Fortune

A pulsating pop beat begins, a black and white filter slowly zooming in on a lone figure in the center of a pure white stage. A pale, lithe man in a skintight black leotard sprawls in a wooden chair, slowly lifting his leg to reveal the high-heeled platform boots he’s wearing, offering a long, objectifying gaze of the carved calf and thigh muscles. The moment his vocals start, he acrobatically slips into a complex dance routine, moving his hips with the tick of each beat, a sensual lap dance for an invisible partner. His wrists are revealed in loose, silver shackles, a thin chain tied to the top of the chair not allowing him to move much further away from his rut as the camera comes around behind the back. Achilles straddles the chair, using one finger to stroke the side as he smizes through messy curls into the viewer and picks up the bridge.

“Dirty babe (Uh-huh)

You see these shackles, baby, I'm your slave (Uh-huh)

I'll let you whip me if I misbehave (Uh-huh)

It's just that no one makes me feel this way (Uh-huh)

Take it to the chorus!”

At that moment he slaps the camera to another man, this one in a black low v-cut shirt and ripped blue jeans, seductively leaning forward in that same wooden chair, beckoning a long, tempting brown finger. Eros grins, a loose bright white smile beatific in comparison to what he’s offering.

“Come here, girl (Go 'head, be gone with it)

Come to the back (Go 'head, be gone with it)

VIP (Go 'head, be gone with it)

The camera pans slowly to reveal Achilles prowling towards Eros, now tugging the silver chain closer and closer until the prince straddles his hips.

Drinks on me (Go 'head, be gone with it)

Let me see what you're twerking with (Go 'head, be gone with it)

Look at those hips (Go 'head, be gone with it)

You make me smile (Go 'head, be gone with it)

Go 'head, child (Go 'head, be gone with it)

And, get your sexy on (Go 'head, be gone with it)-”

It blends back and forth, from Achilles performing in the empty chair to performing, in Eros’ lap; writhing, grinding, possessively caressing his face, arms, and chest; their lips a breath away from one another.

By the second verse, the view has panned over top a gigantic bed with silver silk sheets, the covering revealing a writhing Achilles’ naked body to the top of his hip dimples.

“I'm bringin' sexy back (Yeah)

Them other fuckers don't know how to act (Yeah)

Girl, let me make up for the things you lack (Yeah)

'Cause you're burning up, I gotta get it fast (Yeah)

Take it to the bridge, ha-”

It is obvious from the tight outlining of the sheets that he is bare, and he yearns as he spreads his arms across the bedding, his legs slowly curling as he croons through the bridge. Hints of his orgasmic expression, as well as dark profiles hiding his full body, cut with Eros between every ‘Go ‘head, be gone with it’ in the chorus.

Eros, dressed in a full suit, now reclines at the head of a twelve-chair business table. Six scantily clad dancers perform, sharp and in sync, on each side, each as beautiful as the last in their moment to shine with each repetition. In his lap still remains the most beautiful of them all. Achilles nuzzles into him, hair pulled back to bare his neck, swaying his torso and chest seductively. The instant the third verse drops, the power dynamic switches as Eros leans his head down into Achilles’ shoulder as his eyes flash into the camera.

“I'm bringin' sexy back (Yeah)

You motherfuckers watch how I attack (Yeah)

If that's your girl, better watch your back (Yeah)

'Cause she'll burn it up for me, and that's a fact (Yeah)

Take it to the chorus, (ha)”

Re-energized, Eros pushes Achilles into an erotic wrestle on the table, one hand pressed into his upper back to better reveal the curve of his ass as he twerks into the air, the other slowly rising from his chest and up his toward his crotch. Achilles’ palms splay flat only for a moment, before he twists onto his back, bringing his heels over Eros’ back in one fluid motion. By the fifth ‘get your sexy on’, Eros slowly pushes down, Achilles’ legs flexibly splaying wide until they are close enough for him to wrap his shackled wrists over Eros’ neck.

Just as it seems like the viewer is finally going to watch them consummate the sexual tension that has gripped the entire music video, the camera zooming into their heads tilting, lips so close, at the second to last “yes” Eros and Achilles grin, and the scene cuts, and the last beats fade into the credits.

Over one hundred thousand likes and thousands of retweets of one message seems to summarize the Pop Princeling’s fanbase on his newest single, Sexyback, ft Eros:

RudePop978: When Achilles & Eros invite you to be their 3^rd and simultaneously show u u’ll never be good enough for the position. I’ll take 30 chances anyway pls pick me I’ll do my stretches everyday-

Sexyback was a change from Achilles’ normal, anthem sound, for sure. Ever since the success of Heathers: The Musical, plus the drama of his first major scandal after Elysium, the world has looked at their gilded prince in an entirely different light. It had been brilliant marketing on Odysseus and Diomedes’ end to shift him into a ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ sort of character- thus, their Dark Prince was born.

It helps that PME’s newest talent, shot straight to superstardom through blood and tears, is featured on the song. The “Age of Eros” has arrived with a literal bang, sending shockwaves through the music and fan community. Many a singer and producer want PME’s mournful siren to sing, feature, write music, or to simply take influence from his mere presence. Many artists who would have never considered attempting a pop sound are now trying to replicate it, some succeeding and other failing miserably.

This notoriety has been a godsend for Antilochus in particular, whose music engineering resume has risen in demand. Having all three on one track- and it’s not even a serious single- is Phthia flexing just a small amount of their latest star power. Yet another glittering music party allows Antilochus to maneuver in between crowds, smiling, flirting, and happily telling people that ‘why yes, I was one of the producers on Sexyback, it was a joy, here’s my card’. It also puts him and Automedon on yet another run of guard duty, a task they both love for networking freedom, and hate because the reason why happens so often that they want to strangle their rabbit-ass best friends. Antilochus, still flashing a smile at one of the departing older ladies, sidles up next to Automedon.

“Did you get a text yet?” he asks through his teeth. Automedon, dressed smartly with his ever-present earpiece and tablet, smiles back.

“Of course, not. God for-fucking-bid Achilles care about anyone else’s time. You’d think Pat would at least know better.”

“As if. Achilles bats his eyes at him and it’s like his brain turns off.”

Inside one of Phthia’s locked guest rooms, Patroclus’ brain is more than just turned off- it’s completely out of commission, all the blood down low as he pounds Achilles into the wall and drinks in every dramatic, encouraging moan. This wasn’t what he meant to be doing, and he knows, he knows Antilochus and Automedon are going to be waiting with their disappointed faces. He knows he’s going to promise to be smarter about it next time, and then fail at that, too.

But Achilles was ever so tempting, and he always did things like this- he swears the man has a kink for being taken at inopportune times and inconveniencing his label. He was always dragging him into trailers, back corners, bathrooms, and while it normally doesn’t go this far, knowing that they were in his family home made him a lot bolder as he tore Patroclus’ clothes off for ‘confidence reinforcement’.

All he’d said was that he was nervous about how the music video was going to turn out. Filming it had been a dreadfully anxious affair for him, as his first visual feature. In comparison to Achilles, who’d been preparing for the camera since childhood and was well practiced at ‘smizing’ and ‘posing’ and shit like that, Patroclus felt like if he had to move his knee ‘a little to the left’ or tilt his head back one more time he was going to burst into tears. Insecurity raged inside him- singing was one thing, but pretending to be sexy in front of other people? He felt like a complete fraud, direly afraid of disappointing everyone and embarrassing himself. When he expressed that to Achilles, while red eyed and cowed over somewhere in a hidden corner, his lover had taken his face in his hands and squeezed tight.

“First, you are beautiful,” he purred, voice comforting, “and everyone else here pales in comparison to your light. So don’t ever worry about that, Philtatos. But if you’re still worried about the mechanics of it, don’t be- every performer is different. Besides, you don’t have to do any of the work. I don’t mean to brag, but I will be carrying us through this. Think- I have to put in all this effort to be sexy, whereas you bring it all back just by being here. I could never compare.”

And with a wink at his ‘clever’ pun, he’d sauntered away, as though he wasn’t wearing 3-inch platforms and a leotard so tight his whole body had to hurt, as though he hadn’t just taken all of Patroclus’ fears and burned them away with sheer confidence. Watching the video later on at the party had been an amazing experience- editing was truly magic. None of his mistakes appeared on screen, none of his fears- all he saw was Eros, relaxed and dripping with sex appeal as Achilles worked his divine power for the screen.

“That’s me,” he kept whispering, smiling in awe at Achilles. “That’s actually me up there.”

He’d said it so many times that Achilles had grasped his hand, as the excited whispers picked up, he led him out of the garden and into the house. Patroclus only murmurs a bare minimum “but what about-” before he’s pushed into a dark room, his pants and Achilles’ knees hitting the floor.

“You don’t seem to believe how lovely you are,” Achilles grinned, effortlessly pulling out his well-endowed lover, “but I am delighted to remind you.”

“I could think I was the most beautiful man in the world,” Patroclus breathed, hissing when he felt the tongue flicker licentiously over his tip, “and you’d still- MMmmm, shit that’s good- want to do this.”

“Mhm; I’d absolutely be cheering you on and supporting your confidence.” With that, Achilles fell onto him to the hilt, obnoxious sucking noises filling the room. Patroclus covered his mouth to try for quiet, but Achilles takes it as a challenge, hollowing his cheeks for extra suction. An embarrassingly high keen slips out when he does, and he smirks at a flushed Patroclus.

“You know we could have waited,” Patroclus grit. “You know they’re going to be mad at us.”

The blithe reply of ‘I don’t care’ is muffled by his dick as Achilles continued to suck. When Patroclus still seems distraught, he pulled off with him a serious look.

“If you want to stop, I will. That’s fine. We can go back. But,” he offered, glancing away nonchalantly, “if you want to keep going, I know exactly where the lube and condoms are stored in every guest room.”

Naturally he knew that; he lived here, and Peleus and the rest of the men of PME were notorious for being efficient with their lust after a party. And that’s how Patroclus ended up in this quickie scenario, tongue deep down Achilles’ throat as he continues to press inside him, slapping of skin increasing in speed as he tightens to climax.

Okay, so it’s not not his fault. Sue him.

“Fuck,” Achilles sobs, hand wrapped tight around himself. “I’m close, fuck yes, fuck me, Philtatos, ahhh, right there, yes, ah-”

The music from the party is faint in the distance, the hallway moonlit and blessedly empty, because their cries as they come together echo loudly, from their peak to the way they temper off. If one were listening, they would hear it followed by childish laughter. Patroclus kisses the tears off of Achilles’ cheeks, their chests still heaving together.

“Better?” Achilles whispers, giving him a breathless, toothy smile.

“Much. But we gotta hurry up.”

By the time they shower, put the black tablet on the door handle to mark it for cleaning, and make it back out to the party, Antilochus and Automedon are already holding their hands out.

“Thirty-eight minutes,” Antilochus sneers, snatching his hundred-dollar bill. “New record.”

“We’re getting better?” Patroclus sheepishly tries.

“Fuck you.”

Automedon scowls. “If your voices weren’t worth my job, I’d punch you both in the throat. May I now ask for you two to have some sort of human decency for us and stop doing this?”

“Aw, bestie, you’re so funny,” Achilles cackles, striding into Patroclus’ arms as though he hadn’t spent twenty of thirty-eight minutes being railed into disbelief. “Absolutely not.”

And with two knowing, goofy grins, they meld right back into the crowd to receive their accolades as though they’d never been missing at all. Patroclus sips from a full champagne glass, letting himself fall back into the moment. Being a royal truly had its perks.

