m feeling like this definitely changes everything,” Patroclus answers instead.

“Let’s pray it’s for the better!” calls Briseis, before holding her thumb out, signaling she’s ready.

It’s a balmy enough spring night come a month later, when Peleus decides that he can host a pool party and a listening party at his mansion. The night is clear, the breeze minimal, and the trees are fresh with new green leaves and budding flowers as the different crowds converse amongst themselves. Fire pits are found across the green yard, large heaters next to the pool chairs for extra comfort, and a fully stocked, open bar allows for every guest to drink themselves silly. Security and lifeguards loom around the water and property, making sure no one drowns or misbehaves without immediate expulsion. Peleus sits amongst the businessmen on the largest second floor balcony, jovially discussing current events with Odysseus and Penelope, and kindly nodding to Agamemnon’s strongly voiced opinions, all while watching all of the beautiful men and women linger below.

As for the younger crowd, the water of the hot tub is almost completely filled, and whatever space saved from that water is either in the pool or surrounding Achilles in waves as he dazzles them, a prince amongst his court. His fiery gold circlet of hair helps him stick out from the numerous bodies surrounding him, visible from anywhere in the yard. By Achilles’ side is Ajax, and on the other side, on cloud nine, is Antilochus, who has quickly charmed his way into everyone’s hearts.

Amongst the ladies in the hot tub is Briseis, fitting in just as naturally as though she’d always been there. She’d admitted to being nervous when she got there, and when Patroclus had offered to walk around with her all night, Achilles had quickly suggested that she stick with him.

“It’ll help her get acquainted with the ‘in’ crowd, as the tabloids call it,” he commented, blasé in his judgment. Briseis seemed a bit frosty at first, as Achilles held out his hand, but with a nudge from Patroclus, she took it, and they made their way to the ravenously intrigued crowd.

Deidameia is noticeably not present.

As for Patroclus, something else holds his full attention. Spreading a savory scent across the yard are premier chefs supplying a decadent buffet, and he’s practically salivating as he piles his plate full of sliced, roasted meats, sweet fruits, and buttered veggies. It wasn’t that he was starving every day, but… old habits die hard. Joining him with a drink is Automedon, who had just come down from updating Peleus and the businessmen on Achilles’ expected moves for the night.

“It’s an empty night, luckily for the both of you,” Automedon teases, sipping his vodka cranberry. Patroclus flushes, almost the color of the rum and cherry coke in his hand.

“Automedon, please.” It’s not that he’s not excited to hear that he’ll get to spend a quiet night with Achilles, but still! Automedon only laughs, unbothered by Patroclus’ embarrassment.

“Hey, I refuse to ever accept either of you choosing to be embarrassed after Scyros. He certainly isn’t. In fact, you ought to go over and demand to sit next to him. If he doesn’t, throw your drink at him. I want some drama tonight!”

It’s not that Patroclus can’t sit near Achilles, it’s just that the writhing crowd discomforts him. There’s a constant, lingering pressure that he’s unsure he can maintain calm under, and he’s not happy-go-lucky like Antilochus. It’s different, amongst friends. Either way-

“You’re childish.”

“I’m bored. These are only fun for the people that don’t work in logistics, i.e., me. I’m not even allowed to get too drunk, just in case Phthia, or god forbid Olympus, changes their mind about their stars’ schedules.”

Just as Patroclus is about to ask what else could happen, the screeching sound of mic feedback cuts off the music and echoes into the night, dampening the conversation.

“Tonight, we’ve had hits by some of PME’s favorites sprinkled in amongst the playlists. Naturally this includes my dearest sister-in-law Helen, who couldn’t make it tonight, rugged up-and-coming rockstar, Ajax, and naturally Phthia’s golden prince himself, Achilles.”

Applause makes its way across the yard, once again loudest at its epicenter of the hot tub. The smile on Achilles’ face seems natural to all onlookers, but Patroclus recognizes the simmering suspicion in his eyes. He shares the sentiment, brows furrowing. Their reservations are confirmed when Agamemnon’s smile hardens, and Patroclus’ heart drops into his stomach.

Don’t do this.

“And tonight,”

It’s not fair to her.  

“To play a short piece by one of our interests, Briseis-”

Patroclus shoves up from his chair; Achilles begins to step out of the water. It’s too late. Agamemnon finishes the introduction and waves a hand, signaling to the DJ to play the song.

Silence falls as slow bass from quality speakers fills the air, instantly transporting the listener into an existential, floating space, goosebumps shuddering over everyone’s writhing bodies as the tantric beat begins. Briseis had chosen lilting, almost falsetto vocals for the piece, reaching for a light, faery-like presence, while the lyrics suggest something more of a seductress.

I got a man, but I want you

I got a man, but I want you

And it's just nerves, it's just dick

Makin' me think 'bout someone new

You know I got so much to say

I try to hide it in my face

And it don't work, you see through

That I just want get wit' you

And you're right-

The barbs are completely veiled to an ignorant audience, but Agamemnon’s face twitches with barely controlled rage as he comprehends the lyrics. Briseis had once claimed that despite every interaction, the man had allowed her voice to go in one ear and out the other, and this time it is clear that Agamemnon hadn’t even listened to the tape. He’d taken a poorly calculated risk, and it was showing in the faces of every person in the know about Helen and Menelaus. If Antilochus’ theory had been correct, Agamemnon also was watching his own lust be thrown back in his face, as Briseis might be in love with another- and that glare suddenly turned toward a genuinely surprised princeling.

Patroclus bites his lip, exchanging a surreptitious glance with a grinning Antilochus, then takes a deep breath as his own voice comes over the speakers, a faraway echo arriving somehow like a sigh.

Girl, I want you like you want me too

I feel that energy (ooh, yeah)

When you're on top of me (oh, yeah)

I know your man, he ain't controllin' you

But you still hesitate (ooh, no)

'Cause you chose loyalty (oh, yeah)

And I know your history (hey), met him before your peak (hey)

He's so connected to that woman that you used to be…

Salacious whispers about the story pulsate from the swaying crowd, momentarily frozen by their shock by the feature. Patroclus sneaks a peek at Briseis’ smug face, chin high as she smiles lightly in triumph. This is exactly the effect they were looking for- not only to get them enjoying her song, but to make them discuss the tea behind it. Ever since Achilles had shared his love for Eros on his Twitter, everyone had been wondering who this mysterious singer was that had captured royal attention. This attention had only skyrocketed when Achilles recorded a couple videos of him harmonizing with the songs, leaving Patroclus consistently conflicted. Now that Briseis- formerly a nobody- had managed to not only find the man, but then successfully pull him onto a track, her name would trend in connection with both Eros and Achilles.

Her name would be known, Agamemnon’s presence be damned.

Agamemnon is so choked that he can’t speak to the applauding crowd, and out of nowhere, Odysseus sweeps in and grabs the mic from him.

“That was You Right, sung by our beautiful Briseis, featuring the elusive Eros.” Nothing in his voice belies any shock, slippery as ever. “Personally, I would love to listen to it again. What are we thinking, everyone?”

The people cry for an encore, making Briseis cry delicate, yet genuine tears, and the DJ at once begins the song anew. This time, people start dancing, drawing her into the crowd, but Patroclus notices that Achilles is no longer amongst them. Confused, he scans every face in a panic until he sees the security near the private side entrance part ways. He finishes his drink, then shakes Automedon’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, Automedon. Congratulate Briseis for me, will you?”

“You’re not gonna-”

Patroclus is gone before he can finish speaking.

Slipping past the guards is easy enough. Peleus and Achilles always made sure Patroclus was automatically VIP, so it only takes a nod before Patroclus is in the dark, private walkway leading directly to Achilles’ suite in the mansion. Fond memories of playing hide and seek in these halls, intimate touches upon capture of which he now realizes were a sign of something deeper, help to push down his anxiety. Finally, he makes the final turn towards the end of the hall and sees a furious silhouette storming back and forth.

“Achilles?”

“What?”

Patroclus isn’t sure who’s more surprised, himself at the vehement hiss, or Achilles with how quickly freezes when he sees who’s calling for him. The moment quickly passes as sea-green eyes quickly thaw, then burst back into a vindictive flame.

“You.”

What the hell? “Is there something wrong?”

Achilles has never spoken to him with such an ugly tone.

“You were helping her this whole time. You and Antilochus. I bet it was hilarious, wasn’t it? Leaving me out?”

Oh. Oh no. Horror swells thick in Patroclus’ throat, and he raises pleading hands.

“I can explain-”

“What is there to explain? You figured out who he is! You all figured out who Eros was, and instead of telling me the truth, you let me sit there and- and gush like an absolute fool!”

Wait- “What?” To his shame, panicked glee burns at the lack of true revelation.

“How long have you known?”

“Excuse me?”

“How long have you known? In fact, no, I don’t even want to hear it. You’ve probably known this entire time. No way you were around Antilochus this long and he didn’t tell at least the person living with him.”

“Achilles-”

“Not telling me is one thing; I could even excuse it if it were meant to be kept private. But then, you know of all of my love for this artist, and you go and introduce him not to me, but to Briseis? She’s not even in, yet! Why? Was it funny, scheming with her, knowing that you shared something so important amongst yourselves while I revealed my heart to you?”

I-but I- “All I did was help her with her lyrics! You’re being unreasonable right now!”

The lie feels miserable as it slides off his tongue, dampening his righteous fury. Eyes sick with green envy flash Patroclus’ direction, and suddenly he’s been backed into a wall, a quaking Achilles bracing him in on both sides.

“Why was she worth it? Why do you keep helping her, keep spending all this time with her? What aren’t you telling me? Why did you choose her?!”

There are so many ways Patroclus could retort.

What about you and Deidameia?

It’s just one time!

What more do you need, Achilles?

How do you like to feel left out?

But he knows that antagonization isn’t going to solve anything. Instead, he raises both his hands to the forearms bracketing his head, and squeezes them tightly until they loosen, and a tearful Achilles weakly falls into his arms.

“You don’t have to lash out like this,” Patroclus whispers, feeling their hearts beat hummingbird fast against each other.

“I’m sorry… I- you didn’t do anything wrong; I didn’t mean to scare you-”

“I’m not scared.” You couldn’t ever scare me. “Thank you for apologizing. There’s no need to be jealous, okay? Briseis is a dear friend of mine, yes, but we helped her because she needed it. If I thought you needed the help, I would have done the same thing. You know she’s not in a position to defend herself the way you are.”

Achilles nods, sniffling, and Patroclus tries to relax. The guilt of lying to Achilles weighs heavy, chains long grown old.

“And you don’t feel anything for her?”

Patroclus snorts. “No. We’re just good friends.”

“But she feels things for you. I’ve always seen it.”

Yeahhh, but- “I have the most beautiful man in the world in my arms; how could I look elsewhere?”

This time it’s Achilles turn to snort, turning a wry eye toward Patroclus as he fights to keep a nonchalant look on his face. “Who taught you how to speak with such a sweet tongue? That’s my job.”

Their breathing has finally returned to normal, and Achilles wipes his face.

“I’ve just… I’ve never felt like this before. I hate the idea of losing you. It’s not- I don’t care if you’re not allowed to tell. That’s fine. I just… I don’t want you to not tell me because you don’t trust me, or because you trust others more. I don’t want to think I haven’t been good enough to stay in your thoughts.”

He might as well shoot Patroclus in the heart with every insecurity, because Patroclus is lying to him. It’s not because he doesn’t trust him more, he just… can’t.

Before they can continue, a dry, pointed cough comes from the side and puts them both on defense. Slick as ever, Odysseus leans against a column and watches them with sharpened eyes.

“I just thought I’d come to alert you, son of Peleus, that your crowd is looking for you.”

Patroclus can see the rising ‘tell them to fuck off’ response in the puffing of Achilles’ chest, and he squeezes his shoulder.

“Go finish up and say your goodbyes. I’ll stay here.”

He smiles, and Achilles’ pout turns into a small smile. “The show must go on, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You’ll be here when I get back, right?” It’s redundant, Patroclus has already told him he would be, but Achilles’ vulnerable expression looks as though it’ll crack if he doesn’t repeat himself.

“Yes. Bring me back some leftovers.”

With a small salute, a beaming Achilles is quick to race away- the sooner he leaves, the sooner he can come back. Patroclus smiles after him and is just about to walk away when another quiet cough jolts him from his thoughts. Odysseus is still standing there, giving him a knowing look.

“Can I help you, Odysseus?”

His unease grows when Odysseus laughs heartily, unbothered to hide it. It’s not like Patroclus thinks that he’s going to get jumped, but for sure he tightens his fists just in case. Upon seeing his tense, defensive posture, Odysseus shakes his head.

“Achilles might be blessed with talent and beauty, but he’s always been a little blind. He can’t often see the value in front of him. As for me, I favor myself with an innate eye for what’s lurking underneath.”

Huh?! “Achilles loves me.”

“Oh, that I am sure of. But perhaps he’s not the only blind one.” Odysseus hands him a small business card, a private number scrawled on the back. “When you’re ready to admit to what I mean, give me a call.”

Patroclus’ confusion freezes on his face, and he’s still as stone as Odysseus jovially exits, his whistling eventually fading into the night. Conflict roars in his heart.

On one hand, this was Odysseus. The brilliant strategist, the wordsmith, the trickster. There was no way in hell he’d be able to hide anything from this man from this point forward. Patroclus has no way to know just how much Odysseus knows already, but it’s safe to assume that he knows enough to confidently approach him. On the other hand, Odysseus is good to his allies- if he hasn’t outed Patroclus yet, he must find some value in keeping the secret from his friends in PME.

Either way, the man has won- Patroclus can’t avoid this call. A distance noise in the night snaps him out of his panic, and he accidentally crushes the card in his hand. Heart pounding, he scurries into Achilles’ room, locking the door.

Achilles owns a decently sized apartment, but given that he works with his father directly and is by his side often, it seems wasteful. At least, that how Achilles had phrased it to him, though he was oddly dodgy about how he was selling the other home. It’s no longer the childish room that they grew up in, but the forest-green walls still feel familiar to him. The two beds have been replaced by one Wyoming King, the rose gold coverlet and silk, chocolate brown sheets decadent, the headboard gigantic against the far wall.

Achilles had been quite coy about the bed, leaving Patroclus mortified to find out that Peleus had known about and even encouraged this move.

“The house is way too large for sound to move through it. Father understands. Look at the posts, I even found some soft rope to tie to it…”

The entertainment system and table within the pit are more organized, chipped black becoming sleek mahogany. The old black leather couch has been replaced a smooth, plush green velvet. The gaming systems are still in place, with all the movies neatly stuffed into the drawers. A small fridge sits at the edge, set in a space where the carpet has been cut out for proper draining.

The studying area is newly re-organized, with shelves overflowing with CDs, records, magazines, as well as textbooks on topics including anatomy, physiology, kinesiology, dance, and music history. Achilles, despite the disbelief of the outside world, is well read and constantly practices his art. However he may carry himself, he once explained, people question him as though his talent means he doesn’t put in work. As such, he makes it a point to keep studying, always trying new things, and adding to his skills, so that no one can ever deny him.

The closet is still filled with clothes, though gone are the playful, childish displays of wealth, now replaced with subtle name brands that the average person might not know a thing about. There’s still a section dedicated solely to Patroclus, and while it’s mostly his own, thrift-store and reasonably priced clothing, every now and then Achilles will slip something inside as a surprise.

The only thing that remains unchanged, and is still Patroclus’ favorite part, is the bathroom. The gorgeously refreshing teal-blue walls, with the sparkling mosaic floors always makes him feel like he’s stepped right into the royal halls of an ancient Greek palace. The sink is now covered in more mature spa bottles, names of companies that he’s unfamiliar with all to help preserve Achilles’ fine features. The clawfoot tub beckons to him, the promise of a deep soak to process his emotions almost too hard to pass up.

Instead, he strips and heads into the shower. Long past his shyness about the lack of a shower curtain, the steaming hot water quickly fills the room and fogs up the glass. This is better, Patroclus thinks, lingering as the pressure helps massage out his stressed shoulders. He feels like he’s washing off the day, both from pool water and from anxieties. The opaque glass hides him from the outside world, a small barrier that separates him from everything else.

Small movement from near the bathroom door momentarily puts on him edge, and then he chuckles quietly.

“I’m assuming this means you’ve forgiven me?” Patroclus asks, finally scrubbing his body as Achilles looms in the doorframe, hand squeezing his own arm like a repentant toddler.

“There was never anything to forgive.”

Achilles has always done this, become too excited over something, and lingered nearby because he was simply too impatient to wait for Patroclus to come out. At first it used to annoy Patroclus, the way he’d sit just outside the door, facing away, and talk to him, but after a while it helped to soothe away the isolation that both of them felt in the large space. Now, Achilles stares directly into the bathroom, eyes lingering over Patroclus’ blurry frame, fidgeting.

“I have an idea.”

It’s childish of him, but the more Patroclus focuses on Achilles’ problem, the less he has to focus on his own, so he’s quick to the uptake.

“Let’s hear it.”

Achilles closes the door behind him and rushes to lean against the sink.

“I want to try something different,” he exhales, as though it’s been in his head for so long and finally come to the surface.

“Okay?”

“I don’t mind singing what I have. I love singing. I enjoy it. But… I realized, after blowing up at you, that I had a different problem. I love Eros, of course, but he's made me realize that I feel… contained, in a way. You know?”

Fully cleaned, Patroclus turns off the water. In a blink, Achilles is next to him with a gigantic, fluffy blue towel. It would be erotic, the way Achilles automatically dries him off, if the other man weren’t so lost in his thoughts.

“I think I can relate to that, yes.” More than you know.

“I’ve been in stage plays before, for example, and I think I did a good job with that.”

Now Patroclus is frowning. This is the most unsure of himself that he’s ever seen Achilles.

“You performed beautifully. I remember. I’m no playwright, so if that’s where this is going…”

Frustrated, Achilles shakes his head. Tightening the towel around Patroclus’ waist, he pulls him back into the bedroom and sits him on the bed. Patroclus watches him skim over his alphabetical CDs, pulling one out and rushing back to him.

Heathers- The Musical glows up at him from the bright cover.

“I want to audition. They’re making a movie and I want to be a part of it.”

Determination glows from Achilles’ eyes, his smile almost manic with excitement. A glance down at the cover and back to Achilles’ expression yields no sign of a trick, and Patroclus can’t help the eyebrow raise. He’s seen the movie before, and he enjoyed it well enough, but-

“Why?”

Undaunted, Achilles pushes on.

“It’s the perfect way to break out of the type-cast! I was thinking about what you said earlier, about helping Briseis. And I realized- you’re right. From what she did today, she was able to break from underneath Agamemnon in a way he could have never seen coming. I felt trapped, but then I thought -why can I not just do the same?”

It unnerves Patroclus how quickly Achilles picked up on a plan he had no part in making. “That’s true…”

“I want to be known for something other than just the ‘Pop-Princeling’. How much further left can I go than the character of JD?”

He’s right- a prince to a high school murderer is quite the jump!

“I know the problem is that my mother won’t be for it, and I can see now that there will be questioning of the higher-ups if it won’t be ‘career suicide’ to play this type of character,” explains Achilles. “But I want them to know that I’m capable of the range, that I’m capable of so much more than what I’m currently doing.”  

Ironically, Patroclus can agree with everything he’s saying. He folds his legs crisscross onto the mattress, leaning an elbow on them.

“It sounds like you already have your decision. What do you want me to say?”

Ever a diva, Achilles scoffs. “I want to honestly know how you feel about it. No one else’s opinion matters more to me. I know… I know earlier I was being a jerk to you and I’m sorry for that, but what you think and feel are always first priority for me. So, if you think it’s a bad idea, or if I should move differently about it, I will. I trust you, and I want to show that.”

A guilty scream threatens to tear from Patroclus at the apologetic show of vulnerability; he settles for an agonized wail in his own head, and then nudges their foreheads together.

“Go for it. I think it’ll be amazing.”