Cameras flash as Patroclus gets out of the dark car, a giant bouquet of flowers in his hand the focal point of all the attention. He smiles, making sure to wave past the guards, but behind his sunglasses lays thick annoyance that his caramel eyes have never been able to hide. He'd moved his mother out to a more private community, where she could relax and heal, and it’s obvious that the flowers are for her. Why these leeches even feel the need to be here for this is beyond him- what business could he possibly be getting up to in this sort of place? Do they think he’s secretly sleeping with one of the nurses?

They probably would believe that. He doesn’t read tabloids and refuses to follow anyone other than his friends on social media, so he thankfully sees nothing they write. It’s still a small freedom he allows himself, something that he and Achilles enforce at home to maintain their peace.

Just smile and nod.

Smile and nod.

The mantra only barely carries him through to the foyer, but the moment he makes it out of sight his breath leaves him in a huff. He collapses against the wall, heaving as he tries to gather himself. Try to take slow breaths, his therapist once told him. There’s no rush, and no one can make you do anything you don’t want. You can move at your own pace; take whatever steps you need to take.

Patroclus knows why he’s reacting like this- today he’s come to do something different, something specific that he knows is going to affect his relationship with his mother. It’s been on his mind for weeks, shuffled and reshuffled and argued and shut down over and over until he finally gathered enough nerve.

I got this.

She’ll still love me.

The sun beams down on him as he makes his way into the back garden, where Philomela and her primary caretaker sit amongst the magnolias. The moment her caregiver sees him, she waves, and directs Philomela’s attention. She’s wearing a lovely green summer dress, her hair is in a loose ponytail, and the latest update- bright green pop-bottle glasses. Once Patroclus had the money, he looked into her options for eye surgery, and while her vision isn’t perfect without the gigantic lenses, it’s a far cry from her original grey stare. She’s got a full rainbow’s worth of frames that fill her with delight every day- they both share a love for the things.

“Look, Mel, Pat is here to see you!”

Philomela blinks at Patroclus, cheeks pinking when she sees the pretty bouquet.

“They’re so beautiful! I love flowers! Thank you, baby!”

Warmth bubbles in Patroclus’ chest- it must be a better day, that she remembers him so clearly. How serendipitous! He hands her the flowers, which she takes an exaggerated sniff out of, giggling. Her caregiver lets her play in the petals, before holding a hand out for the flowers.

“Here, I’ll take them, and let you both talk.”

“Put them in the pretty crystal vase, those flowers died.”

“I will, Mel.”

As soon as she walks away, Philomela turns to Patroclus, giving him a long look.

“Hm.”

Patroclus blinks. “Hm?”

Lifting up two gentle hands, Philomela places them on his eyes, rubbing them a couple times, until she seems satisfied.

“There. When I used to dance, we called that ‘removing the glamour’. You still had on your glamour. Now I can see my baby boy- you look anxious.”

Patroclus hadn’t even realized he’d put back on his paparazzi smile- it has come part and parcel with all the attention. Now, he just sits vulnerable in front of his mother, ever so intuitive when her mind is clear.

“What? I’m not… anxious… I’m just thinking about… about if you would be interested in having a house again? One that was all yours, and you could do anything you wanted with it. Or, if it would make you feel safer, you could move in with me and Achilles, too, with your own set of suites. We would love to have you, and you know he’d sing for you whenever you want.”

Philomela loves to sing, and she adores Patroclus’ voice, but sometimes he thinks that she’s Achilles’ biggest fan the way she has him sing for her- whether it be in person, or over the phone. Achilles is no better either, always preening and beaming every time she asks. Philomela giggles at the thought of her son’s dramatic boyfriend.

“I would love either option, especially if I can see you more often. I also need my garden and maybe a nice space to sit in the sun. Maybe some fresh lemonade, too. I could have a lemon tree!”

Patroclus wants to give her an encouraging smile, he really does, but it has always broken his heart how low his mother’s standards were for happiness. He can hear what she’s really saying: space. Freedom. She lived so much of her life as a bird in a sickening cage, that something as simple as sunlight and fresh fruit makes her happy. He takes her hands, squeezing them.

“Well, you can take your time to think about it. There’s no rush. I’ll talk to your caregiver about it as well…”

Birdcalls trill from somewhere in the pink blossoms, and Philomela turns away, distracted by the pretty song. Patroclus bites his lip, trying to shove down his disappointment. It’s okay- maybe today isn’t the day to ask her. He was nervous anyway, so maybe it’s good that she’s no longer paying attention.

“There was something else?”

Patroclus jolts; he’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize Philomela had turned back to him. She blinks, waiting, and Patroclus inhales.

“Mommy, I- I wrote a song. I’m going to sing about us, if it’s okay with you.”

Philomela pouts. “What would be wrong with that?”

“It’s- it’s going to be about- a little bit about Menoetius, and us. And what we faced in that house.” He flinches right after she does at the usually unspoken name, but he rushes on. “I already talked to the producers about it, and they want me to release it with a music video for full effect, after I… told them some of the details. I already have the vision, I’ve detailed the mockup, and…”

Regret crushes his words as Philomela removes her glasses, eyes dark as she relives memories Patroclus can’t even fathom.

“Why?”

Why, why, why, indeed. It almost makes him angry that she’s asking, but he knows that if anyone has the right, it’s her.

“Because there’s something festering inside me,” he answers emphatically, “something that I need to get out, and the only way I know how to do that is by singing it. Maybe if I say something, maybe it will stop bothering me. Maybe it’ll help settle it. Maybe more will spill out. I don’t know. I don’t have to tell the whole world our story, but I feel like I need to say something, just to let out a little of the pressure I feel. I want to say what I want on it, and nothing more or less.”

For a moment, she folds her hands, and he thinks she’s either going to start crying or demand he leave. Sickening fear fills him; he’s messed up, he’s upset Mommy, he didn’t mean to do that and he’s-

“Patroclus.”

Oh no, not his name. Normally he’s ‘baby’, or ‘my child’. “Yes?” he whimpers.

Philomela’s chest quivers. “I’m sorry that it hurts so much. I wish Mommy could make it hurt less.”

Patroclus swiftly moves in front of her, kneeling down to grasp her wringing hands.

“No, Mom. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have brought up something that would bother you.”

“No, baby, it’s my job to protect you. My job…”

You always did, and that’s what I want to show them. “Mommy…”

“And instead, I just get so upset, and I…” Philomela shivers, and then starts blinking in confusion. “I can’t see. Where’s Gloria, does she know where my glasses are? I’m so silly, I misplace my own eyes!” She squints down at Patroclus. “Oh! You! I think I remember you! Do you have something to drink? I love lemonade, let me get you a glass! After I find my glasses, of course.”

Patroclus wants to cry, but he crushes it inside and- as his mother calls it- puts his glamour back on. It’s the clearest acceptance that he’s going to get. He sits back on the small bench, gently lifting her pretty glasses and putting them on her face, watching her light up when she can actually see him. He’ll text everyone involved later to update them, but for now, he sits back on the bench and listens as Philomela happily discusses everything that brings her joy. This is what it was all for, he tells himself, steeling himself against all future anxieties. Whatever the world might have to say is irrelevant; it’s their story, and he’s allowed to tell it now that he’s safe.

The queasiness remains, but he locks it deep away.

TV static scratches abrasively both on screen and in the background before slowly fading into murmured audio of news reels, nighttime TV show hosts, TikTok influencers, Tweets, and tabloids. Over and over, the mysterious Eros, now tragically revealed to the world as Patroclus, one of Achilles’ songwriters and secret lover, stays the topic of conversation. Intermittently, a black screen will flash with bold white letters, questions written in Eros’ scrawl.

Who is he?

Who is this upstart?

Was he lying to PME?

Was he lying to the Prince?

Is he still lying?

Why didn’t he tell anyone?

‘Why didn’t he tell anyone’ lingers on the screen, the cacophony of takes hitting a disturbing crescendo in the background, until they go completely silent when the ‘TV’ cuts off.

The upbeat 80s instrumental leads into a room of lady and nonbinary performers preparing themselves in a chaotically colorful dressing room. Feather boas, discarded costumes, Hollywood bulb lights, glitter and glamour fill the space, the makeup tables messy with the rush.  

“All alone she was living

In a world without an end or beginning

Baby girl was living life for the feeling

But I don't mind, I don't mind, oh-”

The camera zooms in on one woman, her luxurious hair fluffed up into a dramatically high ponytail, interspersed with gemstone studded beads. Her opalescent bra and panties are tight, her black five-inch platforms striking. When the camera gets closer to her face as she rushes to dust on a last puff of glitter, there’s a slight pause revealing mottled bruising around her neck not fully covered by concealer.

“…She was young and all she had was the city

But I don't mind, I don't mind…

And I know (know) that she's capable of anything, it's riveting-”

A small hand tugs at her arm and she smiles widely, taking her glittery brush and powdering it all over her five-year-old son’s face. He giggles, waving a bag of half-eaten sliced apples, and she stands to leave, giving him a kiss and a wave goodbye alongside the other kindly dancers that wave to him.

“But when (when) you wake up she's always gone, gone, gone, oh-”

The scene cuts to the little boy running from the dressing room, peeking into the flashing lights of the performance room as she dances in front of a crowd.

“In the night she hears him calling

In the night she's dancing to relieve the pain

She'll never walk away (I don't think you understand)”

In the awed eyes of her goofy, dancing son, his mother is beautiful, the way she sparkles and spins and twirls around the pole in the middle of the room like an acrobat. She’s stunning, magnetic as he cheers her on from the shadows. The angle widens, losing the sense of naivety as dark figures move forward. Money begins to fall around her, especially when she begins to pull off her bra strap.

“In the night when she comes crawling

Dollar bills and tears keep falling down her face

She'll never walk away (I don't think you understand)”

One of the dancers tugs on the confused little boy’s hand, gently pulling him away. The next beat enters in a dark room, the sliver of blue moonlight revealing the lady’s blank, dissociated face as she lays on a bed, hair bedraggled, staring out the window as her body rocks back and forth.

“He sang a song when he did it

He was cold and he was so unforgiving

Now she dances to the song on the minute

Yeah, all the time (all the time), all the time (all the time), oh-”

The next scene shows the little boy, about eight or nine now, watching nervously from behind a wall as the lady and a man, only identifiable from the neck down, argue violently. The lady wears a simple loose grey dress, all the earlier glamour stripped bare. There are signs of earlier fights, one being the poorly patched up dents in the walls, the other her twitch backwards every time the man moves forward, gesturing aggressively. Still, one arm wrapped around herself, she doesn’t stand down.

“She was young and she was forced to be a woman

Yeah, all the time (all the time), all the time (all the time).

And I know (know) that she's capable of anything, it's riveting

But when (when) you wake up she's always gone, gone, gone, oh-”

As the chorus picks back up, the little boy’s mouth drops in shock, and then fierce delight as his mother finally snaps and points in his face, the man quailing at her fury. It’s clear she’s telling him off, that the entire situation is over, before storming away. Excited, the boy rushes back to his room and grabs a bookbag, shoving a battered action figure, a well-used book, and some shirts and undies into it before rushing back into the foyer. The song slows into a bridge as he arrives, sooner than his mother who is still angrily packing her suitcase.

“I don’t think you understand…”

The line repeats over and over, echoed by crooning, as suddenly, the man appears from shadow wielding a pan. The camera switches to the little boy’s face as he backs away slowly, eyes wide with tears and heartbreak as he bumps into the wall. It’s as though he cannot look away from his own demise. The chorus picks back up with a flash as the man swings down. Eros’ ‘Hey’ slams down at the same time as the pan- at the same time of the lady tackling her son out of the way, taking the blow to the back of the head.