It’s all he can say, and a delighted Achilles is bear hugging him onto the bed, limbs sprawling around Patroclus.

“Thank you! It’s going to be great; I just know it is! I’m thinking what I’ll do, if there’s any trouble, is just refuse to record. I will do absolutely nothing for this company if they aren’t willing to support me in this. Maybe I’ll just completely separate, and you and me can start our own recording company.”

By the end of his little rant, Patroclus can hear the self-satisfying spite and desire in his voice and manages to unravel a hand to pat Achilles’ head.

“Let’s not go there, okay? There’s no need to be so extreme.”

“Ugh, fine. Party pooper. No matter.” Achilles thumbs his cheek, grinning. “The day the show comes out, I’ve decided that I want you on my arm for it. No more hiding. I can already see it, and you look stunning, Philtatos.”

Later that night, cuddled in that gigantic bed, Patroclus wonders if he could be by Achilles’ side as a fellow artist, and not just his boyfriend.

Odysseus’ card still lingers in the bag inside the closet, an ever-looming bridge that still needs to be crossed.

Achilles spends his next free day secretly in one of the multi-purpose rooms inside the mansion, the fully mirrored room reflecting bright rays of sun and the wind blowing in the blossomed trees as he quickly learns the lyrics for the audition. He’d contacted the directors of the movie for a meeting, and it only took one facetime for the directors to realize the ace in the hole they had with a star like Achilles on their team.

They’d offered him the role outright, but Achilles still wanted to send in an audition video.

“It makes me feel like I’ve earned it a little more, you know?”

Patroclus can’t help but watch in awe, distracted from the composition homework that he needs to be working on, as Achilles seamlessly learns the words of the song and the short dance routine that the directors sent him. Patroclus might be able to sing, but dancing? He's physically strong, but his coordination left a lot to be considered.

Automedon and Antilochus are also there, Automedon as a legal representative and Antilochus as they needed someone to edit the original recording to take out the main voice and leave the chorus behind.  

“This is so exciting!” cries Antilochus, swinging his legs from the table where he holds the phone. “So many mini-revolutions!”

“Mini-what?” Automedon asks, cutting a glance at him.

“It’s like being back at school! Briseis has her moment, Achilles is in a musical again, I’m helping with the music right now. Memories!”

“I guess.”

“Automedon,” Achilles snaps to get his attention, rising from his stretches for the second half of practice. This was going to be his first full run-through before recording. “What are you thinking for the explanation?”

Tapping his lip with a pen, Automedon ponders how to word his response.

“It’s interesting for sure. If you look at it from a ‘this is the end of your career’ perspective, Agamemnon will be completely for it. He’s not good at making bets, unfortunately, so you might come out of this fine. Odysseus and Diomedes could be convinced, but they’ll need to be a major part of the contracts. There’s absolutely no way that you can just ‘do this’, because Phthia owns your image. It’s as easy as pulling legal and preventing the musical from selling tickets or being made altogether.”

Achilles nods, focused, and Automedon continues. “It would be safer to do what you’re doing now, take the proof to the higher ups, and convince them that this will bring you good press. This is one hell of a musical to start with, and while I’m confident you can pull off ‘sexy bad boy face’, can you actually sell as a villain? What happens if no one is able to see you in other spaces without comparing you to this? Acting is a different ballgame.”

“Sounds doable.”

It’s the only thing Achilles says, and it’s a testament to how well everyone in the room knows him that no one questions it.

“I’m ready. Antilochus, get the music ready. Automedon, fix the camera for recording. Patroclus, keep looking gorgeous over there as you watch me be great.”

Flushing, Patroclus closes his laptop. He’ll be up all night working on this composition homework, but it’s fine. The jazzy music of Meant to Be Yours begins, pep rally vibes in complete opposition to the sinister lyrics that Achilles sings as he moves alongside an imaginary partner as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You chucked me out like I was trash,

For that you should be dead—

But! But! But!

Then it hit me like a flash,

'What if high school went away instead'

Those assholes are the key!

They're keeping you away from me!

They made you blind, messed up your mind

But I can set you free!

The eerie contrast with the pretty Pop-Princeling performing such scary lyrics alongside a pop beat is instantly effective, Achilles’ expressions shifting from maniacal to soft and tender within seconds of each other worth watching as a show on their own.

He’s perfect, Patroclus thinks, as he falls into the school petition, voice sinister and rough in all the right places. No, not just perfect- he’s been waiting for this chance. The chorus arrives again, and Achilles sings along with them as though he’s already on stage.

You were meant to be mine!

I am all that you need!

You carved open my heart!

Can't just leave me to bleed!

And then, Patroclus’ heart drops as Achilles slams against an imaginary door, gaping grin slipping into a terrifying grimace as he sings.

Veronica, open the—open the door, please'

Veronica, open the door.

Veronica, can we not fight anymore'

Please, can we not fight anymore'

Veronica, sure, you're scared,

I've been there. I can set you free!

Veronica, don't make me come in there!

I'm gonna count to three!

(Spoken) One! Two! Fuck it!

Achilles’ ominous pleading against the ‘door’ manages to be both menacing and seductive at the same time, and Patroclus realizes with an overwhelming sort of shame that his thighs are tightening together, his legs curling in as his heart pounds. The song ends, and Achilles resumes his princely mien, waiting for feedback. The video plays back as three of them look at it, commenting here and there on what could be better, while Patroclus leans weakly against the mirror.

“Pat, you okay?” Automedon’s voice echoes, sounding much further away than it was supposed to.

“Geez, he looks red.” Antilochus sounds concerned, and it’s enough for Patroclus to sweep to his feet.

“I’m gonna be right back,” he mutters, escaping as Achilles gives him a strange look. The damn mansion seems like a maze as he finds a random empty closet to hide inside.

I can’t believe this, he wails in his head. Did I really find that shit hot? I mean, I always find Achilles hot, but am I supposed to find that hot? It’s not fair!

Just as Patroclus is willing himself to heel, a set of sharp knocks hits the door, followed by a crooned “Patroclus, open the door please…”

A little frustrated cry slips out, and he opens the door to a smug Achilles, who quickly pushes inside and closes the door behind them. Grasping Patroclus in his arms, he pins him against the door and rubs up against him.

“I knew it,” he purrs, lips in the crook of Patroclus’ neck. “I knew that was your ‘turned on’ face. I can’t believe it. I knew you liked the ropes that day.”

“Don’t bring that up!” Patroclus hisses, head swimming with memories of his screaming against the constraints. “It’s hot in here.”

“It sure is.” Achilles takes Patroclus’ lips with his own, using one hand to press a little against his neck, and another to undo his pants. He licks Patroclus’ lips, then kneels down. “If this is how you get seeing me be a bad boy, I’ll make sure to practice privately for you every day.”

The moment soft lips wrap themselves around Patroclus’ dick, he feels his knees shake. Gasping, he tries to pull away, but Achilles firmly presses his legs against the door. He deepens his sucking, his face tickling against curly pubic hair.

“Achilles! They’re waiting for us! You- we can’t do this here! What if someone hears or sees us?”

Unconcerned, Achilles swipes his tongue across his slit a couple of times. “If they’re smart, they’ll wait patiently as I care for my beloved. Besides, we’re all supposed to be kicking it tonight anyway. Who knows when I’ll be able to handle this for you?”

Patroclus knows he won’t be able to convince him otherwise, and his desire to do so quickly fades. With a growl, he wraps his fingers in Achilles’ curls and thrusts forward, movement of his hips a barrage into the slick warmth. Achilles’ resulting moan vibrates against him, equally satisfied at the rough treatment. He hears Achilles gag and pulls himself out.

“Are you okay?”

Heavy breaths let him know that Achilles is just as into this as he, and he wishes that he could see the lewd expression he knows his lover is wearing.

“Keep fucking my mouth, what are you doing? If I can still talk, there’s a problem.”

Patroclus’ hips jump despite himself, and he feels pre-cum spurt into Achilles’ mouth as he picks up his earlier pace, relishing in the sounds of their lovemaking.

“Ha, fuck, I think I’m close- do you want me to-”

Achilles braces his left arm around Patroclus’ thighs, and with an impassioned moan, Patroclus comes down his throat. A couple moments later, wetness peppers his feet as Achilles comes right after, wanton as he still drinks down seed. He’s almost completely worn out when Achilles finally releases him, leaning his head against his thigh. Laughter bubbles in Patroclus’ throat, and he can’t help giggling. Soon they’re both laughing wholeheartedly, pretty much ending any chance that no one could find them.

Later that night, Patroclus is enjoying his time with ‘Achilles’ High Court’, which is just media’s name for who they think Achilles’ closest friends are. This means, in addition to Automedon and Antilochus, they’ve invited Ajax to come relax by the pool. The guest rooms have been prepared, though the boys have made it a point to relax in every entertainment space they can. The pool, the movie room, the game room, the living room, the kitchen, the gym, the studios- all of it has seen signs of the rowdy bunch.

It’s a ‘stay-cation’, as Antilochus has dubbed it, so that they can relax, listen to music, anything they want, unbothered. They’ve just started digging into the different flavors of pizza when Patroclus’ phone buzzes.

“I thought this was a no-phone zone,” whines Automedon, who still has to stop himself from twitching when he gets ‘phantom’ notifications.

“You all are the popular ones who need breaks. Some of us still have classmates and projects.”

“You only have, what, a month until you graduate, Pat? How exciting!”

“Hey! I’m going to school too!”

“Yes, fantastic, Antilochus.” 

Patroclus’ happy mood at once dissipates when he sees the phone number, and he unconsciously shrinks into himself. The call is missed, followed by a singular text.

Come to the house.

“Patroclus, are you okay?” Patroclus’ face shoots up, concern all over Achilles’ features. He’s squeezing Patroclus’ wrist, a guess as to who is calling in his eyes.

“I’ll be back. Gotta stop by the house.”

“You don’t have t- Do you want me to come with you? I’ll go.”

Patroclus shakes his head, immediately tossing up that old wall. “I don’t want paparazzi to follow or something like that. No worries. He’s probably just going to demand that I-” Keep up these same old lies, almost comes out of Patroclus’ mouth. “That I stay good and check on mom.”

Minutes later, Patroclus is being driven to the house, running Achilles’ promise through his head.

If you’re not back in two hours, I’m coming to get you. If you need me to come get you any earlier, call me. I mean it.

He thinks he’s learned how to deal with his father well enough by this point, and Menoetius still hates the look of him, so at best this will be a waste of time. As the car pulls away from the small, one floor home on Dominica, the rusty chain gate still wrapped around yellowish grass, Patroclus can’t help but sigh. He’s become too accustomed to wealth, though the home was still a sight for sore eyes when he’d had nothing.

Not bothering to knock, he opens the door and steps inside, silent as a mouse. Some habits never die. His strategy is thrown when he realizes that the house is completely empty. Gone is the old raggedy couch, the fading picture of the cross with the prayer hands, the trashy TV, and the horribly rotted blinds. Even the floors have been replaced, a light wood replacing the old dirty white tile.

“Patroclus.”

Heart pounding, Patroclus turns to Menoetius, who seems unusually small amongst the empty space. Looking at his father, he can almost- almost- see why someone like his mother might have liked him, once upon a time. Menoetius is not ugly, and despite the passing of the years, the only sign of aging is the salt and pepper hair. He still maintains his famed boxing physique. He doesn’t look the monster that Patroclus and his mother know he is.

“Father.” He’s unsure why this couldn’t be a phone call, given that the house is empty. There’s nothing to discuss.

“I wanted to look you in your face to make sure you understood me before I left. I’m selling the house, and I’m leaving.”

No shit. “Okay.”

“I’ve officially filed for divorce, and the paperwork went through. So, your mother is no longer my problem.”

You never acted like a husband anyway. “Okay.”

“I’ve cancelled the checks and taken a substantial lump sum. Thetis has already handled it.”

Now this, this makes Patroclus raise his brow, despite years of ingrained training not to react to Menoetius’ statements.

“I-” He’s an adult, he can do this- “I don’t understand.”

“It means that you need to man up and take care of your mother from now on. Neither of y’all are my problem, and I’m not paying for that hospital no more. I don’t care what you do. As for the part of the deal Thetis made, you’ll have to go to her to deal with the paperwork on that on your own.”

…

…

………………………………..

Patroclus isn’t sure where it comes from- perhaps years of deeply concentrated resentment, perhaps reassurance that Achilles would come looking for his dead body, perhaps knowing he had nothing to lose anymore- he just loses it.

“Are you serious? Why the fuck are you even getting paid?! Lump sum?! For what?! If it’s not going to my mother’s care, you don’t deserve a god damn dime!”

Menoetius stiffens, his fists tightening as his nostrils flare. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

“You! I’m talking to you!” Menoetius charges forward, and Patroclus dodges the hit, jumping to the side. “Literally there’s no reason to do this, anymore! She doesn’t have to pay you anything! This is just you two doing this out of spite!”

“Watch your fucking mouth!”

“I won’t! I don’t need your fucking love, pack your shit and run all you want, that’s fine, but I’m tired of you ruining my fucking life! You are the most useless, pathetic man on this earth, and you’ve only ever been able to function because of me and my mother’s suffering! You owe everything you’ve ever had to us, and that’s how it’s always been!”

The words release so much inside of him, revealing raw wounds that have long been forced down. It feels amazing. Unfortunately, the catharsis can’t make up for lack of luck. That first dodge had been lucky, but this time Menoetius punches him square in the chest, right back into the wall. The hit is so hard that he can hardly breathe, let alone dodge the punch to the eye. Menoetius is wearing a gold ring rimmed with diamonds, and the ring cuts into him.

Still, Patroclus isn’t little anymore. He wasn’t raised to be a boxer the way his father had once hoped, but he still has enough weight to punch, scratch, and kick. Menoetius has Patroclus’ throat in his hands when suddenly a phone rings, Achilles’ ringtone singing enough to break Menoetius’ hateful stupor. Breathing heavily, Menoetius drops Patroclus, looking at his shaking hands.

“Just be lucky you’re worth more alive than dead.”

With whatever that meant, he barrels out of the door, and Patroclus can hear the car peel away over his pained breathing.

He just won.

He just won against Menoetius!

Licking his split lip, Patroclus limps to the front door, and slumps on the stoop. The sun is set low, deep reds fading into darkness with the first sign of stars. Somewhere in the distance, sirens from an ambulance wail, and the breeze pushes the trees- all classic ambience that once helped him calm down from interactions with his father. His heart and breathing slows.

Sometimes, when he was little, his mother would come home late at night from her job as an exotic dancer, and he would meet her at the door, excited to see ‘Mommy and her pretty costumes’. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he’d go with her, and ooh and aww at the ‘pretty costumes and jewelry’ and sway around to the distant bass from the front performance room. The lady and gentleman dancers loved him, though they wouldn’t let him visit very often.

Some nights he’d be really hungry, so he and Mommy would sit outside and eat crackers, sausage, and water and talk about the stars. It was easier on nights when Menoetius was knocked out, or somewhere else in town bragging about his latest win in the ring. When she’d stopped being able to work, after one day too far… Well, he’d still sneak outside on his own and stare up at the sky. Even when he’d gone to Mt. Pelion, and eventually Phthia, he would still do this when he needed to breathe- go out onto the balcony and stare up.

Achilles eventually joined him, and even started to carry him to bed when he fell asleep.

Shit. Achilles.

Donning the mask and glasses he stores in his bookbag, he calls a car to pick him up. His phone screen is cracked, with 3 missing calls and a text from Achilles.

I know it hasn’t been 2 hours but

I had a bad feeling, so I was checking in.

Smiling (as best he can, with a split lip and a swollen eye that pounds with every heartbeat) he simply texts that he’s on his way. His energy wanes as he reaches the gates of Phthia, impatiently flashing his ID to the guards on the outside. By the time he hears voices in the kitchen, his head trying and failing to. He removes his mask, trying to breathe slowly.

“Pat? Pat is that you- oh shit bro-”

His adrenaline finally fails, and he collapses to the floor. Strong arms are around him before his head can hit the ground, small mercies. He’s swept off the floor and quickly moved somewhere else; he refuses to open his eyes and find out where he’s going.

“Ajax, get me an ice pack and a glass of water, quickly! Antilochus, the towels are in that closet over there, and ibuprofen and Neosporin are in that drawer. Automedon, text my father and tell him I’m going to prison.”

“Achilles you’re not going to fucking prison!”

“Oh, I am, because I’m going to kill that man.”

Cool water on soft fabric rinses away the blood and tears on his face and lip. The bitter taste of Neosporin is dabbed onto his lips, followed by a decently sized pill.

“Come on, Philtatos, I need you to take this for me.”

Patroclus creaks open his right eye enough to see Achilles’ harried expression, and he obediently takes the pill, drinking the entire glass of cool water behind it. It’s instantly refreshing.

“I’m okay,” he mutters.

“You are not okay!” roars Achilles, his grasp tightening.

“It’s just shock. I need to eat, is all.” He randomly remembers the pizza, and how he hadn’t even gotten to try any.

“I’ll get you whatever you want.” Ajax hands Achilles the ice pack, and Patroclus grimaces as it stings his eye when pressed on.

“This is embarrassing.”

“No, this is infuriating. The moment you’re settled in, I’m going to find your father and kill him myself. I should have done it forever ago.”

Patroclus shakes his head. “He’s gone. Let it go.”

“I’m not letting it go! He can’t do this to you! We can at least call the cops, he just committed assault!”

“I agree.” Antilochus is unusually serious about this, and Automedon already has his contacts pulled up, having long retrieved his phone. Patroclus shakes his head again, too many thoughts twisting inside.

“Can we deal with this tomorrow, please? I- I really don’t want to do this right now. I confronted him- I told him everything I thought, we fought, and he’s gone. Even if we do something… can it be tomorrow? I want to relax tonight after this, please.”

Achilles bites his lip, seething with the need for vengeance, but he doesn’t want to further upset Patroclus or leave his side. Finally, he inhales shakily, and turns to their friends.

“We’ll do what you say. For now. For now…”

His command is final, and Patroclus appreciates it. For the rest of the night, he is absolutely pampered. Any food he can even think of wanting, busted lip and all, he gets it, and Achilles feeds it to him. His lover refuses to leave his side, massaging his head, neck and shoulders; bringing him drinks, wrapping him in blankets and pulling him into a cuddle while they watch movies. The earlier mood is somewhat soured, but Automedon, Antilochus and Ajax do their best to repair the vibes, making Patroclus smile and laugh, and even softening Achilles’ furious energy.

That night, when everyone is asleep, Patroclus reclines on the second-floor balcony. The pool gleams aquamarine in the night, the space silent except for crickets. In his hand is his cracked phone (soon to be replaced, thanks to Achilles) weighted with the text he’s just sent to Odysseus.

I look forward to business, Patroclus :) is the response.

There’s a strange peace in having nothing to lose anymore. The only person in his family that Patroclus cares about is his mother, and her care is of his utmost priority. He doesn’t need nor want Thetis’ money anymore. He doesn’t care what ‘rules’ he’ll be breaking. He’ll care for them both himself, and if it means getting over all of his fears at once, so be it.

This flame in his heart feels strangely good, as though perhaps this explosion was the final step toward something greater.

Silent feet shuffle near him, and Patroclus only slightly tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Philtatos.”

“Do you trust me?”

“…yes?”

“Will you always give me a chance to explain myself?”

“Yes… is there something you want to talk about?”

Patroclus is too tired to have the conversation now. He’s made a lot of choices today, most of them hot-headed and under duress. He wants to make sure he’s sure before he says anything

“Not right now. But someday.”

Bemused, Achilles shrugs, gently kissing Patroclus’ forehead before scooping him off his feet toward their bedroom.

Patroclus’ face is fully healed by the time he goes to meet with Odysseus the next week, and it’s just as well, as the snobby way the clientele looks at him and his friends when he walks in makes him want to turn and leave. When Antilochus had plugged the address into the GPS, they had to double take at the four money signs after the title.

“The portions are tiny,” explained Antilochus. “That’s how you know that this is going to be unreasonable.”