“In the night she hears him calling (yeah)

In the night she's dancing to relieve the pain (to relieve the pain)

She'll never walk away (no, no, no, I don't think you understand, hey)”

It feels sharper now, the direct accusation that Eros sobs into the music. Like poorly held onto, or perhaps repressed memories, there are only flashing moments of the little boy fleeing the home, the ambulance taking the lady away on a stretcher, the unusually calm police leading the unusually calm man away. Tears fall down the boy’s face in his front yard as he falls to the ground, screaming to the sky, left abandoned to come to grips with reality. He remains there as the song fades with one final

“I

don’t

think

you

understand.”

The video cuts out for a moment before the man, face still hidden, leads a now young teen into a hallway.

“You will sing like your life depends on it,” is all he hisses.

The young teen stiffens, but then freezes. The camera widens, showing the sudden connection across a hall between himself and another young boy his age, with blond hair and confident set shoulders. The video fades.

“Is everything set up? Camera working?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Makeup check!”

“You look perfect, ma’am.”

“Little flirt! Okay- let’s do this!”

Calypso waves away the adorably flushing, curly haired gopher- despite his bashful nature, she knows that he’ll be an excellent lay with a little… ‘training’. He’d already put her number in his phone with no hesitation. Now that she thinks about it, he might be clingy afterwards…no good. Luckily, it’s her burner phone for hookups, and he’s an intern.

Eh. Shrugging, she takes a deep breath and smiles, teeth bright white against the luscious pink lipstick she’s advertising today. Mirage, the name of her livestreamed podcast and her recent creative brainchild, has paid off richly with its commercial success. Despite being professionally filmed in one of her guest rooms turned studio, viewers can see the ease of her ‘personal recording’ within pristine white walls filled with its classy décor that is, of course, financed by famous interior decorators who want advertisement. Today in particular she has a clear shelf showcasing an array of sunglasses and fashionable eyeglasses on a small table. It stands in between herself and the empty chair to her left.

“And- action!”

Calypso waves her blood red, diamond encrusted acrylics into the camera, blowing kisses for good measure. “Hello, and welcome all to Mirage. Succumb to temptation with a subscribe and trust me- you’ll never want to leave!”

Calypso has hosted awards shows, live TV broadcasts, and presented in many a packed auditorium, so she never thought the tinny sound of live feed notifications would ever bring her joy, but something about its impatience always gives her a tingle of satisfaction.

“Today we have a special guest,” she teases, laughing with delight as the pinging increases in speed. “Fresh off of his latest single release, and I want to introduce him with all the aplomb he deserves. Our guest today is the hottest new face taking the music and fashion world on by storm. Many consider him to be ‘ethereal’ on the screen and in his voice, his handsome face and melancholy evoking both youth and wisdom beyond his years.”

From behind the camera, one of the workers changes the live feed screen into numerous clips of Eros’ magazine covers and photoshoots. The first is of a fae photoshoot, where he wears a lace thin green top, loose black pants, and thin wings. His skin is dusted with light blue highlights, his lips covered in a clear gloss, and his curls have been done so that they hang loose around pixie ears. He reclines in multiple poses in the forest, including a longing gaze into the water like Narcissus, and a wistful glance into the light filtering into the canopy, making his brown eyes gleam like water over polished stone.

“Wherever he goes, you know a sense of sensuality will simmer behind him. Fashion companies and journalism beg to have a little of his thoughts, and he always manages to leave you wanting just a little bit more.”

The next set are of a film noir shoot, black and white. He dons a completely white suit, a black flower in the coat pocket, and a cigarette holder lit aesthetically for a sliver of smoke. There are other models in the shoot, surrounding him with the glamourous wear, but it is Eros that stands out in every set, the James Bond figure gripped in the midst of drama and danger.

“And if there’s a convention? Best believe, he knows better than we whether or not to follow it.”

The pinging of the chat picks up again with the Western-themed photoshoot. Aiming for provocative while trying to compromise with Patroclus (who openly abhorred the original outfit) rather than wear the entire leather get up, Eros wears the leather chaps. But instead of the old-fashioned hat and vest, he stares longingly into the distance wearing the loose white shirts of the industrious women that showcases his collarbone and neck, tied together tightly with a dusty clay-red corset that sold out within hours of the photo release. Everyone who looked upon it felt that they were being tempted by a soft-hearted rogue and fell in love with the look.

(Especially Achilles, who demanded he wear the corset on its own upon his return to the house. It received a glowing five-star review on his social media after a couple hours of fervently riding a cowboy.)

There’s one thing in common for all the shoots- he will never bare his full torso. The reminder of Elysium everyone is practically voyeuristic for is always neatly covered, a part that Eros will not share with them no matter what. The clips fade, coming back into Calypso’s room where she tries on a bright blue pair of glasses, the bottom rimmed with thin gold.

“Today, I’ve even brought a sneak peek of his new glasses collection with the Oracle brand, ‘Rainbow’! They’ll be dropping the line tonight, so make sure you’re either outside the stores or constantly refreshing your order screen because these babies? Hot, just like their designer. Oracle claims that Eros’ warm eyes and naturally long, curling eyelashes are so striking that he had to model- which, so true- and we know Eros, the gentleman that he is. He offered to collab, and what an outcome!”

Patroclus does love his sunglasses and glasses collection. It’s become a bit of a guilty pleasure- some people bought clothes, shoes, trinkets, and while his closet finally is good enough to be comparable to Achilles’, his true delight is in his small drawers neatly organizing his expensive glasses. He doesn’t have that many, maybe a dozen per season, but he likes gifting the extra ones the brand gives him to his mom, as well as his friends. 

“I could go on forever about how we could look at him forever, but why look at pictures when we can behold the man himself?” Calypso grandly gestures towards the seat, applauding for the unheard in the chat. “Come on in, Eros- or should I say, the man behind the mask, Patroclus!”

Grinning, Patroclus slowly makes his way toward the chair the jumpy assistant had shown him earlier. His directions beyond there had been simple enough- make eye contact with Calypso, and occasionally look into the green X above the camera so that the fans can see him every now and then. He can do this.

Out of town for a beach photoshoot, Achilles had called while Patroclus stood ‘off stage’, nervous about the interview with the infamous journalist.

“Because it’s Auntie Calypso, they’re going to be more probing questions than the average journalist or interviewer’s. So, if she makes you uncomfortable, or you feel like you’re going to say something you don’t want to, just don’t say anything.”

It’s telling that Achilles, one of the most outspoken people he knows, is cautioning against speaking too much. Calypso must be good at her job.

“You’ll look mysterious when you do it, and you’re not a good liar so you’ll just fumble otherwise, and I’ll cringe at you.”

Patroclus had smacked his lips in annoyance. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

“I am helping you! Anyway, I have to go. Have fun, Philtatos. I look forward to hearing your answers later on.”

“Are you? They say those who drop eaves never hear good of themselves.”

“‘Drop eaves’, fuck you. I’ll see you later, okay? You’ll do great.”

They’d kissed into the phone, and then Patroclus had made his way into the studio. He now shares a warm hug with Calypso, who seems genuinely delighted to see him, and then curls into the plush white chair. Calypso sits primly, gazing over him with sharp, inquisitive eyes.

“I’m so happy to see you here! Just think, this is so different from when we first met, hm Patroclus?”

“Very. Who knew, right?”

Pouting her lips in dramatic thought, Calypso hums. “Hm, I have an eye for the special. You always had a spark about you- not many people can affect the Pop Princeling, yet you already had him round your little finger.”

She takes more time to look him over, allowing the viewers to take him in. He’s wearing regular blue jeans, a well-fitting sapphire blue long sleeved shirt, and a pair of black glasses from his collab. His curls are a little longer than usual, fresh out of a two-strand twist and hang just slightly over the rim. Calypso finds her angle and goes for it.

“You look so normal, Pat. Very handsome, as always, don’t get me wrong! But your image usually evokes such raw emotion, it’s almost strange to see you-”

“Not look like Eros, right? Should I be sorry?” Patroclus raises a brow, some his natural snark sliding across, and Calypso grins at his teasing.

“No, of course not, darling! It’s nice to see you give some bite! That’s what we like to see!”

When Patroclus smiles back, the chat dings away.

SummersSaber: his voice is so soft, so sweet omg ill never get over it

Topland: He looks great! Dont listen to Caly shes so meeeannn

FelineKaptain: shut up- look at that megawatt smile!

PtcherPoshy: I mean he could have tried a little bit more, hes too rich for this

ChromeDoll: @PtcherPoshy tried?? do you see the body underneath geez im sweating over here

Epyxia: omg no wonder achilles is whipped id die for this man already

“So, onto one of the biggest questions- if you want to talk about this one, I’ll throw away my entire question list. Are you interested in talking about Elysium? It’s been some time since the incident.”

So, if she makes you uncomfortable, or you feel like you’re going to say something you don’t want to, just don’t say anything.

Patroclus shakes his head. “Not really, no. I hope that people enjoyed the performance, I was really nervous about it. I had a good time and watching all my friends perform while being right up front was really cool for me.”

“But you don’t want to get into the gritty details, do you?”

“You can, if you want, but I don’t want to answer any questions about it, no.”

“Too soon?”

He can see how people have cracked under the pressure before; he’s only in a small room with a couple of other people, and yet she’s turned up the heat without much effort at all. Patroclus takes a moment to look away, and when he looks back his eyes are frosty.

“I just like to control the expression of my own pain, is all.” Patroclus shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like everyone hasn’t seen what happened. I just-”

“Take your time.”

“It was painful, demoralizing, in a way that I want to settle with myself, first. I’ll sing about it when I’m ready, as I’m sure you’re aware. That’s all I’ll say on that.”

Undaunted, Calypso’s expression remains unchanged for a couple of moments. Then she smiles, impressed. “Strong answer. We’ll move on, Pat, okay?” She can see that he’s shaking, just a little, and despite popular belief Calypso’s not a monster, so she reaches over to squeeze his hand in comfort.

“Thank you.”

It’s an easier, free-flowing conversation from then on, as Calypso asks him questions behind his mindset when first making his music. Patroclus easily discusses how in the beginning it was more about channeling his feelings into a persona, given that he hadn’t sang for such a long time.

“I wanted to express the darkness of my emotions, without always having to apply them directly,” he explains to a seriously nodding Calypso. “It was like how people write stories, I was writing stories- except, because it wasn’t ‘me’, I didn’t have to really acknowledge too much. It’s not my pain, it’s Eros’.”

Willglossy: See if he’d gone to therapy we wouldn’t have those bangers so

Anarchri: Our idols have OCs too, were NORMAL

JameEdgy: lmao hes so damaged

FoxKat: the projection is unreal in that first EP

Recipeas: achilles had him PISSED huh

“Now, it’s more than that. I can enjoy it more. My therapist and I had a really good conversation about that, about how I’m allowed to write anything I want, tell any type of story I want, and that really helped to expand my ideas. They don’t have to apply to my own life if I don’t want them to. So now I can get really creative!”

“Your eyes are sparkling,” Calypso replies, energized. “I love to see it! I cannot wait to see what you manage to pull from your soul next. Why don’t we get more specific- your first EP, Eros. Imagine, we were all adrift in this world, then suddenly this mystery voice was being blasted by Achilles himself that drew us all in. What inspired some of the ideas behind that?”

Patroclus chuckles, scratching at his nose. “Funny story, the name was an accident. Mine, I mean. The EP was supposed to be called ‘Eros’. Imagine my shock when I woke up and it was the title and the artist. Antilochus got excited.”

“What were you going to be?”

“Anonymous, up to that point. I hadn’t thought of a name, and he told me he couldn’t change it before people had already seen it. As for Achilles, I got lucky that he liked it- really, it was Automedon who liked the songs and showed him- otherwise no one would have ever heard of me so quickly, if at all.”

“Well, blessings to happy accidents! I have the titles right here; we can go in order starting with Tales of Dominica.”

Patroclus tries to control his grimace as she slides the paper across to him, his five titles scrawled in script. She really had every eventuality prepared, didn’t she?

“Well, for Tales- moving from Dominica, leaving behind all of that for Mt. Pelion, and then the Phthia estate? Being around the rich and famous? It was like walking into Heaven and knowing you weren’t ever meant to be one of the angels.”

Calypso grasps her chest. “How poetic, oh my goodness.”

Laughing lightly, Patroclus continues. “It was constant imposter syndrome. It was incredibly overwhelming at first, but when my only other choice was to turn back… well, Antilochus had the idea to make that a vibe and it worked. Moving on to House of Balloons- I remember the night that inspired it vividly. It was at your party, that night we met, and I was struggling to breathe. You gave me the advice, ‘if it hurts to breathe, open a window’-”

“I knew I recognized my advice in it!” shrieks Calypso, pointing like a fangirl. “I said, ‘see, this Eros knows what he’s talking about’! I’m honored!”

“Well, as you remember, I saw Achilles that night, and-to be fair-” he says, raising his hands in placation, “he was doing his thing amongst the masses, but I just- I couldn’t stand it. He felt so far away from me. It was like, in this place I had to fit in, to accept that this was normal, or I would never reach him again.”

“You’re happy in a happy house?”

“Exactly. It wasn’t like we were kids anymore, and our relationship wasn’t quite so solid yet. So, after you gave some more advice, I turned around and left.”

“The beginning, huh? So spicy. Thank you for sharing that with us!”

“No problem. It’s a little embarrassing, but I figured you ought to know what you inspired.” When he waggles his brow at Calypso, she giggles and waves him on.

“Lonely Star?”

“You’re trying to expose me at this point!”

“It is an interview!”

“Oh boy. I think that was when the ‘Eros’ thing really kicked in. Like, if the first two were Patroclus trying to find his footing, Eros kicked in when I wanted to be someone I wasn’t, to put into words what I couldn’t say. I wanted validation in my life. I recognize now that it wasn’t fair to want all of that from my partner, that there were things that I personally needed beyond my relationship, but at the time, I just felt like I wanted… I wanted him all to myself. Like I could offer him something no one else could, even if I’d never be known for it.”

“By Thursday- which was the last song I wrote- I was asking myself, what if I was as emotionally unavailable as I thought he was. I put myself in that position, to see how I felt in a position of dismissal. It was toxically fun, really. Like, again the change-”

Feeling spontaneous, Patroclus removes his glasses, tilts his head, and begins to croon.

Why are you calling again? Oh again?

But it’s not Thursday, baby why you calling?

The energy in the room changes for a moment, filling with an anticipation of more, a thirst that the song sings of… and then Patroclus pops his glasses back on.

“-and then back again, it was like oh- you’ve fully immersed in this persona.”

Calypso, as well as every assistant and viewer, stares with their mouths dropped open. It takes a couple seconds where Patroclus thinks he’s gotten too excited, when Calypso’s mouth finally spreads into a smile. 

“That was so hot! Forget what I said earlier about your clothes- it’s clear that you bring the heat no matter what!”

Buggyle: stop! Bc did you see the way he transformed????

JoeSchmoee: only someone who could turn their back on achilles could hold this much power

RappaRomantic: im wet. All of me. The man just told me to go away and im wet.

Casualcrash: that man said ‘im gonna embody toxicity’ and went and did it magnificently im-

“All right, last but not least- The Hills! This is your most explosive song out of the five, for sure. The one that everyone is like, oh! This guy, okay!”

“Another funny story: the scream in the background, it was because I was BAKING in that recording closet, fed up of Antilochus, and he edited it and dropped it into the song. Bastard. Anyway, I wrote that one at the same time as House of Balloons. I think it was me trying to project, again, but this time indulging in the storytelling a little more. Like, am I this person, doing someone else wrong the way I’d been done wrong? Have I come full circle, no longer the victim, but the toxic perpetrator of behavior that I once hated? It helped to set the tone for Lonely Star and Thursday, in a backwards way. It just felt like a good, cathartic ending, and I was happy with that.”

“Catharsis is right! I always feel like I’ve screamed at every toxic booty call after hearing it. Speaking of catharsis- do you ever plan on officially releasing Achilles Come Down as an official single?”

Patroclus gives that disappointing headshake once more. “No. It’s for him, it was always for him, more than anyone else. The rest of you will be okay.”

Calypso pouts, but quickly moves on. “We all know that your boo’s other favorite song is How Long. It’s one of my favorites too, a definite sound and vibe change from the EP, and yet managing to grasp onto that same catharsis and toxicity as ever. How’d you feel, hearing him sing it?”

Patroclus’ chest huffs with laughter, and he has to sniff to calm himself down.

“I’m sorry. It was… Weird? He would go insane over it, and I’m in the car twiddling my fingers- you know, like a liar! Like I explained before, a lot of my earlier music is about my frustrations about us and he just didn’t know it, but that one in particular was just like...oops?”

“Oh?” Calypso’s eyes flash. “That was around the Scyros Scandal- you were on a break at that time, right? There was a lot of heat between Achilles and Deidameia at that time.”

“Hm. Interesting end to that conflict, for sure,” murmurs Patroclus- and then his ears burn when he realizes what he’s done.

“I knew it! I knew it was makeup sex! Do you remember the damage you did to that man!”

“Auntie!”

“Achilles was so bold about it! I remember that day like it was yesterday, the way IG blew up with my godson’s torso. Where were you?”

“I wore a jacket that day and left. No one noticed me at any point.”

NephewSpice: You can see he didn’t mean to say that!

Authentitty: he left Achilles looking like that and I just wanna be next

IssueDoom: it should have been deidameia :’(

Pittnose: @IssueDoom hey stfu

ActuallySkate: The fact that Achilles loves his own breakup song is confidence on a scale I’ll never have

“Okay, okay, as much as I know everyone would love the deets, we’re running low on time, so here’s our last set of questions for today. Your latest single, In the Night: it’s a harrowing watch, if I must be honest.”

Patroclus nods, embarrassment quickly subdued as his eyes fall.

“In the Night is definitely the darkest and most personal story, but it’s mine and my mother’s, and it felt like I needed to get it out now that… everything seems settled. I couldn’t possibly tell everything she went through in one video, but I think, for right now, it’s enough.”

Squeezing his hand once more, Calypso’s voice lowers to a gentle whisper.

“Needed to get it out?”

Subconsciously, Patroclus nods. “It’s hard for people to conceive of how that entire situation happened, how I could have possibly managed to hide what I hid, and why. So often, so many ignorant tweets, ‘How could he lie’ ‘how could he stay’ ‘why didn’t he say anything’.” With a slow blink, he looks directly at the green X, into the camera. “I figured if they ever saw a glimpse of what I’d seen they’d realize that they’ll never understand, on a personal level, why it meant so much to me to protect my mother, and how hard it was for me to take the chances I did. And that I don’t need to tell them anything else, but if I do, it’s because I want to.”

“‘I don’t think you understand’, right? You constantly emphasize that throughout the song.”

“I do.”

“And you felt the need to defend yourself?”

“I felt the need to set the record straight, both for my own pain- I’ve never shouted it so loudly- and so that if they keep lying, that’s on them. They’ve been told more than I ever owed them.”

Updaterson: well shit he just told yall didnt he? sensationalizing just enough of his pain

BozChatty: I wanna kno more!

BozChatty: I mean he cant be mad at us for wanting to know when he just came out of nowhere

Royalon: @BozChatty yeah but its not one he owed anybody like that shit was horrific

BozChatty: @Royalon then he shouldnt have made a video about it

Royalon: @BozChatty missed the whole fkin point of the video there, didnt you

Stripperte: @BozChatty say youve never been a victim without saying…

“Your father- and I don’t mean to imply anything by this- we’ve seen him in the news, and he is not a horrible looking man. It almost seems unbelievable that someone could be so cruel but not reflect it outwardly.”

Point made, Patroclus turns back to Calypso. “My mom, she used to say that his curly hair and beard were to die for. She loved him in the beginning. Every monster doesn’t look like one, I guess.”

“Did- did the cops really not do anything? How was that man allowed to go back home after attempted murder?”

A sardonic look mars Patroclus’ expression. “Let’s just say the system doesn’t value certain victims. Plus, he was a famous underground boxer, at the time. ‘The Titan’, they called him; ‘down on his luck’ after an injury. They respected him from his glory days, wanted him back in the ring to make them money, I bet. They probably also beat- never mind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“That is very understandable. We can move on from that, of course we can. It ends with you meeting Achilles at the end, at what was a-?”

“It was that first audition- I bailed on it. But he found me, and he noticed, in all of five minutes of meeting me, that something was wrong. He tried to help me get out. He didn’t succeed, but he still tried.” Patroclus’ shoulders straighten, his expression strong and true.

“You have to realize, meeting him was actually the best thing that could have happened to me. Not necessarily how, but the outcome. Achilles heard only a little of my story, and that was all it took. Achilles, and Peleus for that matter, were essential to my safety. I wouldn’t have thrived the way I did if I didn’t have somewhere to go, a safe place to start. Even- even his mother, and she didn’t even mean to; but I don’t want to go into that. Point is, I’m eternally grateful to everyone at PME for everything they’ve done to help me get out of that situation. I’m also grateful to Mr. Chiron and Antilochus, even Mr. Priam- you wouldn’t have Eros without their encouragement. I’d have stayed silent forever. I might not even be alive, really.”

Majoris: Achilles saved him, omg my heart

PlanetFamous: they love each other so much I want this kind of love

SpotBlue: I can’t believe people act like he lied to achilles for funsies

CuteGlossy: if it’s one thing he won’t do, is let you trash talk his man or his mama, you hear?

Infoser: look at that look! So protective! Strong! I love it!

Calypso leans forward to pinch his cheek, forcing Patroclus to drop his serious expression and blush.

“You just keep on loving him, then, and you tell Auntie if he’s not treating you right. But! Bonus question, just based off of that- how did you feel about Achilles the first time? Love at first sight? It had to be, based off of how the entire planet treats my godson.”

Snickering, Patroclus covers his mouth with a sleeve.

“Not at all! I thought he was a showoff and a bit of a shit, to be honest. But when I calmed down, escaped from my- escaped, and saw him audition, I realized that I was just bitter. How nice must it have been, to be healthy and happy, to stand and sing so proudly. And then when we met… he was really sweet. He admitted to singing out of turn to get my attention- so I think maybe he fell in love at first sight. But, you’d have to ask him, won’t you?”

When he winks at Calypso before fleeing the set to end the interview on his own terms, she throws the paper at him.  

“Don’t wink at me like that, teasing! You both are too precious! Don’t run out of the room, we have to finish it officially!”

Chronocrisp: he’s struggling so much with his traumas and im crying

SlashWisdom: the way he cut himself off- I hate it

TalesInticr: lmao not pat saying fk achilles that first time

PinkNip: Achilles had love at first sight and immediately fumbled, hes a peon like us all

Achilles (verified): He’s right. I fell in love immediately upon seeing him. I just had to sing I was so enamored. Luckily, he’s always given me another chance when I am foolish.

TheSand: …...was that…. holy fuck did thee ACTUAL achilles just get on this live feed and comment?

Once he escapes from Calypso’s grasp, Patroclus skitters towards the emergency staircase, cackling as he runs away. His security team is exasperated, following close behind, but they know that he won’t go far. It’s a twenty-story journey down from her penthouse, and he burns out by floor fourteen, sitting down to check his phone.