“I can’t afford any of this,” Briseis states, not beating around the bush.

“It’s fine,” Patroclus placates. “We’ll just…order water? Maybe some bread?”

The restaurant is blindingly expensive, a place he can’t even picture affording, let alone the gilded private room that he now waits in, Antilochus and Briseis pressed close to either side. In exchange for speaking to the notorious deal maker and fixer on the side, Patroclus had come with a set of immovable requirements. First, his friends were going to be there with him- part of it is because he was entirely too intimidated to go by himself. The other reason is that entirety of the group that knew his secret needed to be present in this room, barring any chance of miscommunication.

It helps to have the support, because right now, all they can do is stare at the pristine violet walls, the marble floors, the luxurious art, the sturdy table where they sat made of clearly expensive wood. The waiter bringing them water in crystal goblets is dressed to the nines in a tailored suit, making Patroclus ever more self-conscious about his simple blue blazer and well-fitting jeans (which, when he was anywhere else, made him look quite handsome but now makes him feel broke).

“That man is wearing a tailcoat,” Patroclus hisses lowly. “A tailcoat! I didn’t think those existed outside of TV!”

“Is this how the wealthy live?” Briseis murmurs, hand squeezed firmly around Patroclus’ forearm. Briseis is always stylish, perhaps the best fit for the scenario with a golden velvet top accenting her blood red lips, long black skirt elegant against her frame. For her to be nervous… poor Patroclus and notorious beach bum Antilochus stood no chance. He’d seen the way one old hag evil eyed Antilochus’ suit shorts and loafers… it wasn’t the greatest choice.

Anyway, Patroclus’ experience of money comes from Achilles and Antilochus, and so they turn wide-eyed to a baffled Antilochus who shakes his head.

“My family is decently well off. This is Phthia level- no, this is Olympus level wealth. How did Odysseus pull this meeting here?”

“It’s all simply connections, dear children.”

They all jump simultaneously at Odysseus, who grins in the doorframe, a glass of wine from the bar loosely held in his hand. The man is wearing a white long-sleeved tee and khaki shorts, long hair loose, his comfort amongst the wealth unnaturally cool. Briseis looks him up and down and scoffs.

“You told us that we had to be well-dressed!” she accuses, pointing a sharp blue fingernail at him.

“And what a lovely picture you make, beautiful Briseis!”

The man is notoriously unflappable, and Patroclus gently lowers Briseis’ hand with a warning look. The thing about Odysseus was that he was unreadable, and that’s what made him dangerous. You might have an enemy in your midst and not know it. His reputation is that of a silver-tongue, slick, yet ruthless when it came to getting his way. Everyone famous knew of Odysseus’ run-in with the infamous paparazzi Thersites, and how he’d crushed the man’s camera and stomped the man for speaking out of turn, all with that same, bright smile on his face. The paparazzi webpages had been unusually quiet for months afterward when it came to anything involving PME.

“Have you looked at the menu? No matter. Once you sent me your food allergies, I immediately asked for an array of choices. I have good taste, trust me. They’ll be at the table soon.”

While Patroclus is elated at the free food, he knows that he’s being drawn into a web of comfortability. He takes a sip from the heavy goblet and folds his hands.

“Can we just please get to business?” he asks, hoping the quiver in his voice isn’t too noticeable and Odysseus raises his hand in acquiescence as he sits across from them.

“Very well. I can respect business that gets to the point.” He pulls out a small notebook, blithely flips to a page, and leans back, folding his legs. “So, list your terms.”

Patroclus, Antilochus and Briseis had gone over this list many times in preparation, making sure to practice keeping stern to their goals. He takes one last look at both his friends, who nod in encouragement.

“Look. I know my skill set. We all know our skill sets. Antilochus and I graduate soon. You’ve heard my music, you know my schtick. In summary, you’re entirely too smart to not know what we bring to the table, Odysseus. All three of us receive employment. Antilochus in the music production department, Briseis and I as signed performers. I’m not going through your audition process- I’d have already passed the entire thing given my current streams and public interest.”

Odysseus’ hand flies across his notebook pages, nodding slowly as he writes.

“I don’t know if I’d say you’d pass the auditions,” he comments, not looking up, “so much as you have our number one hit maker in your corner, and he doesn’t even know it.”

Patroclus can’t help the small flinch; he was trying to be bold, but as ever, Odysseus saw to the truth of the matter.

“Anything else?”

“Briseis is not to work with Agamemnon- have her management be led by literally anyone else.”

Odysseus snorts, eyes gleaming with amusement. “That entire song situation was hilarious- you all have proven you can be audacious when necessary, and I personally love to see it. By the way, in Menelaus and Helen’s defense, they’re still in love, and working on their marriage. Anything else?”

Uh, okay…? “I want to always have a say in my songwriting. If I haven’t had a hand in writing it, I don’t want to sing it. For my music, I want Antilochus to always be a top choice to work with me. I don’t need it to always be him, but I don’t want him to be somehow removed from my presence when I enter the field.”

Antilochus sniffles, moved. “Bro.” Patroclus nudges him- we already knew this was happening, don’t show weakness!

“Is that all?”

“Please don’t tell Achilles about this before I can. Discretion is key to this entire thing.”

A short chuckle, followed by another mysterious nod. “Getting the son of Peleus to listen to his elders is hard enough; I assure you I don’t go telling him secrets.”

Half of Patroclus is defensive- don’t talk about my boyfriend like that! The other part of him is relieved because he knows it’s the truth. Odysseus succinctly runs down the list of requirements, repeating them clearly for understanding. When Patroclus, Antilochus, and Briseis agree to the terms, Odysseus plops the notebook down on the table and grabs his wine, finishing the glass.

“Diomedes, this might be the easiest contract I’ve ever had to run through.”

… What?

“What?!”

The door slides open, and Diomedes comfortably strides in, followed by waiters holding steaming plates of food. Diomedes is dressed more appropriately than Odysseus, clean haircut low, a simple black dress shirt and pants, but they both direct the food to different spots on the table with ease. A waiter pours glasses of champagne for all of them, but Patroclus is entirely too stiff to move. Luckily Briseis is quicker to speak.

“You said you were the only person to know!”

Odysseus giggles, and Diomedes shrugs. “Odysseus wasn’t the only person hired for his cognitive faculties. You’ll need someone more versed in the paperwork, and a clear communicator.”

“Diomedes, I’m hurt. I communicated! Anyway, you all might as well eat- this is being paid for. And sip your champagne- this is a celebration!”

The two go back and forth in a strange battle of rhetoric, toeing the line between what he might call bromance and rivalry, and it’s enough to make Patroclus lift his knife and fork to focus on anything else to look away. The strip steak melts beautifully in his mouth, assuaging a little of his shock with a happy warmth.

“Truly,” Odysseus explains, plopping a vegetable into his mouth. “I’ve had people approach me with arrogant lawyers and an unreasonable number of terms coated in legal jargon. They bored me near to death with their requirements. I had to be professional. Go ahead children, imagine the horror.”

It’s a sly way of saying that he doesn’t take them seriously, but in his defense, Patroclus, Antilochus and Briseis don’t cut the daunting figure that they thought they would be before arriving.

“Just say Thetis,” Diomedes chastises, sipping his water. “They’re children, but they aren’t stupid.”

“In comparison,” continues a jovial Odysseus. “Your requests are so easy! I could cry!”

“Naturally this will become more complex,” Diomedes explains. “But I abide by an honor code- I won’t let you be swindled during this process. It’s only good that it was us who figured out who you are- you’re quite lucky. I can’t imagine how this would look if Agamemnon had been the one to figure it out.”

The star-building power between Odysseus and Diomedes is legendary, their reputations well-earned, so there’s nothing arrogant about what the man is saying- it’s just the truth.

“So… what do we do now?” Patroclus asks them.

“Well, to put it simply, all you’re lacking at the moment to enter PME is a ‘legitimate’ public presence and a hit, which is a requirement on our end. You’ll need to produce something that Phthia can push as our production- your free agency, as you know it, will be gone.”

“But his entire thing right now is mystery,” Antilochus cuts in, frowning. “How is he supposed to do that when you all will run and tell everyone who he is?”

Odysseus’ eyes glow with divine inspiration, wheels visibly turning in his head.

“That, perhaps, is Patroclus’ biggest power right now. You don’t have to reveal who you are, but to do so with your first hit from Phthia could be the most brilliant move- both for yourself, and for our company, if done properly.”

Diomedes nods his agreement, and Odysseus continues. “Think about it, Patroclus. You’re a beautiful singer, your music is beloved by many, including a star that is beloved by all. That’s half the footwork done. You’re handsome, in decent shape, young, erotic- your own star is barely rising. Imagine, the world, on the edge of their seats, begging, dying to know who Eros is. Going along with your brand, it’s orgasmic. I can see the commercials already.”

Patroclus doesn’t realize how drawn into Odysseus’ words he is, breathing quickening, until Briseis places a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. He knew that the man came to him with the intention of selling dreams, but he hadn’t realized just how much he wanted it. Nevertheless, Odysseus is pleased with his work, and Patroclus takes a shaky sip of his champagne. Diomedes takes a couple more swipes at his phone, scratching something down, then places it onto the table.

“Patroclus, if I may be direct- we’ve already had a private investigator look into your background. This is something we do for all our interests.”

It makes Patroclus damn near spit out his drink in stress. Despite his most recent run-in with his father, and how he’s technically free to discuss his past, he’s still hardwired to be antsy when it comes into conversation. Briseis rubs his back to help him breathe, and Antilochus scowls at them.

“Hey, tough topic, man.”

“I can believe that,” Odysseus continues. “I apologize for the harshness of your early upbringing- I personally despise a man that can harm his wife and child most of all. The thought of laying a hand on my Penelope or Telemachus sickens me to my core. I’d rather die.”

“Well,” Patroclus laughs, pain in his tone. I wish. “Everyone isn’t so noble.”

Diomedes continues. “We noticed that when you were fifteen you suddenly enrolled in Mt. Pelion, and then went to live with Achilles at the Phthia Estate that following summer.” Diomedes pauses, folding his hands. “Now, based on your living situation at the time, there’s no possible way that was feasible given your father’s income. We then took a look into him and realized that he’s been receiving a sizable sum since you were that age. Recently, he received one large payment, and then the account was cancelled.”

Patroclus’ eye twitches, and he unconsciously raises a hand to press against the throbbing.

“That is where the information suddenly cuts off- we cannot access who was paying the money. Patroclus, do you know what was going on? Why was your father receiving payments at this time? I don’t want to crush your dreams, but if your father was involved in some shady company, that is something we’ll need to watch out for when curating your image. We need you to tell us the truth.”

Who the fuck are you, the cops?!

Dark, sardonic cackles echo in the room; it takes Patroclus a moment to realize that it’s him laughing so bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, still laughing. “It’s just, your questions- you sounded like you were cops, except I remembered that money helps save people like me in this situation because they sure fucking didn’t.” He can still remember the many times the cops simply turned a blind eye because of his mother’s profession, as though her safety didn’t matter. The way that his father would a-ke-ke at the door, using that demonic charm on them until they left, turning a vengeful eye to both of them.

Briseis silently shakes with pain, but she hands him a glass of water. Antilochus had explained the prior week’s situation with Menoetius to her before they came, and she’d bawled a concerning amount before offering to help Achilles go commit murder.

“The honest truth-” Patroclus takes a deep breath. Fuck it. “The honest truth is that Thetis paid him off in chunks to stop me from competing with Achilles.”

There’s a sadistic glee he gets out of watching Odysseus lean back like he’s been sucker punched; even Diomedes makes a strangled noise. Ha! Now who’s the one lacking information? Strangely buoyant, Patroclus shrugs and continues.

“At first it was just to stop me from performing during Achilles’ first audition- I guess she thought Peleus would take pity on poor little me and my voice, taking from Achilles’ light. As if I could ever do that. Menoetius must have found a way to con her long term, bastard that he was, because the amount was just enough to send me to school and pay my mother’s health fees. I’m thinking at some point it became about spite, because it didn’t work- Achilles still wanted to be my friend, Peleus still liked me, and she still had to deal with me existing. I guess it was her way of exercising control over a situation near her son since she can’t control him. That’s the best explanation I’ve got.”

The room is silent for a few minutes, and Patroclus takes the time to happily finish his food while waiting for the fallout.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Odysseus hisses, furious.

“Why would she even- what is wrong with that woman?” Diomedes concurs, expression irritated and confused.

“The last payment was when I contacted you, Odysseus. I guess he decided that he’d squirreled enough away to abandon my mother and me. He hasn’t canceled whatever paperwork he made with Thetis, so she apparently still owns my voice despite the payments ending. Don’t know what I’ll do about that, but I suppose that would be on Phthia to handle if I signed.”

Perhaps it’s scheming in nature, but Patroclus doesn’t have time to worry about it when he’s got a mother to take care of. Surely the greatest minds in PME could handle the scenario? It could all be so easy for him! Antilochus opens his phone and shows them a couple pictures of Patroclus’ injuries that night.

“As you can see,” he gestures. “The conversation didn’t go amiably.”

Odysseus exhales wrathfully, and Diomedes scowls.

“Send me those. We’ll need to use those as part of documentation for the investigation.”

“I am very angry, and very sorry for your experience, Patroclus.” With that, Odysseus turns to Diomedes to speak quietly. “This will certainly pose a problem for Peleus and Achilles.”

“It doesn’t have to pose a problem, but I can already see the ones that will pop up. I’ll make some phone calls. We’re going to need a team to handle this one.”

They whisper back and forth, more subdued this time, and Patroclus tries to crush down the guilt he feels at the future hardship he’s bringing to his lover and to a man who’s practically been an adoptive parent. Just because he’s getting help doesn’t mean he wants it at their expense…

“This is not on you, Pat,” Briseis encourages, seeing him get upset. “Thetis should have thought about her actions before getting caught up with a conniving man like your father.”

Grateful tears burn in his eyes; he knows this, but the terrified child in his core still needs to be convinced.

“For sure, this counteracts the ease of your stipulations from before, Patroclus,” Odysseus amends, but for the first time all meal he’s wearing a warm, genuine smile. “But I think I’m still willing to invest. You’ve worked so hard, and wouldn’t it be the greatest thing to write about later in your life? I can see it already! This is just a challenge, but I have confidence that we can overcome it.”

Diomedes stands, meal long finished and phone at his ear. “Talk to them about the recording. I’ll get back to all of you. Patroclus, don’t worry- it will be handled.” He strolls out just as suavely as he strolled in, the waiters clearing some of the table. Odysseus asks for two Jameson and gingers, gesturing to Patroclus for one of them.

“Okay, well- now that we’ve got that unpleasantness in the air, it’s back to your careers. Here’s what I’ll need from you.”

A week later, Antilochus and Patroclus are in the studio, doing a pre-recording of Eros’ first single with PME.

We’re looking for something a little lighter in tone from you, if possible. Not because we don’t understand what you offer- I love the noir, tortured vibes in your music! It’s what makes you, you. But this is your first introduction to a larger mainstream crowd with us, and so we want to bring you out to something simple that can play on every radio, but still evokes the spirit of Eros.

It wasn’t exactly the most helpful of descriptions, but Odysseus had reassured him that they could go back and forth until they found the exact sound they were looking for. The recording experience is much better than it has ever been, paling the private studio where he’d recorded with Briseis, and far destroying any desire he ever had to record in a closet again. Antilochus is a man like a god in the control room, showing his own worth behind the keys. The moment they play the final product back, he looks out of the booth to see Odysseus beaming at him. Even Diomedes has a small smile on his face.

“It’s perfect, Patroclus. The contrast between you and your boyfriend is like yin and yang, it’s amazing. This latest generation of singers, Diomedes! Our range is stunning- Ajax, Achilles, Briseis, and now- I could cry.”

Diomedes only pushes the dramatic Odysseus away, explaining to Patroclus that everything was ready to sign. During the time apart, Diomedes had explained to him that if paying for his mother’s hospital bills was an issue, they could just appoint a section in the contracts for the money to go directly to them, rather than him just doing it on his own time. In return, Patroclus is willing to open his talent availability for songwriting and composition when he’s not creating his own music. It’s not a deal he has to make, but he’s so grateful for the experience (and he was going to do it anyway) that he wants to show it somehow.

As Patroclus is signing the last page, Odysseus squeezes his shoulder.

“You know, it almost feels like fate that this is happening. Someone else was cut from our rosters, opening the position for a new performed. We were going to have to redo auditions, we had so much prepared for this person, it was all going to be a waste and that infuriated me. What a perfect opportunity.” He smiles, trying to bely the disquiet Patroclus feels at how cut-throat the situation is. “I hope the glory is everything you hoped it would be, Patroclus. Especially with this next piece of great news that I have for you about your single!”

After what seems like a really long day (a long week, really) Patroclus finally gets to see Achilles that night. Achilles plops onto the bed, hands splayed out on either side- it’s the most awkward he’s ever looked, yet still so dramatically him.

“Everything okay?” Patroclus asks, sitting on the bed beside him.

“My feet hurt.”

He’d been learning routines for both the movie and some recent music videos, on his feet for continued practices sometimes spanning for thirteen hours. Patroclus can’t even imagine the effort. Squeezing Achilles’ shoulder, he goes to the bathroom closet and digs around until he finds the foot bath. A few minutes later, he’s placing Achilles’ reddened feet into the pulsing, hot water. The poor man hisses at the touch, but he eventually relaxes as Patroclus mixes some oils into the water and reaches for a foot.

“This is so nice, Philtatos,” Achilles purrs, sinking into the soft couch cushions as Patroclus presses the oils into his tired feet. “Thank you.”

Patroclus kisses the top of his foot, smiling. “Of course. So, tell me how dinner with Th- with your mother went.”

During the one short break he’d had this week, Achilles had finally broken the silence with Thetis. They met for lunch at one of her favorite places, he’d ordered her favorite wines and meal, all to soften her expected response about filming the movie.

“She was surprisingly supportive. I didn’t expect that from her, given the way we last spoke-” He groans when Patroclus presses into a particularly bad spot. “I think we’re doing better. I think she’s realized that maybe it would be easier to support me because I ask, rather than try to make everything so conditional between us.”

Thetis had grimaced, only for a short moment, but when Achilles brought out the potential tears, of course she’d acquiesced.

“Mom told me she missed me, and that she was sorry about the situation with Deidameia. She said she never intended to make me uncomfortable; that the last thing in the world she ever wanted was to make me uncomfortable or miserable. That if I’m happy about this, she’s happy about it.”

Patroclus wants to be happy for him, but it’s hard for him to trust anything that Thetis says- even with her own son, she’s constantly scheming. It makes him wonder why she’s so hyper focused on everything involving her son- perhaps some traumas that he’s not responsible for finding out.

She doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable.

Just not with me.

Maybe she thinks that Patroclus is like Menoetius- he can see being afraid of anyone who might turn out like that. He likes to think he won’t… no, he’s sure he won’t. He makes it a point to never be like that-

“Patroclus? Are you okay?”

Patroclus blinks, looking at Achilles who’s been waiting for a response.

“Sorry. Zoned out a little bit. I’m happy that she took it well- maybe things really will be better after now. Anyway, how about your dad?” he asks instead, hoping to push past the questions that he knows Achilles didn’t ask her.

“He was relieved that Mom wasn’t going to put up a fight, so there’s that. He also was worried that I’d struggle with the time commitment since I was already scheduled for other things on top of this.”

It’s a valid concern- Achilles has always been a powerhouse, but even the strongest can get run into the ground. Stronger men had depended upon drugs and liquor to push through such a strenuous lifestyle.

“I told him I could do it, but that I’d appreciate it if he’d understand if I needed time and priority refocusing.”

Patroclus smiles, patting his knee. “Using your big words! I’m proud of you.”

Achilles rolls his eyes. “It’s because I’m around you. I just tried to think, how would Patroclus handle this scenario. Things are strangely easier.”

“It’s easier to be diplomatic, yes!”

Achilles continues his explanation, saying that his team has officially been in contact with the director of the movie, who was absolutely elated at the chance of a lifetime. As always, when it comes to Achilles, someone has slipped it to the public. The response had been overwhelmingly positive from his fans, except for one teensy, weensy thing-

“In a month or so, once we start officially filming, I’ll have to dye my hair.”

Patroclus pouts at the news, a small, disappointed growl slipping out. He knew this was going to be a thing, but he, and hundreds of thousands of fans, love Achilles’ flame golden hair. Not only that, but it’ll be gone until he finishes.

“I’m not wearing a wig. I refuse. Sacrifices have to be made, Patroclus, and I’m fine with that. I commit to my craft! Don’t you love me for me, Philtatos?”

Patroclus smirks, flicking some of the leftover water in Achilles’ grinning face.

“Fine! I’ll assume you love me, since you give me such excellent foot massages. We might have to do this more often, given that giant concert coming up.”

Biting the inside of his mouth to stop from smiling, Patroclus blinks innocently.

“What concert?”

Achilles raises his head, frowning.

“What concert- Patroclus, you’re dating one of the most famous pop stars in the world right now. You cannot tell me you haven’t heard Elysium is in one month? You know that this happens! Don’t play with me.”

The smile slips out full force, and Achilles scoffs and lays back down. Patroclus knows full well what Elysium is, and more importantly, what it’s going to be. It was a bi-yearly festival that PME put on to showcase their talent pool, and this year the excitement was unreal for the gigantic event. Any other event would struggle from the short notice, but Elysium is different- it’s always early summer, and everyone waits in anticipation to know who’s performing, saving their money and designing the perfect outfit. Rumor is already swirling about who’s likely going to perform, and they’re already right about Ajax and Achilles- it’s practically a given.

Odysseus had explained the event to him for this year, implying that rumor has it, that Phthia has signed Eros, and he’ll be playing the closing set. They’d been going over what songs he might want to play, though he naturally has to play the new single at the end.

The rumor apparently hasn’t ‘slipped out’ yet, otherwise he knows Achilles would be breathing down his neck about Eros. Every time he thinks about it, Patroclus’ heart pounds in his chest with a potent mix of tearful excitement and queasy imposter’s syndrome, and it’s hard not to let it spill forth to the one closest to his heart.

A warm hand lifts under his chin, tilting his eyes toward Achilles’.

“You’re being quiet.”

Patroclus grabs a towel and dries his feet, turning off the bath. “I’m always quiet.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You might not speak too much, but you’re always expressive. But right now, you’ve been far away.” Damn Achilles and his decision to pay attention today! “Do you want to talk to me about something. Maybe what happened with that man?”

It’s been a week, and Achilles has patiently waited to ask. Maybe he thinks that Patroclus has been stewing in his misery about the whole thing, the way he’s been unusually dodgy about it. Patroclus wants to talk to him, but now that he’s legally under (a good!) contract, he can't. Instead, he just squeezes Achilles’ hands, gazing gently at him.

“It’s not that, I promise. I… have a surprise for you. It’s not… finished yet, but I think you’ll be really excited about it. I want to make sure it’s perfect before I give it to you, okay?”

Achilles beams, quickly leaning in. “I actually have the same thing to say to you! We’re going to exchange surprises! I bet mine is bigger than ~yours~.”

Patroclus grins, though his smile is mildly uncomfortable. “I bet it’s not,” he replies through his teeth, ignoring the double entendre. Achilles curls his feet under the blanket on the couch, and Patroclus goes to clean out the foot bath.

Perhaps… There is something Patroclus wants to know, wants to get off his chest. Long years’ practice of toeing around, he comes back and curls under the blanket with Achilles, laying his head on the warm chest.

“What if your mother had been lying to you?”

Achilles frowns, especially when Patroclus won’t look at him.

“It… wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But if she were doing it for your own good, or at least thought she was.”

“She usually does think that. She’s not always right.”

If both of them were being honest, entertainment was a deadly field- lies were like currency, who knew how much Thetis, Odysseus, Agamemnon, any of them had had to lie in order to get to where they were and stay there. Judgment wasn’t an option that they had.

“You’re angry with her, every time?”

“Yes. I don’t like it when people lie to me, especially when it has to do with me.”

A heavy thump shakes Patroclus’ chest as his heart constricts. “Okay.”

“But, even if I’m angry at her, I think that I could still try to understand why she did it. I still love her. Patroclus, if this is your way of asking if I think you should forgive your father, the answer is still no. That’s different. Fuck that guy. I bet he would lie about things. Did he steal some long, lost inheritance? That’s why he ran away?”

Laughter bubbles in Patroclus’ chest, wracking his frame. “Did he steal some long, lost inheritance; you’re so fucking spoiled! What inheritance? We were broke as fuck. You’ve never seen my house on Dominica, have you?”

“You never took me there, no. You were afraid I’d fight your old man.”

“Mm. I was protecting you. He was a professional boxer; was famous for it. Not to mention, you’d stick out like a sore thumb. You’re white, blond, look like money, and you run your mouth- you wouldn’t last two minutes.”

“I resent that.”

“You should.” Patroclus yawns. “Maybe one day I’ll show you.” One day, when he’s so far removed from that place that it can serve as nothing but a faint memory. Achilles laughs, running his hand through Patroclus’ curls.

“You almost sound more tired than I am. Go to sleep.”

Cameras flash everywhere in the arena, the excited people undulating with raw energy. Elysium serves as so many things at once- fashion showcase, music showcase, lightshow, just a grand spectacle. Everyone can wear anything they want, and they do; the spectrum ranges throughout the day from elite party influencer, faces divinely beat, to pure gothic, to grunge comfy. It doesn’t matter what you wear, everyone dances together, vibes to the same musicians. The eclectic nature of it is what makes it such a successful festival.

The night is warm, the stars sparkling high above. Large screens help zoom into the stage, broadcasting tweets from everyone watching both live and from home. Later on, it will show a QR code with each song performed, allowing for access to streams. The stands are filled, the ground level in front of the stage is already gyrating with inebriated bodies to the loud music. Protected by a gate and ever-present security is the front of the stage, reserved for the most important of VIP attendees, and it’s here that Patroclus finds himself sipping a light cider at one of the small folding tables.

Since Achilles and Ajax would be coming to sit in this area, there was a direct path to backstage where the crew performed miracles making the magic happen. Though he might infuriate everyone up and down the food chain, Agamemnon was unparalleled when it came to organizing large-scale events, and with essentially a blank check from the producers of Olympus, Elysium was his crown jewel.

It was one hell of a graduation gift.

Briseis, Automedon, and Antilochus join Patroclus amongst the small throng of VIP listeners.  

“Congratulations to both of you on graduating!” Automedon crows, shaking both Antilochus and Patroclus with excitement. “And you’re going to join the Phthia family? How fucking exciting!”

Oh, how exciting indeed! Patroclus thinks, grinning knowingly with Briseis and Antilochus.

“This is so amazing,” Briseis cries. “I’ve always wanted to come to Elysium, and my first time here I perform and now I’m in the VIP section. This is a dream!”

She’d done beautifully as the last of the day performers. The theme for the performers themselves is “Gilt”, to show off the decadence of PME, and it showed in Briseis’ magnificently done get up. Thick, freshly done braids fall to her back, baby hairs laid clean over perfect makeup, all crowned by a royal blue headwrap. Her jumpsuit is of gold velvet with blue and green dashiki accents, framing her athletic shape like a goddess as the sunset glowed from her skin as she introduced herself. She’s lovely, and fairly bubbly, so the crowd is kind to her, clapping along as they wait for her to sing. Briseis’ chest rose and fell, a small shiver as nerves started to overcome her, and Patroclus stood closer.

“It’s okay, Briseis!” he called. “You got this!”

The wind blew quietly over the awaiting listeners, the band, background singers, and the DJ behind her waiting for her signal. Briseis locks onto his gaze, smiling when he nods.

I keep on fallin'

In-

and out of love

With you.

Sometimes I love ya

Sometimes you make me blue.

The piano comes in gently, the singers harmonizing brightly behind her. A guilty Patroclus knows the intent behind Fallin’, but he holds her gaze until she feels more confident to sing out, the chorus pulsing.

I keep on fallin' in and out

Of love with you

I never loved someone

The way that I love you

Oh, oh, I never felt this way

How do you give me so much pleasure?

And cause me so much pain? (Yeah, yeah)

Just when I think

I've taken more than would a fool

I start fallin' back in love with you…

Recently Briseis was allowed to show her range, singing more soulful and powerfully the way she always could. His favorite part rises in the last chorus, Briseis’ sharp voice setting the melody for the background singers to join.

Oh, baby-

I, I, I, I'm fall-in'

I, I, I, I'm fall-in'

Fall- fall- fall-

Fall…

I keep on fallin' in and out (out!)

Of love with you!

It’s a simple enough song that by the end, the audience can sing the chorus along with her, and Briseis beamed as her lyrics echoed across the stadium, the intensity showing in the church swaying and stomping. The violin plays through the end, sweet and longing until the final note. The applause rang while Briseis wiped at her tears, elated to finally shine in the spotlight she’d worked so hard for.

Her next song, Into You, was a completely different vibe; more mainstream, pop and sexily aggressive, the bass pounding from the speakers into gyrating dancers. Unlike Patroclus, Briseis was a great dancer and had managed to learn an entire choreography, and her entire body melded into the music as she put on a show that he knew social media would blow up over.

Now she stands with them, tipsy after more than a few congratulatory shots, vibrating with energy.

“You did amazing tonight, Bri!” calls Antilochus. “It was so good, and now you can relax!” The emphasis on ‘you’ is directed at Patroclus, who can’t risk going hoarse now by singing along to the closing acts. It's torturous really, asking him to attend Elysium and not sing along. It had already taken everything not to sing along to Briseis, but this… this was going to be unfair! Just as Antilochus drops his warning, the lights dim, phone lights sparkling all around as everyone waits in thick anticipation.

An excited, aggressive guitar riff blasts over the speakers, and the crowd loses its mind, thrashing their heads and jumping up and down. Green and blue lights glow onto the stage.

End of passion play

Crumbling away

I'm your source of self-destruction

Veins that pump with fear

Sucking darkness clear

Leading on your death's construction-

Out from the band members, shredding the guitar, Ajax sings the harsh lyrics to Master of Puppets. He wears a black leather jacket completely studded with gold spikes, a gold tank top, and black ripped jeans. The screens show eerie hands surrounded by flames pulling strings, presumably controlling the wildness of every fan as they take in the music.

Master of puppets, I'm pulling your strings

Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams

Blinded by me, you can't see a thing

Just call my name 'cause I'll hear you scream

Master-

Master-

It’s clear the song is homage to Ajax’ insanely talented guitar skills, his fingers flying across the fretboard so fast that Patroclus can hardly keep up. They’re dancing across it in a whirlwind, exactly what Ajax’ closest fans desire as they flail and thrash madly. When it ends, whoops and howls come from the audience. The next song is one of Patroclus’ only favorites from Ajax’ catalogue, the powerful bass and teasing guitar intro of Enter Sandman enough to get anyone’s heart racing, their feet stomping like the approach of an army.

Say your prayers, little one, don't forget, my son

To include everyone

I tuck you in, warm within, keep you free from sin

'Til the Sandman, he comes

Sleep with one eye open

Gripping your pillow tight

Exit light

Enter night

Take my hand

We're off to never-never land!

Someone tosses a bra from God-knows-where onto the stage, their aim ridiculously spot on, and like an absolute menace an unbothered Ajax catches it with a loose finger. He slides it onto his wrist, winking as he sings the next verse. Just as the next chorus ends, he flings it right into a shocked security guard’s face before sliding into his solo riff. The music lowers, and he leads the crowd in a call and response.

Now I lay me down to sleep (now I lay me down to sleep)

Pray the Lord my soul to keep (pray the Lord my soul to keep)

If I die before I wake (if I die before I wake)

Pray the Lord my soul to take (pray the Lord my soul to take)

Hush, little baby, don't say a word

And never mind that noise you heard

It's just the beast under your bed

In your closet, in your head!

As the song finishes to rousing applause, a small tug comes from Patroclus’ side, and he gasps with happiness.

“Mr. Chiron! You made it!”

His teacher- his first investor- smiles proudly at him. As always, Mr. Chiron has a knowing glint in his eye, his shaggy brown-grey shoulder length hair and lumberjack beard working perfectly with his black t-shirt, jacket around his waist, and jeans. He’s sure his teacher was a heartbreaker.

Mr. Chiron shrugs. “I’m interested in seeing what Eros has to offer.”

Patroclus grins, hands grasped together. He couldn’t wait to show him what he could do, and how far he’d come. Antilochus shoves his way near, beaming.

“Well, get ready to have your ears blown out Mr. Chiron, because you’re about to get even more than what you came for!”

Once Ajax and his band have rested, they start up again with the classic notes of Smells Like Teen Spirit, revolved over and over to allow the Pop Princeling to arrive on stage, appearing from smoke and glittering white and yellow lights. The crowd’s scream is so deafening that Patroclus’ eardrums vibrate, and he has to cover his ears until they calm down.

A golden wreath surrounds jet-black hair braided into a bun, allowing the leaves to sparkle more brightly. A skin-tight silk gold shirt, gold wrist bands and black compression leggings serve to give Achilles the potent crossover between a lithe dancer and a well-trained warrior, showing off the honed physique without seeming stiff and unwearable.

With the sea-green eyes flashing, Achilles looks fae in nature, wielding the microphone as though a magic wand. With how the audience silences with his first notes, it may as well be.

Load up on guns, bring your friends

It's fun to lose and to pretend

She's over bored and self-assured

Oh no, I know a dirty word…

Hello, hello, hello, how low

Hello, hello, hello, how low

Hello, hello, hello, how low

Hello, hello, hello-

With the lights out, it's less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are now, entertain us-

Everyone knows the words, yet somehow Achilles’ distinct voice manages to still carry the melody over the crowd. Patroclus absolutely cannot help but singing along to this upcoming part, and he harmonizes along, making Briseis and Antilochus look at him in awe.

And I forget just why I taste

Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile

I found it hard, was hard to find

Oh well, whatever, never mind

Hello, hello, hello, how low…

As the song eventually fades out to immense applause and flashing lights, Achilles flirts with the crowd. It’s a brilliant move of his, a distraction allowing for Ajax and his crew to make their way off the stage (with a fist bump each) and for the DJ to switch out with another.

“So, I had to get a bit of a makeover,” he pouts, gently fingering at the black locks. “I thought it was nice, what do you think?”

Screams roar from the crowd, ‘I love you Achilles’ most prevalent amongst them. Despite full confidence that he was going to do what he wanted anyway, he blows kisses at the crowd, beaming as he offers his thanks. Patroclus rolls his eyes, pleasantly surprised when Achilles locks eyes with him.

“I love you, too,” he purrs, and Patroclus knows it’s just for him. Once the stage is set, a faint call comes across the speakers, and Achilles charges right into his next song. He’d written Into the Unknown all by himself, and Patroclus got goosebumps just hearing him practice it. Hearing it in amongst the throngs of singers felt like being transported into another world.

I can hear you but I won't

Some look for trouble

While others don't

There's a thousand reasons

I should go about my day

And ignore your whispers

Which I wish would go away

Oh, oh, oh

The song is constantly uplifting, ones’ heart pounding as it reached the chorus that this time, only Achilles’ powerhouse voice was able to hit. He thumps his chest, following the heartbeat of the bass drum into the second verse as his voice softens in longing.

What do you want?

'Cause you've been keeping me awake

Are you here to distract me

So I make a big mistake?

Or are you someone out there

Who's a little bit like me?

Who knows deep down

I'm not where I'm meant to be?

Every day's a little harder

As I feel my power grow

Don't you know there's part of me

That longs to go

Into the unknown?

Into the unknown

Into the unknown!

By the end, everyone joins in with the vocalizing in the background, the notes rising to the sky. As Achilles hits and holds the final note, raising his hand slowly from his sides and into a fist of triumph, applause rises like waves.

He’s drinking water when another piece of undergarments comes flying onto the stage. Ever the professional, Achilles lifts it with his foot, flexing his leg like a ballet dancer until it falls into the hands of security.

“People, my darlings, please don’t toss your things up here like that- how will we ever know who it’s from, otherwise?”

He purrs the command as though there’s a chance, dispersing what may be insult from the rejection, and mixed laughter and excitement rumble throughout. Fat chance, Patroclus mutters to himself. Apologies come from many different areas of the arena, but Achilles only laughs lightly and waves them off.

“It’s okay- you know I’m thinking about all of my favorite sinners.”

Say Amen (Saturday Night), creeps into the air behind him, as though perfectly planned with Achilles’ comment, his lips back to the mic.

Been travelin' in packs that I can't carry anymore

Been waitin' for somebody else to carry me

There's nothin' that's there for me at my door

All the people I know aren't who they used to be

And if I try to change my life one more day

There would be nobody else to save

And I can't change into a person I don't wanna be, so

Oh, it's Saturday night, yeah

The trumpets blast behind the chorus, the mob of people losing their minds (Patroclus included) as Achilles fiercely catwalks toward the edge of the stage. Smoke rises with every footstep, perfectly in line with the beat as yellow lights flash all around him.

I pray for the wicked on the weekend

Mama, can I get another amen?

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, it's Saturday night, yeah

Swear to God, I ain't ever gonna repent!

Mama, can I get another amen?

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, it's Saturday night, yeah

“He did not just hit that catwalk that hard!” Briseis screams, unable to control herself as Achilles continues performing. “No, he didn’t! Okay then, Achilles!”

It’s as impressed for the man as Patroclus has ever seen Briseis, and personally, he’s also enraptured with such BDE. The song lowers into its final bridge, and Achilles falls to his knees, holding out grasping hands toward them.

If I had one more day to wish

If I had one more day

To be better than I could have ever been

If I had one more day to wish

If I had one more day

I could be better, but, baby

Oh, it's Saturday night, yeah

The way his body curls and undulates, it looks like he’s being pulled back into the throngs, the way they would beg to have him. At the last moment, he yanks backward, as though pulled away from one set of hands into another. Achilles lavishes the last chorus, hitting his highest note to date, and everyone cheers madly for him. As his gyrates on the stage, vocalizing, it almost looks like he’s going to start stripping and Patroclus is both disappointed and relieved. A hand pulls Briseis and him toward Antilochus.

“Last song before the intermission,” he tells them, pointing at a text from Automedon. At some point, the man had vanished into thin air, presumably to go help Achilles on stage. “It’s apparently a new single too. I guess you weren’t the only one with something new tonight, Pat.”

The mic gives off some feedback, and Achilles taps it a couple times before continuing.

“I have a new something,” he starts, confirming a smug Antilochus. “I’m hoping you all support me- it’s my newest single. I asked for the lyrics to be put on the screen alongside the QR code, so you can sing along to the chorus if you’d like.”

The absolute simp-ery of this throng is unreal- cries of ‘of course we will’, ‘we love you’, ‘everything you do is amazing’, ‘you’re so thoughtful’, come flying at Achilles, who has the nerve to cheekily blush on command!

“He’s unbearable,” Patroclus jokes, and Briseis cackles behind him. “Let’s hear it, Achilles!”

He calls it out, thinking that it will go unheard amongst all the noise, but naturally Achilles chooses this moment to look right down at him, making his ears burn with embarrassment.

“I think someone is a little impatient for my intense love- my apologies.” With a wink, he waves to the DJ, who starts the music.

Baby I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

Just like animals-

Patroclus’ brow rises to the top of his head; the lyrics are already so raw and dripping with sexual energy as Achilles rubs on himself, tugging at his shirt as though it’s choking him, dying to take it off.