“Patroclus, now you know better,” the main security lead chastises once she steps down, pushing her glasses up to give him a wizened eye. The commanding lady was in her mid-fifties, short but deceptively strong, her cinnamon biceps curling against her black shirt and silvery hair. If Patroclus had to picture what his grandmother could be like, the sweet yet stern woman would be it. 

“I know, I know,” he placates, giving her a childish grin. “I just had some extra energy, is all. I promise I’ll go down the elevator with you. Can I just have a moment?”

As always, she exudes her grandmotherly energy by tut-tutting at him, but waving the rest of the security team to the closest door. “We’ll be standing right here. If you don’t come out this door in five minutes, I’ll scruff you like a cat.”

He has absolutely zero doubt that she could do it, too, saluting her. “Yes, ma’am.”

When the metal door closes, Patroclus slips his phone out, grinning at his ‘Besties’ group chat blowing up.

BriBB: the new resident showoff!

TiLo: Bro I can’t believe our success came from you being salty while I was at the toilet.

BriBB: you’ve been around Achilles too long, what was that smize?! The acapella??

BriBB: Who do you think you are??

TiLo: I just thought you bummed out on a top tier party

PattyCakes: @BriBB I felt inspired

PattyCakes: @TiLo I thought I told you what happened after that party

BriBB: I felt inspired from your inspiration

TiLo: @PattyCakes you didn’t tell me shit, you just brooded darkly and then texted with music ideas and I went with it

PattyCakes: I swear that’s not how I remember it

TiLo: you’re WELCOME about your name btw. My genius instinct.  

His heart warms when he checks his private texts, saved for the more heartfelt messages.

Bri: I’m super proud of you, Pat. I saw that video and it made me want to sob, it was both beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. It must have been really hard to relive, to write down, and to expose something so hurtful and vulnerable to the world, but you did it, and you did it with pride. I look up to you- you are Strong, and you are True, Pat. If you need to talk anything out, you know I’m a FT away.

T: Dude. I don’t know how you do it. Phenomenal. I’ll always appreciate that I was the first person you talked to about this whole thing, bc it’s a lot that you never had to say. Every time you drop new lore, I just wish I could go back and kick everyone’s ass the day I met you. I could do it now, if you want. You just let me know. I’ll call the rest of the A’s right now, you know that we’re all honored to have your back.

Auto: Hey man, I saw the music video. A true piece of art. Idk what I could possibly say to encompass it, or what you’ve been through, but just know that you’re loved and supported, okay?

Auto: Also, Achilles has a surprise for you, but he can’t come to the phone right now -_- but he told me to tell you that he hasn’t seen the video yet- he’s waiting for you- and, in summary, that he’s thinking about you. I’m not even going to say all the shit he wanted me to say. You both are gross.

Chuckling warmly, Patroclus presses the phone to his heart. It’s something for sure, to have such good friends and a boyfriend that adored him so much. When he was that little boy, knelt low to the ground wondering what he’d done to deserve the life he had, he never thought that it could be like this. He’ll do anything to preserve it, even if it means being hovered over by his new security detail at all times of the day-

“I’m coming,” he whines as he bounces up to the security lead now giving him narrow eyes through the door. “I didn’t leave, see! Still here.”

She blinks slowly, pleased like a matronly cat as they step onto the elevator with the three large men in the detail. “Look, I know you’re a well behaved one. Forgive me, I spent some time on your boyfriend’s detail before I got to you, and thought I’d have to- well, anyway. I’m traumatized, losing track of somebody that popular. He’s such a sweetheart, to act the way he does!”

“What a succinct way to describe Achilles,” Patroclus teases, eyes wide when she waves a finger in his face. Before she can accuse him of being a charmer, his phone rings, and the caller ID only dampens his spirits momentarily.

“Odysseus,” he answers, steeling himself for the silvery tongue.

“Patroclus, my favorite! Just wanted to tell you- the singing? Inspired, truly. You’re a natural at this, don’t you know?”

Odysseus is truly one of his biggest fans within PME administration, for one major reason: in comparison to the absolute dogfight he has to have with both certain artists and certain coworkers, Patroclus is unreasonably amenable to almost everything upon explanation. Partially due to his naivete when it comes to dealing with entertainment titans, a good lawyer (Diomedes, more often than not) and encouragement are usually enough to convince Patroclus into an idea.

Patroclus is not blind to his efforts, and at times he feels like Odysseus is playing him for a fool. Still, he plays along, as it helps when he wants to ask for larger favors later on. Also, to his credit, as slippery and ruthless as Odysseus can be, the man isn’t heartless. Alongside the work he did to help Patroclus get out of multiple dire situations, he also recognizes that the stability of his job depends on the stability of his workers, however temporary the solutions may be (“it’s why I’m really the one in charge of our more special, difficult clientele, though Agamemnon takes much of the credit”).

Patroclus bites his lip as he remembers one of the first conversations they’d had about his newfound fame, and one of the requirements for that stability.

The small, brightly lit office room with white walls and gray carpet almost feels like an interrogation room the way Odysseus and Diomedes sit him into a chair. The table in front of Patroclus has multiple binders on it, plus the screen in the front glows blue with a main screen for a presentation.

“Here’s some water,” Diomedes offers, handing him the pleasantly cool bottle. “You might need it.”

Frowning, Patroclus shrinks into himself. “What’s going on? Am I in trouble?”

Achilles only chuckled when Patroclus told him that he’d been summoned for “the talk”, explaining that it was simply a rite of passage for adult artists. But Achilles could be blasé about many things, so now Patroclus feels right to have been worried. Odysseus laughs, gripping his shoulder uncomfortably tight.

“Not at all, young one. It’s just that this is always an interesting conversation, so we want you to steel your nerves for it.”

Thanks for nothing, Patroclus wants to sneer to everyone involved, but he controls his expression and takes a drink from the bottle.

“Diomedes, if you could grab that first binder.”

Diomedes heavily tosses down the first, white binder before backing away with an odd expression on his face. Odysseus gestures grandly at it. 

“We’ll start light, with fanart. Feel free to take a look.”

…

Light?!

Fanart?

Bemused, Patroclus peels open the first page. His eyes, pinched out of nerves, widen in shock, heat rushing to his ears. Soon he’s onto the second, third, next page. For fifteen minutes, Patroclus runs through the first, and then the second provided binder, both thick with art.

They’re mostly of him. But… very sexualized. He does work out, so he knows he’s got a nice body. Achilles finds all ways to tell him he’s hot, and Briseis checks his outfits and pictures to let him know when he’s got a look going. But he’s not- he’s not this ripped. One of these pictures has his dick- his dick that all these artists apparently really want to see- the size of a squash. He looks like he has gills in this one! When it comes to his scar, it seems like everyone is guessing at the severity of it, with some dangerously close to accurate and others dramatically overblown. Sometimes they get his hair and nose right, other times not so much, but for the most part he can tell that these are supposed to be him.

Some of the art is of him and Achilles in…suggestive positions. A couple of the pages have him tilting his head, as well as the book, to figure out what limbs were located where. How people could draw these things so realistically was mindboggling to him. Music was very much his talent, because art? A preschooler would put him to shame. A couple of them he keeps locked in mind, with the incredibly inventive positions. This one, for example, he knows would drive Achilles wild, and in return, he could have this one. This, and this, and this…

By the end of the second binder, he dares a peek up at Odysseus. As always, the man is quietly judging him; he knows he saw his secret admiration! He won’t even dare a look at Diomedes.

“You had to look at all of these to make this binder. Sorry?” he offers sheepishly, cheeks flushed. Odysseus raises his hands in non-offense.

“While I never wanted to see you, or Achilles, in any sort of light like this, rest assured that this is not new, and is very necessary to understand and accept. Didn’t have to dig deep for it either. You’re doing a very good job taking all of this in, so far!”

“Historically,” offers Diomedes, “the most disturbing fanart in its day was with Theseus.”

Odysseus shudders, a small cringe on his face. “Lots of, uh… animals on that one. Not the Furry or monsterfucker angle, either. Had to learn about that one as a rookie. Made me itch eating dinner some nights. Luckily he only had two major albums before going into a new career.”

As long as he doesn’t have to see those pictures, Patroclus is mostly unperturbed. He knew this happened; Achilles had once told him about the insane amounts of fanart and RPF that existed of him on the internet. They’d even sat down one weekend and gone on a viewing spree to rate their favorite art, with Achilles trying to match the dramatic poses and Patroclus mocking his “too small” muscles. One of Patroclus’ favorite artists had shown up in the binder and had done a very good job on with his lips, hair, and cheekbones. Ten out of ten work; he planned on finding her Instagram and liking it officially.

“Regardless, here’s the next set of images.” Diomedes places a new binder, oddly thin in comparison, in front of him. When Patroclus’ brow raises, he shrugs. “We didn’t think it would take too long to make a point.”

Bold after the first couple binders, Patroclus charges ahead into this one- and leans back in exasperation, scowling. It’s of Achilles, wrapped in a loving embrace with Deidameia.

“Are you serious?”

“Keep looking, Patroclus.”

Huffing, Patroclus petulantly flips through the next set of pictures. More Achilles and Deidameia, staring into each other’s eyes, lost in each other’s arms, orgasmic with superfluous evidence of bodily fluids, happy pregnancy, cherubic baby, blah, blah, blah. Occasionally, there’s one of Achilles and Ajax (how did they manage to make such a rough and tumble guy looks so pristine?) which make him genuinely laugh. And then his humor dies once as he turns to another one of Achilles and Deidameia.

“They don’t even have a good ship name,” he whines as he passes one of the printed fanfictions, not even bothering to read past the ecstatic opening note.

He’s about ready to throw the book across the room when the next picture gives him pause. This time it’s not Deidameia, but instead there’s a brunet white man lost in Achilles’ overly muscular embrace. Patroclus tosses the binder on the table and full handedly points at it.

“I don’t even know who this is! Who is this? Is he someone I know?”

Odysseus snickers, and even Diomedes has to look down to hide a smile.

“He is in your circle, yes.”

Narrowing his eyes, Patroclus looks down at the art. It doesn’t look like anyone he knows.

“Do they think he’s with Automedon? That would never happen either.” It doesn’t look like Automedon either, but he’s the only dark brunet he knows that’s within their small circle.

“You’re very confident in your relationship.”

“Achilles would have your tongue for suggesting anything otherwise.”

“So who is it?”

“Do you want one more guess?”

“Quit fucking with me, Odysseus.”

Odysseus shrugs. “It’s you.”

“…” Patroclus gives him an odd smile. “But… it’s not me.” Does the man think he’s an idiot?

“But it is.”

“I assure you, that this is not me. I look at myself every day.”

“Don’t you know?” Odysseus teases. “They know you better than you.”

He’s got to be fucking with him. There’s no way. Patroclus looks over to Diomedes- if the man hides one more snide look he might storm out- and Diomedes only gestures as though to say don’t you get it?

“But… but they know-”

“You’re so precious,” condescends Odysseus. “It’s who they want you to be. It doesn’t matter who you are.”

“But it does! My music, and my face very clearly show that I’m not-”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not? Because it should!”

“If I had an answer for you, I would give it. I don’t. It’s not okay, but no amount of explaining why it isn’t, and telling them that they need to stop, has stopped them yet. You should see how they treat Briseis. The poor girl. I’d lose my mind. Probably choose violence on the daily.”

“…Do they do this to Achilles?”

“They do not.”

Unsure of what else to do, Patroclus discards the binder to the floor in disdain. “I get your point. Can we move on?”

Diomedes tosses it into the trash under Patroclus’ wrathful gaze. The blue screen, so far ignored, shifts into a plain PowerPoint.

“Now,” Odysseus points, “I’m going to put up some tweets about you, from your antis.”

“Antis?” He knew people disliked him, but not to the point of receiving that title. At least not yet! “What have I done to make people hate me that deeply?”