So what you trying to do to me

It's like we can't stop, we're enemies

But we get along when I'm inside you, eh,

You're like a drug that's killing me

I cut you out entirely

But I get so high when I'm inside you

Yeah you can start over you can run free

You can find other fish in the sea

You can pretend it's meant to be

But you can't stay away from me

I can still hear you making that sound

Taking me down rolling on the ground

You can pretend that it was me

But no, oh

The crowd sings along with the lyrics, watching as Achilles shakes his shoulders and rolls his body, even getting onto the ground to- damn it, now he’s making love to the floor, and the only thing more deafening than the screams is Patroclus’ heart as Achilles looks directly at him once more. His expression is lustful, cheeks red.

So if I run it's not enough

You're still in my head forever stuck

So you can do what you wanna do, eh

I love your lies I'll eat 'em up

But don't deny the animal

That comes alive when I'm inside you…

He’s off the ground by now, jumping up and hyping the crowd to sing. Achilles has always commanded any space he’s in, but the way he absolutely captivates the stage, Patroclus can’t help but flash back to that first day, singing in the auditorium. He’d always had it in him, and Patroclus always admired it- if he could be right here in front, every performance, he would.

The beat rises at the bridge, and Achilles comes to the edge of the stage- and howls the melody. Patroclus’ heart stops in his chest, and he grabs it, flustered. The pre-recorded chorus follows behind him, harmonizing naturally with a melody that shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as the man just made it.

As Achilles bows to earth-shattering applause, Antilochus pulls up the stats.

“It’s already got hundreds of thousands of streams. First performance! I cannot- he’s a young god.”

He certainly glows like one- the sweat all over his body does nothing to diminish his appearance, and after one more bow, Achilles makes his way off stage. An announcement states a brief intermission, and Patroclus’ heart constricts with upcoming nerves.

One more performance, and then it’s him.

Him.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he mutters, fidgeting with his fingers. Briseis grabs his hands, squeezing them.

“No, no, ‘you got this’, right? You’ve practiced so much. Literally no one knows your own lyrics better than you do.”

Antilochus offers him exactly one shot worth of tequila from his flask, which he takes gratefully. “You don’t get any more! Bri is right. Everyone wants to see you, you are ready for this- trust, if you weren’t, Odysseus and Diomedes wouldn’t have fought to put you on the list, let alone keep Agamemnon in the dark over who you are. Some of the greatest men in entertainment did not stop you. It’s proof you’re gonna be great.”

“But- I mean, I know I’m no Achilles, but-”

“Nobody is that man!” Antilochus cries. “He’s like- he’s an outlier, he shouldn’t be counted. Besides, your vibes are different, they know that. And you’ve got that whole aloof, untouchable thing going for your persona. Your face won’t even be shown until the last song- you can be anyone you want, remember?”

It’s a little difficult making his way back through the hardworking crew, especially not knowing where Achilles could possibly be, but eventually the security leads him back to the small room that serves as his private dressing room. He washes his face and upper half and puts on his costume, allowing time for his makeup artist to set up.

Finally, the tears start to flow.

Okay. It’s not that he wanted his father to be there, but he wanted some sort of father to be there for him- he guesses it’s why he invited Mr. Chiron. But there was no one to replace his mother. He wanted his mommy to see and hear him finally sing, loudly and proudly. His chest shakes with choked sobs, and the makeup artist kindly leans away, offering him a tissue.

“First time jitters, huh?” she comments, soft Southern accent gentle as she pats his shoulder. “It happens to all of us. I know it might not mean anything from me- you don’t even know me- but I’ve heard that what most people in this chair do is channel it into their singing.”

Patroclus can’t help his watery chuckle. “It’s my whole schtick, really. I’m sorry for crying.”

“No need to apologize,” she explains. “I get the feeling that you’ve always been a more sensitive child, but that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what has always made you so wise, so thoughtful, and such a strong person. Most people would be envious to be the type of man you’ve grown into.” Patroclus’ phone pings with a notification that the makeup artist can’t help but lean over and look at, and she snorts in amusement.

“Besides, it seems like your friends have faith in you.” She shows Patroclus the notification; Briseis has sent him a picture of Achilles, wavy hair in a half-pony, now dressed in a black t-shirt with Eros’ signature across it in glittery purple letters. His eyes are daring, posture proud as though he’s wearing Gucci and not a generic t-shirt, and it’s enough to make Patroclus cackle. Suddenly he hugs the lady, who only jolts for a moment before hugging him back warmly.

“I know you’re not my mom, and this is a bit pathetic of me, but like… thanks anyway.”

“Of course. I have my own brood; I know when someone needs a little encouragement.”

With a sigh, he turns away from the lovely stylist and squares his shoulders.

“Let’s do this.”

She’s beautiful.

The audience is stone still as an ethereal older woman wearing a long, glittering gold dress makes her way out to the one spotlight. Time has not weathered Helen’s glorious features, her golden hair nor her voice, and as a special favor, she is performing a singular, all-time favorite. The flute croons over the skies, mournfully longing and nostalgic, as she sings ‘My Heart Will Go On’.

Near, far, wherever you are

I believe that the heart does go on.

Once more, you open the door

And you're here in my heart

And my heart will go on and on

Love can touch us one time

And last for a lifetime

And never let go 'til we're gone.

Love was when I loved you

One true time I'd hold to

In my life, we'll always go on.

Across the coliseum, snuck in and hidden amongst the lights, one person in particular pines for the goddess of a woman standing in the glorious lights. He knows in his soul that she’s singing to him. Never mind that the song was written far before she knew him; perhaps she’d written it knowing that one day she’d meet the man worthy of such tender, emotional words.

He had every intention of stealing her away, tonight, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin his love’s performance. He was glad he didn’t- nothing would have been worth missing such a wondrous sight. The crowds adore her, though they’ll never adore her as much as he does. 

A foul memory plagues him, of lovely Helen storming away from him.

“You were just a fling, Paris! A slip up during a lull with my husband, whom I still love and desire to be with! We’re working on us right now. That is what I want. Not you!”

It wasn’t true. He’d felt what they had together, they both had! She only felt that way because she was supposed to, since that oaf of a husband convinced her not to follow her heart.

His own fills with enmity. Perhaps, if he’d been smarter, he’d be up there with her. Years of hard work, of insecurity, of realizing that the only thing he can compare with his perfect older brother was his angelic voice, all gone the moment he’d fallen in love and gotten clumsy. He’d been banished from high music society, his PME contracts torn in front of his very eyes, without even a chance to defend himself.

The scope allows him to see a newly darkened head of hair, and wrath pulses through him. How easy it must be, for the princeling to have everything he wants. Perhaps he’d supported the mysterious artist who’d stolen his rightful place.

As the crowd applauds Helen, smiling halfheartedly as she holds a large bouquet of roses, Paris nods to himself.

He will have his bride tonight.

Achilles frowns, searching left and right. He knows that Antilochus has been chosen to DJ tonight, but-

“Where’s Patroclus?” he asks, finally asking Briseis. He’d decided to take it easy after Patroclus teased him before, only procuring a t-shirt rather than going all out with a sign. If only he had his phone, he could text the man- what could he possibly be doing? He’d missed Helen’s performance, which- fine, whatever- but Eros was on next!

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“Did he eat something bad? It not even that far away, you have access to the backstage! Did he forget? He couldn’t have…” Achilles is babbling at this point. He wants Patroclus to be here for this- what a moment to share! Eros’ first public appearance!

“You know he’s not into Eros as much as you, Achilles,” Briseis teases. “He has to contend with love from your crazy fans, and then your love for another man? How sad.”

It’s almost a little too shady, and Achilles side-eyes her. Before he can check her, a firm hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Mr. Chiron? What are you doing here? You like concerts?”

Mr. Chiron exhales in amusement. “I do play music for a living, Achilles. I’ve attended festivals long before you were born. Anyway, Patroclus invited me.”

Why? He knows his beloved is a bit weird, but inviting your teacher to Elysium? It makes no sense. Patroclus, Patroclus… where could that man be? The intermission is almost over- the stage has been swept and wiped down, and Antilochus’ DJ booth is being set up at high speed. It’s visually intriguing; the base itself is the regular set up, but the ecstatic producer is surrounded by glowing rainbow cubes, his headphones glowing in tandem. He’s wearing a black shirt and gold overalls, horned glasses gold rimmed. It would look odd on anyone else, and yet Antilochus has always had the chill to make anything work.

Where the fuck is Patroclus?!

The lights turn a deep red and orange, waving across the stage. The only thing visible is Antilochus’ floating headphones.

“Achilles, here, come stand here at the front of the stage! I’m recording for Pat just in case he misses the first part!”

“But-” It’s disappointing, but with a click of his teeth, Achilles lets Briseis drag him to right in front of the runway. It’s right where Patroclus had been standing earlier, serving as his muse all night.

Just as he’s about to comment, the first, harsh alarm of The Hills plays, resulting in a wave of screams. The lights wave back and forth faster and faster until they freeze on the figure in the center at the back of the stage, and Achilles’ heart jumps out of his chest. I can’t believe it, it’s finally Eros!

Without missing a beat, the dark figure starts.

Your man on the road, he doin' promo

You said, "Keep our business on the low-low"

I'm just tryna get you out the friend zone

'Cause you look even better than the photos…

The mysterious man wears a simple black turtleneck, golden gloves, and black opalescent leggings, shimmering rainbow as the light passes. His mask is completely opaque, dark in the front and rimmed with shining gold. There’s a section of mesh in the front that allows for him to sing, but even this is too dark to allow a glimpse of his face. There’s not a single hint as to his identity, other than that he’s lithely muscular (with a fantastic ass, the leggings were an inspired choice). His mournful voice is mellow, reverberating, and Achilles suddenly feels glued to the floor, eyes wide as the man slowly stalks forward, a black leopard towards willing prey. The ravenous scream of the crowds come just at the right time as the beat drops, falling into the choir that has been added to emphasize the chorus.

I only call you when it's half-past five

The only time that I'll be by your side

I only love it when you touch me, not feel me

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me, yeah

I only call you when it's half-past five

The only time I'd ever call you mine

I only love it when you touch me, not feel me

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me

When I'm fucked up, that's the real me, babe…

Catharsis overcomes his spirit as he wails the chorus, the bass reverberating within him. Even as he continues singing, so close, Eros feels untouchable- it’s physically uncomfortable, the way Achilles yearns to know who this man is. The bridge pulses through the arena, almost in response to his thoughts.

Hills have eyes, the hills have eyes

Who are you to judge? Who are you to judge?

Hide your lies, girl, hide your lies (Hide your lies, oh, baby)

Only you to trust, only you-

I only call you when it’s half past five-

Singing the last part amongst the masses feels like singing in a great choir of epic judgment, the way Eros leads them like the master of the flock as they shout to the sky, allowing him to dominate them with almost little effort. He holds the mic out to the audience as they cry the Amharic at the end.

Ewedihalehu (I love you very much)

Yene konjo, (My beauty)

ewedihalehu (love you very much)

Yene fikir, fikir, fikir, fikir (My love, love, love, love)

Yene fikir, fikir, fikir, fikir (My love, love, love, love)

Eros’ shoulders shake, and he crouches low to the ground.

“Oh my god, look, he’s crying under the mask,” Briseis coos. “He’s so happy.”

The rest of the audience coos along with her, chuckling as the man goes to wipe his face, only to realize he can’t because of the covering. It’s endearing, the way a man with a hidden expression is somehow able to convey so much emotion, but then again- that’s why Eros is so successful. The lights brighten into a happier orange, and when Eros seems calmer, he makes his way to the DJ booth. After a sip of water from a straw (damnit, and he turned around towards Antilochus!) that classic bass line starts to play, and Achilles hops for joy. It’s perhaps the least dignified he’s ever looked as he hops foot to foot.

It's his song! He loves this song- it’s like it was chosen just for him tonight!

I'll admit, I was wrong, what else can I say, girl?

Can't you blame my head and not my heart?

I was drunk, I was gone, that don't make it right, but

I promise there were no feelings involved, mmh-

Eros seems happier by this point, confident enough to start dancing around. Achilles has to remember, it’s his first show, so it’s natural that he seems nervous. He skips along to the beat, shaking his hips, and spinning around dramatically, and it’s infectiously cute. Everyone is euphoric, still singing the deceivingly dark lyrics. It’s such a conflicting experience, and yet Achilles has never felt so free to be weird. When the bridge approaches, he can’t help his own dramatic exhilaration, and it must get Eros’ attention because he gently makes his way towards Achilles.

She said, "Boy, tell me honestly

Was it real or just for show?", yeah

She said, "Save your apologies

Baby, I just gotta know"

How long has this been goin' on? (on, on)-

As he sings the last line, he slowly moves the mic in between himself and Achilles, nodding slightly as golden fingers gesture toward it. Achilles could die. He could just expire right now. Is this what it’s like to be a fan?! This is- he hopes Briseis is still recording! He powerfully launches into the lyrics.

You been creepin' 'round on me (on me)

While you're callin' me "baby" (baby)

How long has this been goin' on?

You've been actin' so shady (shady)

I've been feelin' it lately (lately), baby

How long has this been goin’ on,

You been creepin’ ‘round on me,

How long has it been goin’ on baby?!

Their harmony is more blessed than he ever imagined singing in the car, and even better- Eros knows just which parts to let Achilles sing, letting Achilles croon the vocalizations while he carries the chorus. They’re both holding their fists to their chest at the same time! When it ends, Achilles can’t help desperately reaching out for him once more. The lights dim again, pulling him from sight.

His heart is pounding in his chest, something eerily familiar and comforting rushing through his veins as he comes down from the hype. Why had it felt so easy to sing with him? He can’t allow himself to have a- a crush! He’s in love with Patroclus, what if- what if Patroclus was anxious to see him like this? He’d seen how heartbroken Patroclus was over Deidameia, and that had been nothing. What if Briseis had a point?

“I gotta record your face when he does this face-reveal,” Briseis comments, her phone right back up. Automedon, halfway sloshed, also has his phone.

“The fans are going to eat this up,” he says, zooming in on Achilles’ face. Achilles flushes in shame, looking down at his feet. He’s a little sad. Did Patroclus really go home? Had Achilles gone too far on stage today? Damn it, he knew he should have asked about that new song. Maybe he ought to leave, to go look for him-

The lights flash once more, red and white waving into the sky. The fans have been given complimentary glow sticks for this moment, the directions on screen commanding them to crack them, so now the dark coliseum glows with rainbows the same as Antilochus’ booth. The notes of Blinding Lights, Eros’ first Phthia single, start to play, and Eros is back on stage and-

“He’s taking the mask off!” Achilles shrieks, chained right back in. He’ll apologize to Patroclus later, he’ll give him anything he wants in the whole world- but this moment is once in a lifetime. The audience, already writhing with anticipation, flies through the non-existent roof when Eros finally removes his mask, running a hand through the curly hair at the top of his undercut.

Wait-

Kinky, curly hair. Undercut. Brown skin. Lips painted with gold. Wet mascara down his cheeks. Gold eyeliner matching flashing caramel eyes.

“Hello-”

A sudden wind blows past Achilles as his eyes widen, his heart stopping upon a frozen inhale.

Is- is that- is that Pa-

Automedon drops his phone in shock. “Is that fucking Patroclus?”

“My name is Patroclus- it’s nice to finally meet all of you.”

Patroclus’ cheeks redden bashfully at all the ecstatic appreciation, the cameras zooming in on his handsome, bright white smile as he makes his way to the edge to sing, nonchalant as if he hadn’t just Gutwrench-Powerbombed Achilles’ entire worldview! He’s sleek, decadent, powerful.

I've been tryna call

I've been on my own for long enough

Maybe you can show me how to love, maybe

I'm going through withdrawals

You don't even have to do too much

You can turn me on with just a touch, baby.

He claps his hands, hips moving lithely as he strides to the quick beat, and the rising choir joins the background, a welcome addition to the radio edit. It adds intensity, rising the melody much faster in Achilles’ heart- Achilles, who still can’t believe his eyes. This man, the man that he adores so much- and Eros, the one he’d longed to be like, to hear- one and the same. All this love, and all this time, they could all belong to the same person.

I look around and

Sin City's cold and empty (oh)

No one's around to judge me (oh)

I can't see clearly when you're gone

I said, ooh, I'm blinded by the lights

No, I can't sleep until I feel your touch

I said, ooh, I'm drowning in the night

Oh, when I'm like this, you're the one I trust

(Hey, hey, hey)

The way Patroclus moves on stage during the music break seems entirely different than when he danced along to How Long. It’s rawer, like he’s broken free, allowing himself to truly bask in the light and adoration of the thousands who’ve come to see him. Like he’s finally being recognized, the way Achilles had always dreamt for him so long ago when it was just a boy and a mandolin. And most importantly- he’d found a way to take it, all for himself. How bold, how proud- how sexy.

“Philtatos,” he gasps, jubilant. He jumps up and down, hands high in worship, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Patroclus! I’m here, I see you! I see you!”

Patroclus is doing amazing, voice as soulful as he’s ever heard it- and this is the first time he’s ever heard him sing, at least in a true way. It’s everything he’s ever hoped it would be. By the bridge, Patroclus has knelt to the ground, tentatively reaching out. He cradles Achilles’ face, softly thumbing his cheek against unending tears of joy and adoration.

I'm just walking by to let you know (by to let you know)

I can never say it on the phone (say it on the phone)

Will never let you go this time (ooh)

The audience loves him, the way he runs up and down the stage to touch the hands reaching out to grab him, the way he exultantly vocalizes leaving everyone wanting more. As he finishes, golden confetti shoots out from cannons, covering the stadium with speckles as they reflect the blinding lights in all directions.

For a solid five minutes, all eyes are on Patroclus as love rains upon him from all directions, his name enunciated over and over in droves. He stands still, grinning to himself, blushing shyly until the white arena lights come on, the calm voice over the speaker directing people toward the exits. Instead of heading backstage, Patroclus makes his way to where Achilles stands on tiptoe, cheeks still red with joy. He hands the mic away to a crew member before kneeling at the edge, nervously clinging to his elbow.

“Surprise,” he whispers, suddenly small despite such an explosive coming out.

“It’s you,” Achilles breathes. “It’s always been you.”

“I know I lied, and I’ll make up for it, and- you- you’re,” Patroclus fumbles, still looking from under his lashes. “You’re not angry at me?”

Achilles grins wickedly, licking his lips. He lifts his left hand to caress Patroclus’ face, thousands of flashing cameras be damned.

“Oh, let me show you just how I’m feeling, Philtatos.”

Patroclus’ eyes pop wide open at the seductive growl. “Achilles! We’re in public!”

Achilles doesn’t care. You couldn’t pay him to care. Eros- Patroclus was so bold, delaying such pleasure to him- why shouldn’t he show the world who Achilles belongs to? He’s ready to jump on the stage, ravish the man who’s so wholly captured his heart, when a loud bang slashes across the arena.

Patroclus’ eyes widen, time slowing as he collapses backward onto the stage.

Blood thunders in Achilles’ ears as it soaks the stage. A hideous scream tears across the night, ripped from him as he jumps on top of Patroclus, shielding him from any further harm. Achilles presses one hand into the wound blossoming in Patroclus’ torso, his pale skin quickly covered in red.

“Patroclus, Philtatos, no, no,” he sobs. “Don’t do this, don’t leave me, stay awake, please, no-”

Shock and fear quakes in golden eyes. “What… what did I-” Patroclus gasps, before they roll back in his head.

“You did nothing wrong, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay, come back…”

Hot tears scald Achilles’ eyes, and he tries to wipe them away, leaving a macabre swipe of blood on his face. A hand tries to pull him away, and he claws at it, ferally baring his teeth.

“Achilles,” Mr. Chiron commands, voice stern. “I need you to move so we can stabilize his wound. Please, I’m trying to save his life.”

Save his life. Save his life. Nodding, Achilles moves so that Mr. Chiron can press his jacket close to the wound, tying it tightly around Patroclus’ waist.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay, it’s okay…”

Moments later, paramedics are on the scene, adding to Mr. Chiron’s efforts to stabilize him with oxygen and pressure before lifting Patroclus’ limp body onto a gurney and speeding away. Achilles refuses to allow them out of his sight, tossing everyone to the side and sprinting after them, latching himself onto the ambulance.

“Let me come with you,” he demands, tossing the vehicle door to the side with inhuman strength. Achilles’ expression, covered in blood and eyes feverish with emotion, makes such a fearful sight that they let him on, though they quickly shove him to the side while they work around Patroclus. The noise is overwhelming, alarms and life-monitoring machinery buzzing and wailing, the brusque commands of the paramedics hardly audible through the Achilles’ heart, beating like a drum in his ears. He firmly grips Patroclus’ hand while they work, and at this point Achilles isn’t sure whose struggling heart that is beeping on the monitor, the way it feels like his is shattering.

His stomach-churning anxiety reaches its peak when they reach the emergency room. By this time, everyone has seen the tragedy live, so flashing cameras blind him as he rushes after the rolling gurney into the hospital. Achilles sees crimson- the love of his existence is dying, and they’re taking pictures, asking questions, demanding to know more but doing nothing to fix any of this. It’s revolting, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it when a security guard stops him at the door to the operating room.

“You can’t go back there right now. Surgeons and nurses only.” The guard is sympathetic but stays firm.

Achilles’ eye only twitches, his fist already prepared to fly into the worker’s face, when suddenly arms wrap around him, pulling him back. Adrenaline fuels his mania, and he starts swinging blindly at whoever is trying to keep him from Patroclus’ side.

“No, no!” he screams, yanking so hard from Diomedes and Odysseus’ grasps that he slams onto the floor. Determined, he claws on the slippery tile. “I need to be there with him! Let me go! Patroclus! Patroclus!”

He’s still wailing when Diomedes and Odysseus finally manage to pull him back far enough for him to lose sight of Patroclus, and just when he’s about to try again, another pair of warm hands grasp his face.

“Achilles!” Peleus cries, shaking him. “Achilles, please, calm down.”

“I can’t,” Achilles sobs, collapsing into his father’s embrace. “I can’t, I can’t, he’s hurt, I let him get hurt, I didn’t protect him, I’ve never protected him-”

Uncaring of the bloody handprints covering his dress shirt, Peleus cradles Achilles while he muffles tears of agony. His pained mumbling eventually turns into unintelligible, heartbroken wails, with the entirety of the first floor of the emergency room privy to Achilles’ unrestrained misery.

How stupid of him. How stupid of him to think that he had time.

How stupid, Achilles.

So stupid.

So stupid…

Ten hours later, they have been moved to a smaller, private room. It is eerily silent, Achilles’ voice long gone and replaced by the pressing stress of waiting. He’s still curled up in Peleus’ arms, covered in crusted blood, catatonic. Antilochus, Briseis and Automedon wait in a corner of the room, choking down their sobs, huddled together for comfort. Mr. Chiron, cleaned up, sits to their side, prepared with comforting words and tissues despite his own nerves. Odysseus and Diomedes lean against the wall, on their phones, uncharacteristic strain in their expressions as they try to control what little they can of the narrative currently reaching the outside masses.

The media circus has only increased in presence, which is why the curtains to the small room have been closed. Achilles wants someone to break in- he wants someone to try his nerves, so he can take out some of the pain circling in his otherwise empty chest on someone more stupid than he. Anything, anything to break this cycle of breathe in, Patroclus isn’t here, breathe out, how is he, breathe in, they haven’t said anything, breathe out-

Finally, a small knock at the door brings in two exhausted looking surgeons. The entire room’s severe gaze pierces them, though to their credit, being surrounded by such star power means nothing to these people who save lives on a regular basis. It seems that, despite wanting to know the answer, suddenly no one has the nerve to ask the question that’s been burning in all their minds. Achilles can only grip his father’s hands in a death grip. Finally, Odysseus clears his throat.

“How is he?” he asks quietly, unusually unsure of himself.

One of the surgeons takes a deep breath, then she smiles.

“The surgery was a success, and Patroclus is stabilized for now.” The entire room heaves a sigh of relief, sobs from Achilles and Briseis audible. “The bullet went through his spleen, and we had to remove the entire organ. Though he will be unconscious for some time, he pulled through.”

Peleus shakes Achilles’ hands, giving him a weepy smile. “See? We knew Skops would make it, right?”

Achilles sniffs, trying to smile in response. “Of course, he did. My Patroclus is stronger than anyone I know.”

It’s a little easier now, to leave, when the doctors ask that Patroclus be left alone for observation during the first twenty-four hours. After a long, hot shower, watching the water turn from red to clear, Achilles collapses into his soft bed and tries to rest.

It’s fitful at best. Over and over, he sees Patroclus fall away from him, his eyes as they roll back into unconsciousness. No matter how much he tries to push him out of the way, to jump in its path, to take the bullet, he cannot change anything. The blood still spreads, staining his hands and the walkway with his lover’s life. He screams. Over and over, he screams, the agony never ending. It makes him sick; he wants it to stop, he’s begging, please, I’m tired, I’m so tired, I don’t want to see this, he’s alive, he’s alive-

Multiple times he wakes in a cold sweat, turning to his phone, fingers already reaching for Patroclus’ icon, just to remember that no- no one will answer on the other side. Even this, just hearing his calming voice, he’d taken for granted.

“I’m sorry,” he weeps into his empty sheets, gripping them tightly. “I’m sorry, Philtatos, I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I’m sorry-”

Eventually he has to turn his phone off- it keeps pinging with notifications, unending with the taunting notifications, and none of them are from the one he wants most. Most of them are coming from his mother, who’s been unusually persistent to speak to him since last night. He doesn’t want to talk to her right now- he can’t deal with the games, he’s not up to the challenge.

He turns the phone back on ten minutes afterwards- if anyone contacts him with news about Patroclus, he cannot miss it. Every second counts.

No rest is had that night.

The moment the doctors okay it, Achilles is breezing into the deluxe hospital room- only the best for his beloved, from here on out. Peleus stays behind to discuss the paperwork, promising to catch up, but Achilles can hardly hear him. The moment he lays eyes on Patroclus, his heart feels like shattering anew. Multiple tubes are stuck inside the sallow skin, Patroclus’ chest rising and falling mechanically as the oxygen mask wheezes. His eyes are swollen, tightly shut.

Achilles knows that Patroclus won’t answer, but he can’t help whimpering his name as he pulls a chair close to his bedside. For days, this is where he will stay, unable to be convinced away. It does not matter who comes to visit, more than likely they will come across Achilles perched at his side, looming protectively as though someone else were coming to finish the job that they began.

He hopes they do show up. He won’t let them survive long enough to be treated for injuries, because he’s going to murder them with his bare hands. No one seems to take his intentions seriously.

Two weeks in, when his responsibilities start pressing for him, Achilles try to quit altogether. In fact, he tells his father to his face that he has no intention of singing ever again, take him off the payroll, cancel everything with his name on it- he’s done. Go ahead and call the producers on Olympus, if they have a problem, they can face him themselves. Luckily, Peleus knows his son and is not swayed, and the other producers involved with his projects are understanding. None of them have had to watch their boyfriend near murdered in front of their eyes- even if they had lacked empathy, Achilles would have spared them no thought. They could take every dime he had, if it would heal Patroclus, keep him safe, that would be perfectly fine.

Still, it’s not enough to simply refuse, and eventually the pressure gets to him. It’s Odysseus that convinces him to get up from Patroclus’ side. It’s the most frustrated he’s ever seen the normally jovial trickster.

“You won’t understand this now, Achilles, but if you knew how much Patroclus gave up so that you could have the career you do, you’d get up and at least put in a little effort.”

He’s right- Achilles does not understand. But something about the gravity of Odysseus’ claim is enough to convince him to try. He still will not tour, and he cannot be made to record, but he attends the mandatory meetings. He practices his script, go to his dance classes. When the police come to get his statement about what happened that night, he tries his best to recall the worst moment of his life. With such a practiced, nonchalant expression and slick demeanor, everyone seems to fall for it, even if Achilles is barely held together by a thread inside.

The cameras are ever-present, and it’s getting harder to handle. The hardest day was after a private dance practice, where the time of his practice had been slipped to the paparazzi. There’s nowhere to leave but out the front, forcing Achilles to walk through the waves. Instead, he was in the private bathroom, sobbing into the mirror as he tried to smile through his triggered emotions.

It had been Tales of Dominica. Patroclus’ first recorded song had been on his cooldown playlist, and he’d forgotten to remove it.

Oh, finally grown, ain’t nothing like I hoped it would be,

Out on my own, I’m floating in an oceanless sea,

Could I be wrong? Was everybody right about me?

Scary things in my head, I can’t dream and I just-

He couldn’t even bring himself to skip it; hearing his lover question himself, his unsurety, his hopes, finally letting the context of the song sink in in a way it never had. Before he knew it, Achilles was bawling, and he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, but he had to, so that he could walk out past these horrible people and get on with the rest of his day.

Achilles is suddenly filled with a hateful wrath. Nothing about this is the way he dreamt it would be. Everyone now knows that Patroclus is his soulmate, not because of an official announcement, a cute Instagram post, or even the candid photos of their affection after Elysium- no, it’s from a horrific video of Achilles shielding Patroclus’ bleeding body, begging him to live. Whoever had done this had stolen so much from them- Patroclus’ moment to shine, to take his power back, Achilles’ moment to laud and support him.

Not only that, but it had put any future moments on the line- what if, while Achilles thought he could take his time, Patroclus had died? There were things they needed to talk about- Patroclus’ career, why he’d hidden it, whatever it was that Odysseus had been talking about. There was life to live- who knew what the future held, but he wanted Patroclus to be there with him, happy and healthy. Achilles is in the middle of spiraling when a familiar ringtone interrupts his thoughts- his mother, again. Growling, he answers the phone.

“Mother.”

“Achilles- why haven’t you been answering your phone?! Are you crying? It’s been weeks of me calling you-”

“Mother, I can’t do this right now. I don’t feel well. If you don’t have anything comforting to say, which I could really use right now, please don’t do this.”

“I- Shit, I know. I know it’s hard right now. I’m so sorry. I really am. We need to talk, Achilles. I have my lawyers with me, and it’s urgent that they to speak to you about-”

Achilles hangs up, disdainfully tossing the phone into his bag. Still, he’s thankful enough for the short distraction. Wrung out, he finally rinses his face, puts on his large sunglasses, mask, and his hat, and makes his way to the front doors and past the vampiric masses. The driver already knows where to go at this point, not even needing GPS to make his way to the hospital. Muscle memory walks him to his armchair, where he drops his things and curls up by Patroclus’ side. The oxygen mask has been removed, so now the only noise comes from the steady heart monitor.

“Tales of Dominica, huh?” he says, trying to push a little teasing into his voice. “If I’d been smart enough to pay attention, you were practically telling me that you were Eros the whole time.” Achilles reaching for Patroclus’ hand and squeezes. “Why didn’t you tell me, Philtatos?” he whispers. “Were you afraid that I wouldn’t support you? Did you think that you needed a crowd of thousands to support you just in case I wouldn’t? I hate to think that you thought so little of me. It could have been me and you in that stadium, and I would have given you more love than all of them combined.”

“But I’ll wait for you to explain. I can wait. Anything you want. You can do whatever you want with our time, it’s all yours to do with as you please, just… please wake up soon…”

Achilles’ eyes fall closed, and this is the second reason he is always here- he sleeps most peacefully at Patroclus’ side. Even in this, it’s Patroclus who is stronger than he. It’s here that Automedon and Antilochus find him, determined to make a difference.

“Achilles. Wake up,” Automedon says, shaking his shoulders until he opens tired eyes.

“What do you want?”

Nodding at each other, Antilochus turns to Achilles. “We think you should come with us to chill.”

“No.”

“Look. Achilles, you’ve been miserable, more so than the rest of us- I understand. All of this was a shock to you- finding out who he was, and then with what happened- I can’t imagine. But you can’t stay like this- Pat wouldn’t want you to be sad like this.”

Huffing sadly, Achilles can only smile. “I can’t even say that I know that’s the truth. That’s how little I was paying attention to my own soul.”

“T didn’t mean it that way,” Automedon cuts in. “We aren’t going to force you to do anything you don’t want. We just reserved a quiet, private room at a club, maybe give you a chance to decompress. You can wear something cozy, drink a couple drinks, vent if you need to. Take some of the edge off, release some of the pressure.”

“I know I’m going to toss back a rum and coke for Pat, since that was his plan for… afterwards. Though, he was going to be with you, of course.”

Achilles wavers- on one hand, he is perfectly content to stay here at Patroclus’ side. That’s fine. On the other, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in taking a bit of a breather for himself. Something had been building inside of him, something resentful and ugly, and perhaps he’d benefit from venting a little bit. Even better, maybe Antilochus could answer some of his questions.

“Okay. Fine.”

The moon is high in the clear sky as Achilles sits in the back of Automedon’s car, on the way to the upscale club on the other side of town. He’s clean, wearing a cozy black hoodie, some shorts, and some boat shoes. His eyes are still puffy, dark circles still present, but his friends had been encouraging of him to go out anyway, so he only dons a mask and the hood today. The colorful main room booms with music and writhing bodies, but a host quickly leads them to a quiet backroom with soft black chairs and a low table. The music is still audible but muffled enough that it doesn’t disturb Achilles as he curls into a seat.

“Is there anything you want in particular?” Antilochus asks him. Achilles points at the strawberry mimosa pitcher, as well as some other plates of appetizers- fuck his figure, he’s suddenly really hungry, and he wants to eat. Beaming, Antilochus orders it all, making sure Achilles digs in when the food makes it to the room. For a while, Achilles does nothing but scarf down savory wings and mozzarella sticks (it’s been so long since he’s had comfort food), barely listening to Automedon and Antilochus talk about their own interests. When he finishes the first mimosa pitcher, he orders a mango pitcher and downs that too.

It’s nice, really- no one is bothering him, he gets to slouch the way he wants, eat as much as he wants, even get comfortably tipsy for once, the alcohol swirling in his head and belly. Unfortunately, it’s still all sitting on top of ever-present nerves.

“No messages?” he finally asks.

Automedon shakes his head no, placating him. “Nope. Pat is still okay.” It had been part of the deal, that one of them would be on alert the whole time so that Achilles didn’t have to be. If something was happening, they wouldn’t hide it from him, they would leave immediately.

“Has there been any updates on catching the bastard?” Antilochus asks Automedon, mindlessly chewing on a wing. Automedon glances at Achilles, who nods- he wants to know too.

“No more secrets,” he murmurs.

“Well, they- you remember Mr. Priam, from high school? Their main suspect is his son, Paris.”

Achilles could hardly remember high school outside of the moments Patroclus spent with him, but he certainly doesn’t remember-

“Isn’t he the one who lost his position at Phthia?” Antilochus clues in. “After the whole Helen affair?”

That guy? Trying hard, Achilles finally brings to mind the image of a man, angelic in features but always arrogantly posturing, voice nice enough. He’d thought he was better than Achilles, dismissive even, but he’d never felt like a threat at any point.

Automedon nods. “Apparently, it was his goal that night to-” He bites his lip. “Achilles, I don’t think you want to hear-”

“Tell me. I don’t want anything else withheld from me, not when it involves Patroclus.”

Automedon fidgets. “This is secret information that I overheard from Diomedes when he was talking to some agents, so don’t snitch but… It was apparently his goal to shoot you that night, serving as enough of a distraction so that he could steal Helen from the arena. He… missed. Didn’t succeed at anything he’d planned that night, just ruined a lot of people’s lives. Forget the prosecution; Phthia wants to go for this man’s jugular.”

Achilles’ heart freezes. He flashes back to the moment it happened, the way the bullet had barely passed over his shoulder as he reached up toward Patroclus. Manic giggles spill forth; he almost wishes the bullet had hit him instead. Anything would have been better.

“Shit. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Antilochus cries, handing a glass of water to Achilles in concern. “I’m sorry. If you want to shout at me, you can.”

“I don’t want to shout at you, Antilochus. I want what you want. For them to catch this Paris.” A wicked smile curls across his face as he sips. There was a name. A face, even. He was closer and closer to the person who’d torn his heart from his chest by hurting the one he loved most.

Grimacing, Antilochus sits down. “I wanted to bring something else up, actually. Do you think therapy might help you, Achilles? You’ve been struggling, and I know what you saw that night was traumatic as hell. I wasn’t even that close, and it shook me so bad I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s not a bad idea.” Perhaps his father was already waiting to introduce the idea- just another appointment in a jam-packed schedule that he didn’t feel like thinking about. “I have to pee.”

Achilles stands, swaying a little.

“You need some help?” Automedon asks, getting to his feet, but Achilles waves his hand.

“I’m fine.” He slides the door open, the pop music blasting in his ears once more. Thanks to the surprisingly strong drinks, he’s practically dissociated, floating to the bathroom. Maybe he did need some help if the news he’d heard was this relieving to him, but he couldn’t help it- finally, some fucking answers, he wouldn’t have to sit in wait of a mystery assassin coming to hurt Patroclus anymore. They knew his name, image, motive- soon, they would charge him, yes? What good news!

He's on his way back to the private room when a bunch of giggling catches his ear. A handsome man with deep blue eyes and wavy dark brown hair is surrounded by a crowd, reclining in the middle of a round sectioned couch as he entertains them.

“It’s strange, really, raising a newborn. Andromache has been a goddess about it, I’m the one who needs to catch up. Between that and training for the season, I want to cry every time he does. Paris is- was- better with him than I am sometimes, claiming the ‘fun uncle’ role every time.”

That ugly, visceral feeling coils inside Achilles’ stomach, whipping higher and higher until it’s pooling in his eyes, and his head slowly twitches toward the relaxed voice.

How dare you.

How dare this man talk about his happy life, his happy romance, and his happy child, while invoking the name of the pathetic man that tried to kidnap a woman, kill him, and placed his lover in critical condition. What if Achilles one day wanted a child, wanted to raise them alongside the man he loved? No one had thought about that before trying to murder them!

How dare you?

How dare he act as though Paris’ existence was somehow a good thing, that his freedom and happiness were somehow a factor in making anyone’s lives better? It’s all thanks to him that Achilles is a walking wreck, held together by the fraying reason of expectations. That man should be in prison, why was he not spreading that news, instead of acting like that demon of a man was somehow human?! Why was everyone acting like everything was okay?!

How dare you?!

The last straw is when he keys into the familiar song booming in the background - to have Patroclus entertain them, to shamelessly recline to the voice of the man your brother almost murdered over creepy, unrequited love-

A firm hand grasps Hector’s shoulder when he stands.

“Can I help yo-”

Achilles swings the first thing his hand grasps on to- it turns out to be a nearby chair, launched into Hector’s head and chest. Panicked screaming ensues as Achilles launches into a feral attack, landing blow after blow in a blur.

Hills have eyes, the hills have eyes-

Hector’s not a famous football player for nothing- after the initial shock, he’s brawling with Achilles, the blood from his forehead blurring his vision but not stopping him from landing his own blows. One punch to his eye socket almost sends Achilles reeling, but he’s too lost in his rage.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh my god, that’s Achilles!”

Who are you to judge? Who are you to judge?

Lights flash around him as gleeful onlookers record the fight. Achilles drives a knee into Hector’s stomach, quickly dodging a blow and sweeping the heavier man to the ground. Hector crashes through the table, liquid and glass flying everywhere. Achilles pounces on top of him, reaching for Hector’s neck with every intent of strangling him near to death. Unfortunately, Hector is powerful enough to grasp his arms, so they just claw at the other’s faces.

Hide your lies, hide your lies…

“You tell your cowardly murderer of a brother that worse than this is waiting for him when I see him!”

Only you to trust, only you-

Achilles sweeps Hector’s hands out of the way, swinging. Over and over, he swings, feeling revulsion rise to the surface.

This is for Paris, this is for Menoetius, this is- This is for Achilles. You. How could you let this happen?!

When I’m fucked up, that’s the real me…

Soon, Achilles can’t see through the tears of his drunken, heartbroken rage, so when the security guards and the police show up and near break his jaw forcing him to the ground, he doesn’t have to witness the consequences of his own actions. He’s sure it’ll be front page news tomorrow…

God, he’s an idiot.