“We’ll start with the Ants.”

Patroclus’ stomach both sinks like a rock and rises like a bulge in his throat. Someone might as well tell someone to light themselves on fire when they heard they were a target. The Ant Army- shortened to the Ants- are the ‘Pop Princeling’s’ official fandom. They are notorious for being some of the most aggressive fans in music and entertainment, swarming anyone that is deemed a ‘threat’ to Achilles at any point. Even their crown prince avoids displeasing the horde if possible; it had been a rocky period when he’d been on social media after Elysium and the incident with Hector.

The hate from the Ants on Patroclus ranges. He’s too ugly for their Prince (usually rooted in racism); he’s a homewrecker (they shipped Achilles and Deidameia); he’s got no real talent (which, not true and not fair); he’s not good enough for Achilles because no one will ever be good enough for Achilles (what is he supposed to do about that?); he almost got Achilles in trouble by getting shot (he’s baffled, really!)

“So I should have died?”

“To the ones that think like this fan? Yes.”

Twenty malicious tweets in, Patroclus’ eyes sting with tears, his heart in his throat. He wants to tell them to stop, that he’s seen enough, but his tongue is twisted. This is why he doesn’t spend too much time on media. Something in him chafes in indignity at his emotional state; he used to be good at dealing with deprecating comments and abuse like this. It’s not even the first time he’s been told to die. Why is he acting so soft now? This shouldn’t hurt in comparison; these are strangers.

Someone actually shot you, he gently reminds himself. It’s different to hear that someone wished they’d succeeded. You’re allowed to be sad about it. Still, he’s not sure that Achilles and everyone else got the conversation like this, or experienced it like him, because from the way the blood is rushing in his ears, he’s not going to be okay. Why did Achilles laugh at this? What was the point of this?

Behind him, Diomedes gives Odysseus a strained look- they’d argued about the risk of triggering Patroclus beforehand, but Odysseus had been determined that Patroclus should see the truth. Now, they witness the way Patroclus is wilting under some of the worst comments they could find after going through an hour of hateful tags. Finally, Diomedes sighs, sitting next to him.

“It wasn’t our intention to hurt you,” he soothes, seeing the way Patroclus’ eyes quiver. “We show things like this to our artists because, unfortunately, these sorts of people exist. We don’t want you to be caught off guard by vitriol, or to feel like no one warned you when it inevitably happens. We don’t want you to crack under the strain. Now, I will admit, you more than any of our current artists have more experience with violence both personal and non-personal, and so we won’t show you anymore- Odysseus- or treat you like you’re not more aware than they, but you should know that for every stupid comment like this, there’s more support for you.”

Odysseus flicks to the next slide and a slow, mending hope builds in Patroclus’ heart as he looks at all the positive messages defending him, building on top of one another in deep threads beneath the hurtful tweets. Messages that say that he’s drop-dead gorgeous with all of his features (Patroclus blushes bashfully), that he was with Achilles first and that they’re soulmates (yeah, they are!), that he’s extremely talented with a beautiful voice (he works hard, too!), that Achilles adores him (he does), and that it’s all Paris’ fault that he got hurt (something that he actively works to internalize as truth).

“The Ants cannibalize each other on a regular basis over almost every topic,” Odysseus summarizes, “and more often than not, when it comes to you, we are pleased to say the smarter people win out.”

What followed was a lecture on dealing with this, as well as all the other ups and downs of fame that he needed to quickly become intimate with. Patroclus should know that he had the utmost support of PME behind him when these things grew out of hand, but that there was no getting rid of every single hater, let alone the many paparazzi ready to watch him fail. Therefore, he needed to keep in mind his image, how others could take it and weave it into whatever they willed, and to think about the consequences of his actions at all times.

“Even Achilles, as bold and seemingly ignorant of the rules as he is, has mastered toeing the line,” Odysseus explains. “He knows every rule precisely, which allows him to know just how far he can push. He has a masterful rein on the balance between engaging his fans and keeping them at a distance. I can’t help but admire his tenacity and intelligence, even when he decides to play the fool just to spite us.”

“The closest to and furthest from the edge we ever saw him was when you nearly died.” Diomedes’ expression is somber. “He managed to damn near throw it all away in one night, and then proceeded to be the most well-behaved he’d ever been. We all had to admit that that sort of pressure is hard to maintain. As such, we’re trying to be more supportive to and protective of all of our artists now, to prevent any sort of future incidents of that level. We- we’d like to think that-”

“That no one else will get shot if you’re careful, right?” Patroclus murmurs, picking at his clothes. He’d heard that small slip. “So, what does this mean for me in particular?”

Thus, the constant security. It was a strange experience, really. Part of him felt extremely safe, knowing that no one could just jump out and hurt him anymore. His team was kind, communicative, and efficient- he’s reassured whenever he asks that he’s going to be safe. On the other hand, it was hard trying to play at unbothered every moment he’s outside his own home. He hadn’t realized how much his freedom of movement meant to him until he couldn’t go anywhere without having people swarm to take pictures of him, desiring to be in his space, to see and touch him at all times. Even that small moment in the stairway had been a steal, thanks to Calypso keeping the building on high security.

Had he just never noticed it, being around Achilles? It concerns him, makes him wonder just how often they were really apart before, that he can’t remember it being like this. Perhaps Achilles had just shielded him from it all; maybe he’d been the privileged one in this case, not having to grow up under the spotlight so heavily. He knew that when they were both recuperating, it had nearly cracked his lover’s spirit, and yet Patroclus had felt strong, had been so confident that they would be okay. It all seemed so bright. Now, every day feels like an uphill battle. Still, he’s determined to keep moving forward, and he doesn’t want to make anything any worse by pushing too far beyond his boundaries.  

From the far distance at the end of the hall, he can hear the incessant clicking of cameras, the unnecessary flashes in the late afternoon light. What are they even taking pictures of- he’s not out there yet! As Patroclus crushes down the inkling of dread, his phone vibrates once more.

“Aren’t you busy?” he answers, trying to keep his voice neutral as he talks to his lover.

“I had a little time for the light of my life,” Achilles purrs, likely unconcerned with those around him. “So- Scyros, huh?”

“That whole interview, and that’s what you picked up on? Besides, that entire situation was just because-” His voice lowers in embarrassment, eyes flickering around him. “You just had to-”

“Had to what? What did I do, that night, to give them such an impression? Please, let me know, I’d love to take notes.”

“You are so- Anyway, are you still flying in later tonight?”

“I am! We’re hosting a kickback at 9. Even Ajax managed to make some time.”

“Oh.” Patroclus audibly pouts. “I was kind of hoping that we could just chill together tonight, but that’s fine.”

“I can kick them out. I’ll cancel right now.”

Even over the phone, Achilles’ devotion is sincere, and Patroclus laughs.

“No, don’t do that. That’s rude. Private, then? Or the whole court is going to be there?”

“Private. If I can help it, the court will never enter our home.”

Their home is truly their private oasis, and nothing makes Patroclus feel safer than when both of them are in town and have time to share it. Waking up warm and side by side, eating meals together, swimming, singing, getting back in the bed for some-

“I miss you,” Patroclus murmurs, unconsciously.

“Aww,” coos Achilles, true warmth suffusing his voice. “I miss you too, Philtatos.”

The sunglasses that Patroclus trades for his fashion ones serve as a psychological barrier as they exit the front doors, the reporters and cameras now much louder and much closer. Luckily, the car is only a few feet away, so it isn’t long before the car door is held open and Patroclus can slip inside and-

“Achilles!”

Achilles holds his arms wide open as Patroclus tackles him into a hug, squeezing him tight. The heavily tinted windows don’t allow a single camera to witness the moment as the car pulls away, the way Patroclus tucks his head into Achilles’ collarbone to smell him, kiss him, move in as close as he possibly can.

“Surprise!” Achilles teases, gently removing his glasses while running his fingers down Patroclus’ back. “It’s me, I’m the gift. We finished the last part of the shoot and then I rushed us home.”

“Of course you would say that,” Patroclus replies, voice muffled by Achilles’ shoulder and indignant squawk. “Where’s Automedon? I thought you were together.”

“I sent him home to rest.” Achilles lifts Patroclus’ face, cheeks puffed with happiness. “This is just for us to catch up right now, since we missed each other so much.”

“You should be tired; if you rushed through the last shoot and flew home early? Are you sure you don’t want to rest?”

Achilles shakes his head. “I wanted to have some fun for once, and I really wanted to do this.”

He leans in for a kiss, which starts out light as they take time to explore one another- always, as though it were a new experience, every single time. It quickly deepens as their loneliness and longing come to the surface. It’s been a week since they’ve seen each other, but now that they’re both so incredibly busy it always feels like an eternity. Achilles pushes Patroclus onto the seat, straddling him properly before slowly rolling his hips. The slow grind burns deliciously, and Patroclus can only be thankful that there’s thick separation glass between the driver and the back seat area as the kisses become sloppier, their moans raising in volume. It’s when Achilles excitedly reaches lower, thumb pressing into his tip that Patroclus regretfully pulls away.

“No, no, Ach- no, stop it,” he laughs, gently squeezing Achilles’ hands. “We are not going to do that right now, or I won’t be able to stop myself. I don’t want to get messy. Please.”

It’s tribute to his good looks that Achilles always manages to look artfully ruffled despite any situation, his lips even more tempting as he licks his thumb. “Of course. It’s probably better that way. I’d hate for security to open the door and show the press parts of you that only I need see.”

He mischievously rolls onto his back on the seat, placing his head on Patroclus’ lap as he simultaneously fixes himself. With enough focus, Patroclus softens, and finally looks down at a grinning Achilles.

“So. Where are you treating me for dinner?”

Achilles pulls up a menu on his phone and shows it to him. Patroclus whistles at the many dollar signs after the title. He might be able to afford it now, but the exorbitant prices of food will never cease to bother him.

“The place itself is old and famous already,” explains Achilles, delighted. “Agamemnon and Menelaus’ father is head chef there, so they often cater to and for PME. Sort of a mutual sponsorship since the sons of Atreus were not interested in becoming award winning chefs. Bless us for the daughters, and their phenomenal artistry. But way back, it went through this gigantic scandal with its founder- Tantalus? They thought he was feeding people human remains to save money on meat. Whether or not that’s true remains a mystery to this day, but for whatever reason the macabre press made the place shoot up in popularity- after Tantalus got dragged to jail for other financial crimes, of course. They also say that-”

Patroclus gently thumbs through Achilles’ hair as he regales him with all the ‘cursed’ drama of the family, having missed his beloved’s excitable rants on such random topics. Deep within him, he wants to return to the love they were making earlier, closed off from the world and in each other’s arms, but he could also spend his life in intimacy like this.

“Philtatos, you’re not even listening to me.”

“I am.”

Achilles reaches a hand up to cup Patroclus’ cheek. “Then what else are you thinking about so hard?”

“Well,” Patroclus muses. “I’m thinking about how gorgeous and wonderful my lover is, and how happy I am to see him,” he begins, watching as Achilles scoffs, cheeks pinking. “And I’m hoping that the steak I order isn’t human thigh.”

Just then, the car comes to a stop, and Achilles sits up, leaning in close.

“The only human you need to worry about eating is me,” he whispers, breath tickling Patroclus’ ear. Then, with a cheeky grin, he tosses his hair and holds his hand out, picture perfect as the door opens to yet another sea of cameras and ecstatic fans. “Now, come on, we’ve got so much catching up to do.”