If he’s in prison, he won’t be able to be by Patroclus’ side. What will happen if he wakes up and doesn’t find Achilles there?!

He’s been booked into the city jail, pushing down his panic, waiting for someone to eventually come collect him. The other inmates keep a respectful distance; at first, they’d been tempted to try him since he was a pretty face, but the unhinged expression had been enough to keep everyone away. Early the next morning, he’s walked to a private room, and they chain him into a chair. Inside sits Peleus, Diomedes, Odysseus, and Priam. It’s this last person that makes Achilles’ heart jump, stiffening, but Priam sits still. He’s not wrathful, not accusing- in fact, his expression is miserable, eyes swollen, posture small.

“Peleus?” Diomedes asks. Peleus nods, lips pursed with quiet anger, and suddenly, Diomedes slaps Achilles. It’s quick, stinging, enough to shake him back into his senses. Unfortunately, because he’d been chained down to his seat, he can do nothing but accept the whiplash.

“Okay,” summarizes Odysseus. “That about sums up everyone at PME’s response to this. Moving forward.”

“Fuck you,” Achilles hisses. Now that his adrenaline has run out, the slap, plus his earlier injuries, are starting to hurt.

“Enough, Achilles,” Peleus hisses back, displeased. “You’ve done enough, tonight.”

“You know, I almost fired Automedon last night. I’m not stupid- I can guess where the idea of Hector- of Paris- being an issue came from. Oh-” Diomedes pauses, sarcastically baffled. “Achilles can show remorse! Lucky for him, I recognize that he was off the clock, and trying to comfort his unstable friend.”

Scowling, Achilles turns away from the furious man.

“As surprising as this might sound,” Odysseus begins, still simmering. “I have very little to say on the subject. Only thing- you should be thanking the mercy of the man in front of you that you’re not going to prison for aggravated assault.”

He’s- not? Blinking, he looks at Peleus, who sighs.

“Listen, Achilles. Now that we’ve released our anger, I am willing to admit that this entire situation has been mishandled on our end. You clearly weren’t ready to re-enter the world, and we forced you into it. For that, I am deeply sorry. We thought that you could handle the pressure, but we never should have coerced you. But this does not excuse your actions. To attack an innocent man because of your emotions-”

“Innocent?!”

“Yes, Achilles. Being associated with a suspect- whom, by the way, has not been publicly revealed- does not make him a criminal! The point here, Achilles, is that you need help, and we should have noticed that, to avoid this blowup altogether.”

Peleus explains that in exchange for the dropped assault charges, Achilles- and thus, PME- has been charged a sizeable fine, and the stipulations for this include wearing an ankle bracelet that checks his location until the court deems him no longer a threat. He is only allowed to go to the hospital. For the foreseeable future, he will attend daily private counseling, for both anger and trauma, ending contingent upon completion of a specific program.

That is… extremely merciful. It must show on his face because Peleus and Odysseus can’t help but chuckle.

“Listen, Achilles. I may not understand your position, but I understand your love. Personally, if something had happened like that to my Penelope, I’m not sure what I would do. We went into panic mode, trying to calm down the narrative, and we sacrificed you for that. I used Patroclus against you, and I’m horrified that it resulted in this. I apologize. Diomedes?”

Standing, Diomedes is still scowling, but now that Achilles is paying attention, he can see the deep, dark circles under the man’s eyes. It’s clear that he’s been on damage control for weeks, and it must not be going well, especially after tonight. Achilles tries for a smile, though the swelling in his face results in a pathetic grimace, and Diomedes groans.

“Fine. Just behave, Achilles. Please. I’m begging you, stop making impulsive choices that you can’t take back. The blowback from this is not going to be easy. They’re already throwing around words like ‘savage’, ‘traumatizing’, so I need you to swallow your pride and control yourself. And apologize to Automedon- poor kid looked like his whole world was going to fall apart. I wasn’t actually going to fire him; I knew you were the blockhead behind this.”

A small cough comes from the corner; Priam looks ready to speak, and Diomedes sits down, allowing him the floor.

“Apologize to Priam, Achilles.” Peleus’ command is short but firm. The thought of apologizing to the father of Paris feels like swallowing hot sand, but Achilles is determined to do better.

“Mr. Priam, I’m sorry. No matter how I was feeling, I shouldn’t have attacked Hector. Thank you for being willing to compromise in court.”

It’s no stunning, eloquent speech, but it seems to be good enough, because the men all defensively turn to Priam. Somewhere in Achilles’ mind, he remembers that technically, no one in the room is an ally to the man- his younger son had managed to threaten the lives of three of their biggest stars, at their biggest event, in front of the entire world, after already going through the legal process to be kept away. Premeditated, attempted murder, aggravated assault, stalking, attempted kidnapping- the charges were piling, and Paris would soon be public enemy number one.

It can’t be an easy feeling for his father. Perhaps having Achilles lash out had worked out, maybe dropped one of the lesser accusations.  

“Achilles, Peleus,” he begins, voice low, a far cry from the jovial man that once taught him English literature and poetry. “There is an investigation currently happening, and I can say nothing on that matter. But I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that both I and Hector are sorry for what happened to Patroclus. Never in a million years would I have wanted him to suffer like this, especially not a soul as gentle and honest as his. I was delighted to hear that he finally was able to sing the way he wished, and it breaks my spirit to know that- that it was taken from him in such a traumatic way.”

“He’ll sing again,” Achilles growls, eyes cast to the floor.

“Of course. I pray for his healing, every night. I will pray for yours as well.”

I don’t want your prayer; I want your son in prison where he can never hurt anyone like this ever again.

Instead, he stays silent, and eventually is walked back to the holding cell.

For the next month, Achilles behaves. He attends his counseling, dives wholeheartedly into it. It’s easier when he’s been removed from all social media, his smartphone replaced with a burner that only allows close family and friends to contact him. The money he earned from Elysium went directly to the fine and medical bills for Hector (who wasn’t even that beat up, come on, but he guesses a pretty face comes with insurance) and the rest to pay the fees for the movie production delay.

When he’s not in counseling, he’s at the hospital. He’s taken to telling Patroclus about his days, hoping that somewhere his love can hear how much better Achilles has been doing. He sleeps now; not great, but it’s not full of nightmares. He can listen to Patroclus’ music without feeling the need to sob, even finding joy in it once more. As it turns out, he has a myriad of self-value and perfection issues that he’s been learning how to address, so that’s been fun. Breathing exercises and meditation have helped at night, as well as melatonin for the nights when he’s too tired to move, but too wired to sleep.

Dealing with his anger has been an entirely different ballgame. His anger-issue focused therapist has told him that to have anger is fine, but it is in the channeling that matters, so as long as he doesn’t commit any more crimes, he should be fine. Much of his rage had culminated in pummeled sandbags and screaming violently into pillows- and it hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down. One inspired day, she’d sat him down and asked him- ‘Is there someone who makes you happy?’ She knew the answer was Patroclus, and he’d said that. After a couple moments, she’d asked- ‘how do you feel at the thought of directing this intense anger at him?’

In that one moment, Achilles’ wrath shriveled and died a miserable death, doused by sickening horror.

It’s a starting point- obviously he can’t deal with his feelings like that forever- but every time he thinks of Paris, he tries to quell his anger by imagining Patroclus by his side. It’s incredibly efficient, and his thoughts will immediately derail towards de-escalation. The thought of scaring Patroclus with violence- after so much of it from his own life- is more painful than any other thought.

Occasionally, Briseis, Antilochus and Automedon (who eventually forgave Achilles after a long silent treatment) will visit, and they’ve learned that they are part of this one-sided conversation with Patroclus. They’ll throw in their own good news or updates, and soon Patroclus’ room is filled daily with flowers and conversation.

It’s during one of his conversations that Achilles remembers Patroclus’ mother. It’s a hard-fought battle, really- the nursing home cannot legally allow her to leave with someone that’s not her guardian, and given that Patroclus is unconscious, he can’t go get her. Peleus is firmly on the side of the law, as he has been since Achilles’ outburst, and he has to beg him.

“That’s her child. She might not remember him all the time, but she has the right to see him. Please, Father. You know if it were me, you wouldn’t want to be kept away.”

Achilles doesn’t bring up the other massive elephant in the room- his own mother. Thetis has been eerily quiet lately, and the only thing Peleus will reveal is that she’s currently under investigation for something. Despite wanting to know, Achilles has been really good about not pushing the issue, trying to focus on his own problems as was asked. This, at least, he thinks he can ask in exchange. He’s not sure what magic Peleus pulls, but one day, Philomela is wheeled into Patroclus’ room while Achilles and his friends are there.

She’s truly lovely- they’ve dressed her in a pretty white dress with blue flowers, her hair nicely brushed and hanging to her back. Philomela reminds Achilles of a happy bird, chirping joyfully despite her circumstances. The nurses try to explain the situation to her- she’s visiting her son, who’s in the hospital after a ‘really bad accident’. It would make him happy if she visited him, the way he visits her.

“Hello, Mother,” Achilles calls, squeezing her hands. Smiling, Philomela feels his face and squeezes his cheek.

“They said you were in bed, that you weren’t feeling well.”

Achilles shakes his head. “I’m- I’m not Patroclus, Mother. He’s right here.” Lifting her gently to the bed, he takes her hand and moves it towards Patroclus’ head, allowing her to softly feel his curls and face. For a moment, mother and child are lost in their own bubble, everyone watching with bated breath.

“Oh, poor dear. I remember, when I was younger, I had a baby- we would always sing together. When he was sad, or ill, I’d croon some of my favorites until he fell asleep. It worked like magic, really- he loved music.”

“Do-” Achilles pauses, interrupted by a hiccup of emotion. “Do you think you could sing for your little boy? I think it would make him really happy. He hasn’t heard you sing in a very long time, I think.”

“Achilles,” Briseis whispers, drawing his attention away. “What if she doesn’t remember?”

“I,” Philomela hedges, biting her lip. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” It’s fair- Achilles was only trying his luck.

“If it upsets you, don’t worry about it. I understand. Thank you, Mother, for letting me ask.”

Philomela turns back to Patroclus, still cradling his cheek. She murmurs something low, and the rest of the room turns away.

“I didn’t know it was like this,” Briseis mumbles. “Poor lady. They’ve really been through it as a family.”

Antilochus sighs. “Honestly. Pat told me she was in the hospital. I hate that it’s like this now. She can hardly tell it’s him, between her vision and her memory.”

“I just thought it might help,” Achilles says, spirits dampened. Automedon grips his shoulder.

“No worries, man. It is helpful. She still deserves to see him.”

Achilles turns back to Philomela, who’s now deep in thought. Her nurse sees his confusion, and nods.

“This happens sometimes. She’s very thoughtful. After a couple moments, if she seems lost, we bring her back and ask what she was thinking about.”

Achilles waits patiently, and suddenly, Philomela peeps an ‘oh!’ and closes her eyes, smiling.

Unforgettable

That's what you are-

The entire room stills, frozen by her pure voice.

Unforgettable

Though near or far

Like a song of love that clings to me

How the thought of you does things to me

Wish that I am

Unforgettable

Too

Philomela’s lilting voice is sweet, powerful in its hope the way that Patroclus’ is powerful in its catharsis. It’s easy to see how a young Patroclus would have felt safe in the arms of his mother as she sang him her favorites to calm his spirit.

“Did I sing it?” she asks, glancing in the direction of her hand held in Achilles. Tears trail down Achilles’ face as he nods.

“Yes, it was beautiful, Mother.”

Philomela smiles. “Good.” She turns back to Patroclus, still cradling his cheek. “Did you like it, baby?”

“Yes.”

The croaking voice is so quiet that Achilles would have missed it, if it were not the voice he’s missed for almost two months. He swivels, at once at the head of the bed. Laid back, tears pooling in his eyes, an exhausted Patroclus smiles his mother’s smile.

“Mommy, you came… You came to see me.”

“I’m so…happy…”

Exultantly thankful, Achilles collapses to his knees.

A sliver of light flickers into the grand room, waking Patroclus up from blissful rest. He might not ever get used to this sort of luxury. The soft mattress is like laying upon clouds, spreading his body weight so evenly that he can’t feel an ounce of back pain. Blinking, he pouts upon realizing that he’s alone in it. Stretching gently as he can, he gets up to prepare for the day.

The royal blue walls elegantly complement the gigantic poster bed, which is covered in a rich, espresso brown comforter and curtains framing the canopy. Ice blue pillows, sofas, rugs, and curtains accent the well-crafted mahogany dressers, wardrobe, and floor. Patroclus makes the bed and then opens the vast curtains to reveal the beautiful backyard, covered with blossoming magnolia trees, green grass, and a azure pool. The skies were bright and cloudless, the sun shining inside the room he’s affectionately dubbed their ‘ice palace’.

This had been Achilles’ surprise to him- he’d sold the high-rise penthouse and saved enough to buy them a dream home that a young Patroclus could have never dreamt of. He’d planned on revealing it to him as a graduation gift, and well- after how things turned out, Patroclus thinks this surprise was much better than his. Turning on some soft music over the large Bose speakers built into their walls, he makes his way into the luxurious master bath for a shower.

It’s just like the one at the Phthia estate, built because Achilles knows how much Patroclus loved it. The only difference is that instead of a golden and ivory clawfoot tub, there’s a deep spa tub with different settings that allow him to soak in comfort. Many nights early on in his healing process had been spent in this tub, Achilles gently scrubbing his body and washing his hair, silently holding him through the tears when the pain and frustration were too much.

The entire home is a testament to Achilles’ love and devotion to him. The size is perfect- it’s large yet cozy, not an overwhelming estate like Phthia. There are two floors- the second floor is the Master bedroom, three guest beds with bathrooms (dubbed the red, green, and yellow rooms), and a small library stocked full of books and media. The floors are a plush white carpet, the hallway walls a subtle olive green. The first floor has a workout room designed like a ballet studio for both of them to use, as well as a studio and music room for moments of sudden inspiration. It’s open, something he did love from Phthia, with white columns and bright windows with the shades pulled up. The living room is gigantic, the walls mandarin orange, carpet a sandy brown, the sitting pit almost like a small arena and full of bold blues and greens.

Patroclus walks into the kitchen, salivating at the smell of slow cooking lamb and tomatoes. The kitchen manages to toe the line between homey and professional, with light brown wood floors, tan cabinets, a deep walk-in pantry, and sterling silver appliances. The large island in the middle is currently covered with food and food prep items, the chef smiling as he places his knife down to lift the lid off the pot. The savory smell near makes Patroclus’ knees weak (well, weaker) and he plops into a bar stool.

“I figured that you’d want a taste,” the chef comments, spooning out some of the tomato sauce and giving it to him. It’s amazing, and he takes every thought from before back- this chef is the best part of the house, hands down. Neither he or Achilles know how to cook beyond the basics, nor do they always have the time, so having a chef that was trained professionally and also had multiple nutrition degrees was essential for their health and careers. Not to mention, as a bonus, Patroclus was absolutely geeked that he could afford to be the foodie he always wanted to be.

“It’s so good, Chef,” he murmurs, awkwardly smiling through the prolonged chewing. “Everything you make is amazing, I appreciate your existence.”

The chef beams at him, already endeared to the down-to-earth artist, exchanging the spoon for a plate of mixed fruit. Technically, he’s supposed to be eating ‘light’, but Patroclus had pled for one cheat meal, puppy dog eyes and all, and Achilles hadn’t been able to refuse him.

“You don’t have to schmooze me; I have to help you regardless. You could have pressed the button, and I’d have come up with a tray.”

It’s the truth, and Patroclus playfully rolls his eyes. The fact that the chef was allowed free rein in the house at all was also Achilles being lenient, though he’d put the man through an extreme vetting process first. Patroclus faintly remembers when he was first brought into the home, rolled in on a stretcher and firmly tucked into the bed. The property was surrounded by a large gate, distant from the main road by a long driveway and hidden by the trees in the front. Security constantly stands at certain intervals of that gate, and people are scanned and pat down before they’re allowed to enter the property.

There are buttons installed in every room, placed in case Patroclus needs help. Achilles firmly insisted upon him using them, demanding that he not hide his pain just because he was too mortified to call for the trained nurses. Still, Patroclus hates that everyone has to go through all that just to come in every morning, so he tried his best to limit the button usage.

“At least it’s not a bell,” he’d joked.

“Oh, it was going to be, but I knew you’d just pretend to lose them, and I wasn’t playing that game with you.”

It had been unavoidable in the beginning, hard as he tried. He’d been too weak to sit up, disoriented by the pain meds, and could only move around the house by wheelchair- pride went out the window when you were given the option of a diaper or asking for help to the bathroom. He’s finally healed enough to walk around with a cane, so the nurses are no longer constant fixtures in the home but are always on call. His physical therapist comes three times a week to monitor his progress, so he’s been on his best behavior to try to expedite things.

“What do I have to do to exchange this plate of fruit for a T-bone steak?” he jokes- okay, he’s been on his best attempts at best behavior.

“Get your boyfriend back out of jail after he strings me up for giving you high blood pressure.”

With a sigh, Patroclus knows he’s lost this little spat, because the sassy chef is right- Achilles just might go insane if Patroclus backtracks in his health. Raising his hand in defeat, he grabs his notebook and makes his way to the backyard.

“If you could bring me that plate, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

It’s a recent update, that Achilles is away from their home so often. His freedom has been extended to the secured locations for filming the movie, for which Patroclus is extremely grateful. He’d stress-cried so much his stomach hurt when someone told him about what happened with Hector, to the point that he’d had to be sedated because they were worried he’d pull something. Later on, once he’d calmed down, Achilles had explained that the ankle bracelet has been accepted as an in-character style choice, when it’s not covered by JD’s long, baggy black pants. His unfortunate blow up has also worked towards building that bad boy image that they were crafting, so between that and the grace of the producers, Achilles hasn’t been booted off the project he’d so desperately wanted to be a part of. Don’t worry about me, Philtatos, Achilles reassured him. The only thing I need is for you to heal.

Once he finally makes it into the chaise lounge out in the hot sun, Patroclus opens his button up, eyes drawn to the bright pink star-like scar on his stomach. It still makes him queasy to see it, this flashing reminder of the price of his fame, and he swiftly covers it back up. He’s never had scars left over from conflict, he suddenly realizes- he’s used to acute injuries that painfully linger but are gone within a few days. Maybe he’s never really dealt with anything that’s happened in his life, assuming it would just pass.

Oh boy. Too deep. Can’t handle that right now. Gotta tell the therapist about that.

It helps when the chef comes out and opens the umbrella for him, placing the now-larger plate of fruit and an ice-cold water bottle next to him. Amongst the shade, flowers and the soft breeze, Patroclus is able to serenely open his notebook and brainstorm. His therapist had encouraged him to write about everything, not just solely his traumas- to do it for fun, so that he could continue to do what he enjoyed. Maybe today he’ll write about the flowers.

It’s later that Achilles finds Patroclus by the pool, pointed there by the chef.

“He didn’t use the button today, did he?” he asks the chef, who indulgently shakes his head. “So stubborn.”

“I could say that of you, too, Achilles. Make sure to eat those snacks, I don’t cook for Patroclus only.”

The chef was a good idea- Achilles likes his directness and honesty, it’s refreshing after so many years of obsequiousness. He pops a grape into his mouth with a salute to the chef for making him a snack plate, then makes his way out. The approaching movement is enough for Patroclus to look up from his notebook, and he beams as Achilles pulls over a chair directly next to him. Placing down the plate, he curls into Patroclus’ side.

“Short day, hm?” Patroclus asks, kissing his forehead.

“Mm,” mumbles Achilles, closing his eyes. “I didn’t ask any questions; I just got my shit and came home.”

“You look better,” Patroclus says, and Achilles frowns. “You don’t have that pinched look. I’m happy to see you relaxed again. It’s been some time.”

Achilles can’t help but sigh tiredly. “It’s only when I’m around you, love.”

A warm hand comes to stroke his hair, thumbing his cheek, and he purrs into the affection.

“That’s no good. Have you been talking it out with your therapist?”

“Have you?”

“Achilles.”

“Yes, Patroclus, I’ve been talking it out! I know you’re a joy to have in ‘tell the therapist everything’ class, but I do my best.” Achilles bites his tongue, realizing that he’s snapped at Patroclus, and is quick to backtrack. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Thank you.”

He’s just exhausted- part of Patroclus’ healing has involved keeping him away from social media and news, mainly because his trauma has been the center of everyone’s focus, and Achilles has taken that goal very personally. Ever since Patroclus had gotten ill after hearing about his fight, he’s tried not to bring up any stressors, but it’s hard- he’s been holding everything in from the one person he wants to talk to most.

The first trial, and most obvious, has been of Paris. The fact that the bastard even wanted to go through a waste of a trial is baffling, considering his crimes are obvious. Perhaps it’s the desperation of a deluded man that wants attention, but the media is ravenous for the gritty details, so now his pompous face is on TV every news cycle. The other has managed to tear Achilles from the inside out.

After the shooting, somehow (and he has his suspicions of a shady, curly-haired manager and his blond fixer-in-crime) it came to light that the reason Patroclus’ talents had gone unnoticed for so long, the reason Menoetius had been stringing him along so cruelly, was due to a deal made so long ago between him and his mother. As if this wasn’t heart-wrenching enough, the revelation that Patroclus had been chained down by his presence since the moment they met fills Achilles with horror and revulsion. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he questions whether Patroclus truly loves him- how could he, when the entire time he’s silently suffered while still so strongly supporting Achilles. The cloying weight of guilt refuses to loosen its grip on him, and even now as he holds on to Patroclus, he feels like he doesn’t deserve to, but he can’t let go.

There are two major groups right now- those righteously furious at Achilles, and those who defend him. While he’s scaled back on his social media presence as well, it’s hard to avoid the scores of horrible things that people are saying. He falls right in with them- he hates himself more than anyone else ever could. When he sighs again, Patroclus lifts his face, making pointed eye contact.

“Talk to me. Please.”

Twisting his head out of the light grasp, Achilles puts his head back on Patroclus’ shoulder.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Okay, I’ll start. Are you stressed out about the trials?”

Achilles stiffens. “How did you-”

“The detectives did have to come get my statements- you can’t hide everything from me, Achilles. I deserve to know about my own problems.”

Who the hell let them in? Achilles wonders, pissed. Still, he supposes that this is it- they’re talking about this now. He always told himself that it was because he didn’t want to worry Patroclus, but deep down he knows it’s also him who’s been avoiding it.

“Why- Patroclus, why aren’t you angry with me? Don’t you hate me?”

“Hate you? You? Why? Why would I be angry at you?”

At this, Achilles quickly lifts up from the seat, flabbergasted.

“Why? For- for everything! I’m the reason behind everything that’s happened to you! Paris was trying to shoot me, and he hit you! My mot- that whole situation with our parents, it was all for me, I’m the reason that you couldn’t sing or even be who you are without-”

Scowling, Patroclus sits up and places a hand over his mouth.

“You are not the reason for those things. That was Menoetius, and that was-” He takes a deep breath. “That was Thetis. They were grown adults who made the decisions they made on their own, regardless of their motives. You saved my life, Achilles. From the moment we met you noticed something was wrong and you’ve always tried to support me while giving me my space. You’re a good person, trust me, you’ve been an overwhelmingly positive presence in my life- even if you are a little hot-headed at times.” He pokes Achilles in the nose, now bright red, and Achilles can’t help a wet chuckle. “As for Paris… I think it would have hurt me more if he’d hit you. If he’d succeeded at what he planned… I don’t think I would have survived that.”

And immediately, he’s able to zero in on what Achilles needs, cradling his face again.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you, through the ups and downs. No matter what life I would have lived, if you were in it, I would love you. Please trust that.” Patroclus thumbs away a couple tears, and Achilles sniffles.

“I just don’t understand you, how you’re so gracious and gentle after everything that’s happened in your life… My gentle Patroclus. I don’t deserve you. No, I’m not going to debate it, I just know I’ll do better from now on.”

“We both just need to focus on healing, right? It’s a long process, as I’ve been told. As long as you’re by my side- if not, you can’t keep the house.”

Cackling, Achilles grasps Patroclus’ hands, leaning in to rub noses. “Oh, so that was the long game, huh?”

“Naturally.”

Sniffling again, Achilles wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. “Well, even if you are too good to hate him, I do. I hate everyone who’s hurt you. I’d rather that bullet have hit me, than go through the pain I went through that night thinking it was the end. It was horrific… we were at the height of our lives, I’d just seen you become God-like up there, honored and loved the way I’ve always thought you should be… and then you were dying.”

Patroclus’ eyes go dark momentarily, and he looks down.

“Yeah, that… that was pretty demoralizing. It felt like I was far-gone, my mind was hazy with how ecstatic I was during the end of that concert. It was like I was on a different plane really. I never knew it felt like that, but after keeping it in for so long… it was like I’d ascended. And then afterwards… Well. It’s hard to put into words right now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. Sorry.”

“No rush. Tell me whenever you’re ready.”

“As for the… other situation, I don’t think that I’m numb to it, per se, but that I’m used to it. It’s not bad news to me that Menoetius is finally getting his shit exposed to the world, especially after the trauma of almost dying. It’s something that’s finally, finally being handled by someone other than me. I feel like a weight’s been lifted. I’m more worried about you. I was worried that you’d be angry at me, thinking that I was lying to you the whole time because I wanted to. I didn’t want to lie, but- my mother’s safety was paramount to me. I won’t be sorry for that.”

Achilles is shaking his head throughout the explanation. “You were just a child, and you were alone- no one could blame you for wanting to escape. You did what you had to do to protect the both of you, all the while coming into your own identity… you’re so powerful, I envy it, really. As for- as for my mother, I don’t… know how to deal with how I’m feeling either.” It’s a relief to admit it out loud- he doesn’t know what to do, how he’s supposed to feel, just that he does.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be patient for you, too.”

A couple moments of silence pass as they allow the air to clear. Achilles has one more thing to admit, and he’s not sure how it’s going to go.

“Patroclus, if I’m being honest… I don’t want to sing anymore, once the movie is done.”

Despite himself, Patroclus frowns. “What?”  

“It hurts too much. I can’t… Whenever I think about how it was hurting you-”

“It’s not hurting me. It will hurt me if you stop.”

“Why? You were the one that almost died! Why are you comforting me?”

“Because I don’t want to let them win! We’re finally here, Achilles, together, singing, and you want to stop? There’s no need for it to be one of us or the other, that’s just doing what they always wanted!”

He’s become too emphatic, and Patroclus flinches as a familiar cramp kicks in. He’s trying to hide the pain, biting his lip, but Achilles swiftly fluffs the pillows behind him and gently lays him down onto them.

“You’re getting too upset,” he whispers, trying to console him. “I shouldn’t have brought it up yet.”

Still grimacing and wheezing from pain, Patroclus disagrees. “Don’t do that. Don’t use this against me.” Finally, his breathing slows, and after a drink of water, Patroclus speaks again.

“You know what you could do, that would help me feel better? To make me feel like we’re okay?”

“What?”

 “Sing with me. I’ve always wanted that. Maybe not now, but later, when I’m healed. I’ve got a journal full of years of songs, and I just know there’s one in there for you.”

“For us.” Achilles couldn’t even help his swift correction, but even more so, he can’t help the delight that sparks inside him at the thought of collaborating with Patroclus. It’s different from his usual love of Eros- it feels like sharing something personal with Patroclus himself. Still, his pain isn’t just so easily assuaged.

“I don’t know. Maybe one day, when all the fury at me dies down and I can find it within me.”

“Fury at you?”

Achilles nonchalantly waves away the thoughts. “People get angry at you in this life, Patroclus. Sometimes, they’re very loud when they’re angry, and they’re very, very loud right now, and I just- I’m not the impervious prince everyone thinks, that’s all.”

Patroclus gives him a lingering look, before something clicks, and he pulls out his journal, writing feverishly. Emotionally exhausted, Achilles closes his eyes and leans back into his side.

“You have been sentenced to thirty-five years minimum before you may apply for an appeal…”

Six months later, this sentence brings Patroclus so much joy that he collapses into his seat in the middle of the courtroom. Most of Menoetius’ sentence comes from the domestic abuse of himself and his mother, and multiple types of fraud, and while it’s not the lifelong sentence he wishes for (the one that Paris received, a month earlier) it’s long enough for him to finally feel safe. When the judge asks him if he has anything to say, a tearful Patroclus shakes his head- he’s long past the need to say anything to that man.

As for the more private handling in civil court, Thetis is only charged to pay back damages, a plea deal made with the PME lawyers in exchange for not going to court over Patroclus’ technically broken conservatorship. It is heavily suggested that she keep away from Patroclus in the near future, else a protective order be pursued. The only reason there wasn’t one to begin with was because Patroclus didn’t want to force Achilles- who swore he would stand by his side until the end- away from his mother.

It had been a hard day on Achilles in particular. Peleus, Thetis, and Achilles had all gone into a private room for a long conversation. Later that night, a broken Achilles only tells Patroclus that she’d sobbed miserably and looked genuinely remorseful, swearing that she’d only wanted to protect her son and gotten in over her head.

“I think that…” Achilles paused, trying to put it together. “I think that she feels a lack of control in her life, and it was easy to project her own traumas onto her goal of protecting me. It was easy to torment someone who couldn’t do anything about it, to make someone else feel powerless the way that she’d felt in her life. I hate that it happened at all, but I really hate that it was you.”

“I’ve got something for you. I think you’ll like it.”

Achilles drags his feet, making it harder for Patroclus to pull him through the hall. It’s the first day out for both of them- Patroclus with the a-okay on his injury, the ankle bracelet removed from Achilles.

“No, Philtatos. I can’t accept it.”

Patroclus pauses, squeezing Achilles’ hands. “Just let it happen, okay? Just one gift. I promise you’ll love it. Do you remember where we are?”

Capitulating, Achilles looks around, eyes widening. “This is where we met.”

The looming auditorium still stands, its halls still echoing and reverent despite the passing of time. Smiling, Patroclus pulls him into the auditorium and sits him down a few rows back from the front. A large screen comes down, the projector beaming the blue light of the default screen onto it.

“Patroclus, what is going on? Where are you going?” Achilles looks so distraught that Patroclus almost breaks, but he gently sits him back down.

“It’s okay. Trust me. It’s just Automedon back there setting up. We rented the whole place today, so no one’s going to hurt us, or come in- this moment is just for you, and I’m giving you the space to comprehend that. I’ll just be a few rows back.”

With that, Patroclus lets his hands go, and Achilles wavers in silence and crushing loneliness. Whatever this is, he hopes it’s over quickly- his nerves are entirely too frayed by this point to deal with anything else. The screen clicks onto a recording, and Patroclus sits in a chair in front of the camera.

“Okay- well, I hope this works. Hey, Achilles. I’ve noticed that you’ve been really depressed lately because of the media circus, and everything that’s been going on at home. I’ve felt very strongly about how I could possibly help you, how I could possibly show you the support and strength that you need to feel better. I wanted to be a rock for you, the way you’ve always been for me. I didn’t know how to say it to you, so I wrote a poem, and then it became a song. Be proud- you’ll be the only one to have an official, clean recording of this- everyone else will get a grainy video. Thank Antilochus for that- I had to shout him out or he’ll destroy the recording. Anyway, that’s because I want you to know that at the end of the day, it’s all for me and you- I think that as long as we have each other, we’ll be okay. You’re not alone. I love you.”

The screen goes dark, turning to the classic colorful tones of Windows Media Player. Snorting, Achilles turns around, but the room has dimmed while he was paying attention to the screen, so he can only see Patroclus’ faint outline, waving at him, then directing him to turn around. A poignant violin begins to play, immediately centering him, and then Patroclus begins to sing.

Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

You're scaring us and all of us, some of us love you

Achilles, it's not much but there's proof

You crazy-assed cosmonaut, remember your virtue

Redemption lies plainly in truth

Just humor us, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

Searing tears pool in Achilles’ eyes as he listens, a hand grasped to his painfully pounding heart. Patroclus’ voice is more subdued than his normal, mournful sound, yet its more powerful than it’s ever been.

Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

The self is not so weightless, nor whole and unbroken

Remember the pact of our youth

Where you go, I'm going, so jump and I'm jumping

Since there is no me without you

Soldier on, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

Loathe the way they light candles in Rome

But love the sweet air of the votives

Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone

Engage with the pain as a motive

Today, of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above

It’s clear, by the time the song gets into its next verse, that Patroclus has boldly delved into the sorts of things that people have been saying to him, as well as his own inner fears, bravely confronting them with his own powerful love. Where did he get the time for this, Achilles wonders in awe. So many things were happening to him, when could he have possibly made time to think about me like this?

Achilles, Achilles, just put down the bottle

Don't listen to what you've consumed

It's chaos, confusion and wholly unworthy

Of feeding and it's wholly untrue

You may feel no purpose nor a point for existing

It's all just conjecture and gloom

And there may not be meaning, so find one and seize it

Do not waste yourself on this roof

The message is clear- Patroclus supports him, will always support him, and will stand with him against those who might tell him otherwise. Like he said- it’s me and you. Suddenly, it feels as though all of the weight of world is melting from his shoulders. He’s floating upward, standing, gripping the seat in front of him- he doesn’t even know when he moved.

You want the acclaim, the mother of mothers (it's not worth it, Achilles)

More poignant than fame or the taste of another (don't listen, Achilles)

But be real and just jump, you dense motherfucker (you're worth more, Achilles)

You will not be more than a rat in the gutter (so much more than a rat)

You want my opinion, my opinion you've got (no one asked your opinion)

You asked for my counsel, I gave you my thoughts (no one asked for your thoughts)

Be done with this now and jump off the roof (be done with this now and get off the roof)

Can you hear me, Achilles? I'm talking to you…

Thick, heaving sobs begin to echo in the space, and Achilles covers his mouth, trying to silence himself so that he can hear his beloved’s message, which picks up the fervent violin once more.

Throw yourself into the unknown

With pace and a fury defiant

Clothe yourself in beauty untold

And see life as a means to a triumph

Today, of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above

Crowned by an overture bold and beyond

Ah, it's more courageous to overcome

His beautiful poem fades out, and Achilles hurtles from the row he’s in, meeting Patroclus who’s tried to meet him in the middle. He runs into Patroclus so hard that he tackles him to the ground, grasping him with shaking hands and covering him with wet kisses. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop bawling he so overcome with gratitude.

“Okay,” he cries, sniffling and holding him tight. “Okay. I hear you.”

If Patroclus is this strong, has always been this strong, surely, he can find the nerve to get back up and push forward. Achilles can triumph, he has this love that is so mighty, and that’s all he needs- be damned the validation from anyone else.

As for the masses- the singular post of Achilles Come Down manages to silence many of those still furious at Achilles for remaining by his side. No one can bring themselves to speak against it.

“I think you both have had quite enough champagne!”

Automedon is annoyed as he pulls the glasses out of their giggly hands, shoving them into the small fridge inside the limo. They’re on their way to the red carpet for the first showing of Heathers, and perhaps Patroclus’ nerves and excitement were being helped by the buzz a little too much.

“I don’t know,” Achilles teases, pulling Patroclus in for another languid, tonguing kiss. “But that’s fine. I can get drunk just like this.”

Still giggling, Patroclus melts into the affection, and Automedon growls in agony.

“Enough! You can do this cute shit later, in front of the cameras! I’m dying here!”

Despite Patroclus being the one jittery with nerves about his first red carpet, Achilles had been more concerned about his impression of the movie itself.

“I can stay away from you for a while afterwards if you want,” he’d explained before they left home. “I know this is a gritty story, and I don’t want my portrayal to scare you. I certainly had a lot to think about while acting.”

Patroclus had reassured him that it would be okay, that if it was that hard, he’d just subtly slip away. Now, when the limo stops a little ahead of the carpet, Automedon jumps out with a ‘thank God’, running to direct security and prepare the cameras. Patroclus fidgets with his bowtie, and Achilles gently grasps his fingers.

“You look amazing.”

Achilles’ hair is back to its natural golden waves, shorter than they used to be, but long gone are the lanky, dyed-black curls. It’s almost strange to Patroclus; when he once jumped in fear due to lack of recognition, he’d adjusted, and now he’s readjusting to his favorite tawny hair. He’s wearing a full black tuxedo, one that helps him strike a lithe figure with his broad shoulders and slim waist.

“Are you sure?” It was a bold look that the stylists had chosen for Patroclus, the champagne-gold, shimmering tux jacket standing in contrast to his partner. It complements his eyes and skin, he’d been told, but now he just feels over-dressed.

“Stunning,” Achilles replies, kissing his hand. “I’m honored to be seen by your side.”

Rolling his eyes, Patroclus leans away from his silver-tongued boyfriend. Secretly, he’s extremely happy to see Achilles back to his old shenanigans. He’d been afraid that Achilles would continue to struggle, but he was back on his feet, happier and more confident in his stride than ever.

The car door finally opens. Already the cameras are flashing behind his shoulder, but Achilles only has eyes for Patroclus. 

“Together?”  

Patroclus nods, and Achilles steps out of the car first. Without missing a beat, he turns, holding his hand out to help Patroclus out. The screams increase in volume as they walk toward the small X on the carpet, one stop of many. Patroclus is not used to this sort of pressure, but standing next to Achilles makes him feel bold in a way, so he makes sure to smile at certain cameras, smizing at others for a range of photos. His favorite are when he and Achilles pose together, and the screams reach a peak when Achilles pulls him down to kiss him on the cheek. It’s a possessive moment, the cameraman showing them the way Achilles looks straight at the viewer, and Patroclus can’t help his full belly laugh- so now everyone has a picture of that too. He autographs whatever it is he can reach, makes sure to speak, and soon he's made it to the end of the carpet. One thing left- a short interview.

“Remember, you don’t have to answer anything,” whispers Achilles. “But you’ve been doing really well.”

Patroclus is grateful for the intervention. “Yeah, I’m going to let you handle this one.”

The journalist is ecstatic to be speaking to them, almost overwhelmed as she asks Achilles questions. She constantly turns to Patroclus, but he only gestures at Achilles and makes sure to agree when he speaks. Finally, she reaches her last question.

“Maybe sing us a short duet? Anything, for the crowds?”

“They’d have to be quiet for that,” Achilles lightly jokes, and a wave of shushes rushes through the crowds. Ah, the Pop Princeling, back on his throne- these days, Patroclus thinks it’s quite hot. Achilles languidly shifts to Patroclus, his posture hiding his intensity. He’s waiting for him to pick something. Grinning, Patroclus begins to croon.

I've never met nobody like you

Had friends, and I've had buddies, it's true

But they don't turn my tummy the way you do

I've never met nobody like you

Oh, yeah

Yeah

Achilles grins, something toothy and vulnerable as he recognizes the adorable poem that Patroclus had shown him one day- early works from a childish heart in love, he’d admitted. He flawlessly joins in the harmony.

You're never not on my mind, oh my, oh my

I'm never not by your side, your side, your side

I'm never gon' let you cry, oh, cry, don't cry

I'll never not be your ride or die, alright.

“That is so cute,” the journalist squeals when the cacophony dies down, and they simply smile graciously. Achilles squeezes Patroclus’ hand, thanking her before pulling them away.

“They’ll never let you go if you don’t escape while you can,” he explains.

“My hero,” Patroclus teases. “I was certainly impressed by that presence you wielded earlier.”

Achilles wags his brows, making him laugh. “If the presence I wielded was so impressive, you should meet me in the bathroom to see what else I’ve got. I’ll bail on this shit right now.”

They don’t end up bailing on the ultimately successful premiere, but that night they lock the doors, close the canopy curtains, and find creative ways to make the other sing melodies meant for their ears only.