He’s nervous, worries Achilles as he grandly sweeps out the chair for Patroclus. He quickly scans the private room, though he’d already had security do a full sweep before they arrived. It’s wallpapered a rich plum with golden fleur delis accents, one side of the table a plush crimson couch, the other a gilded chair with crimson embroidery that Patroclus gladly takes. The lights are warm, low for effect, the bright ivory table holding a bucket of ice and champagne and Patroclus’ sea-blue shirt glowing in contrast. The dark wood doors slide open and close for easy access, the security standing guard right outside. When one of the guards’ walkie talkies goes off, Patroclus’ eyes slyly dart to the side, and it’s enough for Achilles to turn to the busy group.

“Okay, I think we’re all good here. We’ll call if we need something.”

The guards nod their respect and swiftly exit. Achilles internally cheers when Patroclus’ shoulders subtly relax- he’s correctly guessed the trigger. He hustles to sit on the couch, reaching for the bottle of the champagne.

“Hold your ears?” he asks. Smiling sweetly, Patroclus shakes his head.

“If the sound of champagne popping bothered me, I could never attend a single one of those endless premiers and parties. I appreciate it, though.”  

Achilles still grimaces as he pops the bottle (maybe he’s the one with the issue?), pouring a full glass. He passes it to his grateful boyfriend, who looks every inch the model as he wraps his long fingers around the stem and sips slowly. Swallowing, Achilles focuses on pouring his own glass.

“Having security around still makes you nervous.”

Patroclus lowers the glass and sighs. “I’ll get used to it.”

Achilles fiercely wishes that he honestly could tell him that he didn’t have to get used to it. It makes him feel selfish, like a jailer, the way he cannot deny that he agrees with the protection and constant watch; the way that something that brings Patroclus such anxiety relieves his.

“Did you order for us already?” Patroclus evades, waving the small menu. “I know you get impatient with the servers.”

“No; you can order whatever you want. And I don’t get impatient with the servers, I just know what I want when I go out to eat, unlike some people.”

“I like to consider my options! And I can order my own meal!” Patroclus retorts, confident. “I’ll pick something, don’t worry.”

Then he burps, making them both burst into laughter. By the time the waiter comes to take their order, they’re through the bottle, cheeks flushed and deep into suggestive looks and distracting touches. Achilles leans away, gesturing at the waiter.

“Go ahead, my love.”

Patroclus is a lightweight, quick to blushes and giggles when he’s tipsy. He’s also been so distracted, a ploy that he knows was on purpose, that he hasn’t even thought about what was on the menu. Cheeks puffed, he quickly admits defeat, waving at Achilles to choose something.

“Told you,” Achilles whispers, before rattling off a perfectly planned order. The waiter replaces the empty champagne bottle with glasses of ice water before leaving, and after a long drink, Achilles places his head in his hands.

“So, now that we’ve handled that, I want to tell you something.”

“Go for it.”

“That night, when you met Auntie Calypso… I just want to say I’m sorry. Again. I made you feel less than. I hope I’m not still doing it; I promise it’s not on purpose if I am and you can tell me…”

Warm fingers grasp Achilles’ own, squeezing tight. “Thank you for apologizing. I know you didn’t mean to. I’m just glad we’re past that point.”

“Me too. And…” Achilles takes a deep breath, looking up from under his lashes. “I didn’t cheat on you- you know that, right? I know that I love How Long, and I know we made up and we joke about it, but… I’ve never been unfaithful to you. It’s only ever been you that I’ve truly loved, from the moment we met, to now, and forever.”

“Achilles-”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

It frustrates him, the way that he feels a stomach curling fear at the admission, but Achilles forces himself to feel every bit of it. Speaking before it’s too late, purposely expressing things that he’s worried Patroclus might need to hear are things that Achilles has made a goal of in his relationship ever since he almost lost him.

Patroclus moves around the table, cozying up next to Achilles on the couch. “I believe you.” Three simple words that bring a wave of peace. Achilles leans his head on top of the soft curls. He truly doesn’t deserve Patroclus, but he’ll be damned if he ever lets him go.

“Thank you.”

“I was wondering, though… You must have messed around when we were in high school, though. We weren’t dating yet. You can tell me.”

Amused, Achilles lifts his head to look at Patroclus, who playfully pouts as he picks at his fingers.

“Have you always wanted to talk about this?”

Patroclus shrugs ‘nonchalantly’, still curled into Achilles’ side. “I mean, it was your business! I didn’t want to be nosy… but…”

“You’re so cute.” Achilles leans back, in thought. “I mean, I had a few blow jobs and make outs with other people every now and then, but it was only ever for the mutual pleasure. And every time, I’d sit there wondering how much better it would have been if it were you. That one day, I’d be able to do these things to pleasure you. When your voice got deeper, I had to start telling people to be quiet or holding their mouths so that I could hear you in my head- not that I told them that part.”

They all thought it was some type of kink that he had, and frankly, he never cared that deeply about any of them enough to argue it. Patroclus’ nose and ears warm with happiness.

“You sound like you were down pretty bad,” he giggles.

“Abysmal.”

 “Why didn’t you ask me out back then? It’s not like I wouldn’t have said yes,” Patroclus snorts. “Hell, we shared the same room during holidays, we wasted time!”

“Why didn’t you? And trust me, a lot of ruined sheets on my side of the room proved that. I used to worry that you’d hear me in my dreams.” Achilles sighs once again. “Honestly, I was scared. Everyone else was like… it was easy to turn on the charm, knowing that I didn’t plan on going any further. I stated my boundaries, we got off on each other, and we moved on. You were different. You are different. I had to finally admit to my feelings for you, and then I had to actually be good enough for you, you know? And I didn’t want you to think that I only let you stay in the house for that. What if we fought? What if I’d done something stupid like turned you away out of a childish fit of anger? What if you’d left on your own and I never saw you again?”

“Aww. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” Patroclus sniffles, heart warmed by both the wine and his feelings. “Um, for me, I’m pretty sure I was in love with you the entire time, but I was always in my own head when you weren’t around. It wasn’t a major focus for me. I had a lot of growth on my own to do, so I didn’t really have time to even want to date. I did see how Deidameia was all over you in school, but I just shoved down how it made me feel. I had a lot of repressed emotions, as evidenced by everything after…” He waves around aimlessly. “So you really never did anything with her, before us?”

“Not at all. She wasn’t respectful of my personal space with our clothes on; I could never have wanted her any closer.”

“And uh… as for the song… do you hate it now?”

Hell no. It’s going to remain on his playlist forever, same way every other Eros hit will be. Patroclus could have written a song about him falling on his face and Achilles would listen to it. Is that too dramatic? He knows what people have said about the strength of his devotion; that he ‘simps’ for Patroclus. It’s not his fault that they have never experienced such powerful love, and sometimes that includes the more embarrassing parts. No. I’m right. They’re the losers.

“I mean it’s a little embarrassing to recall what happened, but I love the song. It’s a work of art. Besides, I’d rather hear your song calling me an idiot for the rest of my life, than to live the life I’d have had if I didn’t catch you. I scared the shit out of Antilochus, the way I sped to your hotel, knowing that if you’d made it off that island you might not have ever spoken to me again.”

Patroclus dwells on the thought, before shrugging. “I don’t know if I wouldn’t have spoken to you again. I certainly would have tried to cut you off, but you’d have made your way back in. Not only am I unfortunately soft about you, but it’s a trait of yours, to hold on to something and not let it go. It’s adorable, except when you have a grudge- then it’s annoying.”

“It is not unfortunate or annoying!” Achilles laughs, feathers ruffled that Patroclus loves him and all his folly.

They’re still talking lowly when the sliding doors open, and the servers enter with all of their plates. They readjust the table, moving their entrées next to one another while setting down their side dishes. Once everything is okayed, they swiftly make their way out. Achilles waits as Patroclus takes his first bite of the strip steak, moaning with pleasure.

“Thank you,” Patroclus suddenly says, cutting a piece and holding it to Achilles’ lips. He bites into the savory, buttery steak- it really is perfect.

“Mmm… For choosing you just what you’d like? I’m fantastic at it, aren’t I?”

Patroclus chuckles, tapping his nose. “For paying more attention, lately. To me.”

Achilles flushes to his roots- was his plan really so obvious? “Well, I mean, I just-”

“I appreciate it. It’s not that you weren’t ever paying attention, it’s just that I can tell that you’ve been putting in the work to grow. I’m proud of you.”  

Patroclus could always see more than he let on; of course he knew. Undaunted, Achilles preens at the gratitude and pride.

“Of course.”

That’s all he can say before Patroclus silently returns ravenous eyes to his meal. Sometime later, they’re about halfway through their dessert when Achilles remembers another important topic.

“Oh! I haven’t seen your new video, yet. I wanted to talk to you about it first, since I heard about… some of the content.”

The forkful of chocolate cake halfway to Patroclus’ mouth freezes. “Hm.”

Hm? Is that it? “Is there anything you want me to know before I do?”

Patroclus lowers the fork, all his prior bubbly energy and contentment now subdued into a far-off look.

“You should probably watch it on your own, when you’re done eating. Anyway, I’d really like to meet the chefs…”

The fact that there’s not a hole in this punching bag is extremely offensive to Achilles, seeing as he’s hit it with undiluted wrath so many times that it should be nothing but the sand it’s filled with. He lays yet another barrage of punches and jabs, throwing in kicks for good measure. Sweat drips down his body, soaking his shirt, burning his eyes so much that he can’t tell where the sweat starts and the tears end. Final wind of energy spent, he pushes the bag away, throws away the gloves, and screams. He screams until it becomes a choked sob, and he falls onto his back on the floor.

It feels like the wrong thing to do, choosing violence after witnessing it, but he couldn’t approach Patroclus until it was out of his system. Not after seeing what he just saw.

Upon first arriving at Phthia, Patroclus had always been skittish. Achilles will never forget how when he first slept in his new bed, Patroclus would sleep in the furthest corner, balled up in his covers. If anyone sounded at the door, if Achilles even shifted in his covers half-sleep by his side, Patroclus’ wary eyes would fly open. It took him months to sleep peacefully, to splay out in the middle of the bed for the space his growing body needed. 

Or when he would inhale food like it was going to be taken away, always making Peleus gently prod him to eat more slowly so that he wouldn’t get sick. How he constantly asked Achilles if it was okay to eat in their bedroom, or if he could have a snack even though he never had to. The existence of a small fridge in Achilles’ room seemed to be his lifeline, the way there always had to be something inside of it.

Or how, even once he grew out of those behaviors, he would occasionally retreat outside, looking up at the night sky for varying spans of time in such stillness that Achilles would feel like he was breaking into something sacred just to check on him. Silence had never been comforting to him, a sign of loneliness rather than peace, so he never quite understood what it did for Patroclus. Even with his experience with his own parents, he sees now that he could never know the true value of a ceasefire.

Most frustratingly, this would only happen when he was at the estate. At Mt. Pelion, he seemed more assured of himself, more in control. Maybe it’s because he felt he was allowed to be more vulnerable when he was at home? And that was a good thing, right? Or was it because he felt less safe? It’s too complex, and it’s driving him mad that he can’t understand it, can’t bring it to one solid conclusion.

Achilles knows, he knows that it’s not a reflection of himself, that none of this is about him at all, and yet it’s just another moment of failure in his eyes that he’d been so useless, that there was always more he could have done if he’d just known. He remembers the night when Patroclus came home from fighting with Menoetius, pleading with him not to go find the bastard. How the way Patroclus looked lingered in his mind for weeks afterward, how no number of kisses, love and affection could make the black eye, busted lip, or bruises heal any faster, make the haunted look in his eyes ever permanently go away.

Why can’t I do more?

Why can’t I make these shitty feelings go away?

Though he’s become better at hiding it, at pushing it down and functioning outwardly for his relationship, he still hates himself for not being able to fight it, to fix it all. He hates himself for thinking he was the closest to Patroclus and yet never seeing anything the way he was supposed to. And then-

No. I don’t want to think about that stupid fucking festival.

I just need to keep getting my shit together.

He needs me to have my shit together.

As he walks up the stairs to their room, Achilles forces himself to take deep breaths, the annoyingly calm way his therapist suggested he try. His tempestuous rage has calmed by the time he gently knocks on their bathroom door.

“Come in.”

Changed into a t-shirt and pajama shorts, Patroclus sits in front of his vanity mirror, bulbs bright as he reads the labels on the myriad of hair and makeup trial-sized products.

“What’s all that?”

“Diomedes had them delivered. Brand deal stuff. Your bag is on your table; he wants a response in 48 hours.”

“He’ll get my response when he gets it, dropping this shit off at my house at night,” Achilles mutters, slowly sidling up and lowering his face into the crook of Patroclus’ neck. “Anything you like?”

“As you can see from my gigantic ‘no’ pile in the trash can here, I wouldn’t let this shit touch my skin or hair if they paid me. Maybe it’ll be better for you.”

Cackling, Achilles squeezes him into a hug, smothering him with kisses.

“Achilles! You are covered in sweat! It’s gross, stop it!”

“So what?” he teases, thumbing at the soft, brown skin of Patroclus’ cheek. “My sweat might be just the thing that clears your pores. It’s certainly been all over your body before.”

“Terrible sex joke aside, if you start selling bottled sweat, I will never associate with you again.”

“Aw, boo. They’d buy it. We’d be rich.”

“You’re already rich.”

“Richer. Get with the greed, Philtatos.”

With an affectionate eye roll, Patroclus tries to push Achilles’ head away, but Achilles only grips tighter. There’s something under it, something a little more sad and needy, and he turns around with a frown.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Are you? Achilles wants to cry. Instead, he kneels, laying his head into Patroclus’ chest.

“I could kill that man,” he whispers. “I want to go into that prison, drag him out, and beat him with my bare hands.”

Patroclus’ heart thumps painfully in his throat, and he coughs. “Not Diomedes, I’m assuming. We know how that will turn out. No more fights for you.”

“Obviously; if I go back to jail, I can’t be here with you. But I feel such… fury and hatred on your behalf, and I don’t… I don’t know what to do with it. How do you not feel such hatred? How could he treat anyone, let alone his wife and child, so horrifically?”

Achilles cannot fathom Peleus ever treating Thetis or him that way. His father adores him, has spoiled him almost all of his life- his love is strong, warm, and unquestionable for his son. While both Patroclus and his therapist have commented that the ice between his parents themselves is a cause of stress and attachment insecurity in its own way, still… outright violence?

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand it either. And honestly, the only thing more powerful than the desire to know why is knowing I’d have to see him again and ask. And I don’t want to see him anymore.”

Achilles’ fists tighten around Patroclus’ waist. “You are never getting within one hundred feet of that bastard ever again. He would have- he could have- And then the nerve, to essentially pimp you out for a paycheck when- and my mother, she even went with it! There’s so much and I hate that I cannot process it and I don’t know how you’re processing it!”

It’s a quiet question- are you processing it at all? For the first few months after the incident, Patroclus had been doing excellently. It was Achilles that had succumbed to his misery, deep in a depression he’d never built the tools to face before. However, the moment PME decided Patroclus was ‘healthy’ enough to start working again, he began attending therapy less, recently even putting the sessions on standstill. Achilles somewhat resents Odysseus for making that call, but he didn’t want to stand in Patroclus’ way.

He gets so caught up in his own bitter thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice Patroclus shrinking in on himself, sad gaze falling to the floor.

“Am I allowed to say I don’t want to talk about it anymore?” he quietly pleads, almost to himself. “I already released the video, did the interview, I already let go of the emotions, they’re not supposed to still be here-”

Ashamed, Achilles fervently nods, pulling himself together as he stands back up. “You are. Of course! You don’t have to talk about it anymore, Philtatos. I just… I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“No, no, you don’t have to be.” Patroclus grips Achilles’ forearm, trying to reassure him. “I thought I was okay to talk about it right now and apparently, I wasn’t.”

“That’s fine. Is there something you’d rather do? You want me to get you a snack?”

“No. They’ll all be over in an hour or so anyway.” Relieved, Patroclus raises a brow. “What you can do for me is take a shower; you just messed up my nightshirt with your stink.”

Achilles scoffs. “You love my musk.”

“Wash your ass.”

Achilles makes his way to the shower, turning it on before stripping. Patroclus can’t help the way his eyes linger over his body, lithe, toned, and curved in all the right places, but there’s another question on his mind drawing him away from the burgeoning lust.

“You know, everyone- even our closest friends- thinks you’re a bit of an inconsiderate jackass. Sorry to put it that way.”

“Eh.”

“But I know that you are one of the sweetest people I have ever met.  Sweet, warm, and you feel so much. Why don’t you show them this side of you?”

Achilles shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes glow with sincerity. “Because to them, I am an inconsiderate jackass. Keeps them on their toes, before they try me. It keeps me safe, in this business. It’s why I try to teach you to protect your gentle heart out here. You’re the only one I want to show this side to, to protect more than my own life.”

There’s a hint of sadness in his tone, but Achilles has had enough of sadness and anger for one night. Instead, he slides the shower doors open, taking a step into the steamy water.

“Now- are you just going to secretly yearn over there, or do you want to join me? I could use your help getting clean.”

Patroclus covers his grin, eyes flashing. “We only have a little bit of time.”

Achilles only blinks from inside the stream of water, giggling as Patroclus hustles off his clothes and holds out his hands to embrace him as he joins him. The shower wall is blessedly warm by now as Patroclus presses him against it, tongue consuming him for a few minutes before he pulls away.

“Hand me the soap.”

“Demanding today, aren’t we?” Still, Achilles blindly reaches around to the cove where their liquid soaps are stored, grabbing a bottle and pulling it towards him. It’s not his own sandalwood signature, but Patroclus’ woodsy smell with that hint of vanilla that drives Achilles absolutely crazy when matched with the cologne.

“Aw- you want to smell like me?”

“All over.”

Saluting, Patroclus shifts them over to one of the loofah hooks on the shower wall.

“Hands up here. Don’t move them, or I’ll stop.”

A thick blush rushes up to Achilles’ cheeks as he giddily lifts his hands to the hook, wrapping his thumbs in it for good measure. He almost feels faint, his excitement is so heady. Satisfied, Patroclus lathers a handful of the soap in his hands, starting at Achilles’ wrists and working his way down his forearms. The gentle yet firm touch at his biceps make Achilles twitch, desperate when Patroclus pulls away.

“No, no,” he rushes. “It’s fine, keep going. I won’t move, I promise.”

“If your arms hurt-”

“I’m fine! Keep going… please.”

Achilles is not fine, he’s actually already set to burst by the time Patroclus has made it to his chest, especially when he starts to thumb across his nipples. He has to admit, despite the misery of waiting rock hard, this is a phenomenal experience. Not only is he being thoroughly washed, but every slick move of Patroclus’ hands serves as both a massage and a temptation. With every second his muscles should relax, he’s being wound up more and more.

It’s when Patroclus kneels low, face so close to his member that he can feel his breath, that Achilles starts to whimper. Those hands simply wash around his tight thighs, and it’s clear that Patroclus is affected too, the way the smaller scrubs of his upper half have become long, harsh strokes down his legs. When he thumbs behind his kneecap, Achilles’ hands come flying down to his shoulders.

“Don’t, don’t do that,” he grits. “I won’t be able to take it.”

“But you were doing so well.”

I am going to come all over your face if you don’t move. “I could be doing better if you’d just move back up.”

“Hm. But you were having so much fun teasing me in the car. I thought this is what you like.”

Indignant, Achilles glares down at a mischievous Patroclus, who squeezes more soap into his hand before sliding them back up to Achilles’ cleft.

“You were teasing me. I knew it.”

“Maybe don’t purposely give me a hard on before making me walk in public, then.”

“I’m-” His retort is cut off by a high keen as Patroclus finally wraps a hand around him, stroking slowly. He stands back up, forcing Achilles to wrap his hands around his neck for support.

“I love you, though,” Patroclus whispers, and Achilles sobs before reaching down to wrap his hand around both of them.

“That’s it, I can’t take it, help me,” he demands in a low hiss. Achilles wraps his leg around Patroclus’ waist to move him closer. Hands gripped together, Achilles increases their stroke until they’re both huffing with exertion at the pressure. He writhes against the wall, chest bowed into Patroclus’, desperate for completion.

“We’re almost there, come on, please, please-”

Both of them contort around one another as they come, Achilles coming so hard that, between the power of his orgasm and the steam, he momentarily passes out.

Achilles opens the front windows, the fresh breeze welcome from the remaining smoke haze that covers their living room. He’s not sure who Antilochus is friends with to procure some of the stuff he does, but whatever they’re on must affect everyone differently because while he’s only nicely buzzed, it has gigantic Ajax slumped on his living room floor like an overstimulated Great Dane.

“Pat!” he roars, eyes closed, limbs splayed out on the carpet. “Pat, buddy, where are you? I got a suggestion!”

“Ajax, I am two feet away from you.” Patroclus is curled up in his plush, tan recliner, sitting so still that they’d had to snap in front of his face a couple times to make sure he was awake. Make that two people slumped. Undeterred, Ajax continues.

“We should do a song together!”

“You think so?”

“Yeah! Achilles has been on this ‘brand new sound’ thing, and it sounds fun to me. Why not me?”

Patroclus chuckles. “Sure. Why not you, man.”

“If you both still think that sounds fun when you’re not high off your literal ass, come find me and we’ll talk to the higher ups. That’ll make Agamemnon interested, for sure,” Automedon offers. He and Briseis sit on the floor next to the table, still slowly eating the pizza that they ordered two hours ago.

“Fuck Agamemnon,” retorts Briseis, neatly shoving the last of the cheese slice into her mouth.

“Yeah, fuck Agamemnon,” Achilles agrees, shoving Patroclus halfway out of the recliner to share the seat. “What are we talking about?”

Briseis laughs so hard she snorts, and then all of them are cracking up.

“They were talking about collaborating,” Antilochus explains through tears, “then Automedon brought up the feds.”

Achilles rolls his eyes. “Please don’t. If someone brings up Odysseus and another of his work schemes, I might actually keel over.”

“Odysseus isn’t so bad,” Automedon defends. “You guys just don’t have to be on the management side of things, working with all of you. I see where he’s coming from!”

“Only you could be high and defend upper management, you dork.”

“Right?” Briseis adds. “Boo this man! Tomatoes!”

“Guys!” Automedon cries as pillows come flying at him. “Pat, come on bro, you don’t agree with this violence, right?”

Patroclus cackles quietly to himself, so hard he’s bent over. Briseis smirks.

“Life of the party, over there, huh? You are such a lightweight for you to come up with the music you do. This is rare for him, isn’t it?”

“He only agreed to it today because it was you all,” answers Achilles. “I’m proud of him; he knows better than to take anything at any of these other parties. It’s a key way to avoid getting hooked onto anything dangerous.”

“Music!” Patroclus suddenly shouts. “Let’s do that! Antilochus!”

Antilochus awkwardly hurtles half his body over the couch, shirt sliding down his stomach as he reaches for his bookbag and yanks out his laptop.

“Pick one of your old beats. Something slower that… fits the vibe!”

It’s a silly request, vague and confusing, so when Antilochus pops out with a simple instrumental with a slow 4/4 beat and grungy guitar section, everyone immediately gains interest.  

“No way,” Automedon murmurs, eyes wide. “Is he really about to come up with something?”

“I-” Patroclus wildly looks around himself, trying to uncurl his legs and escape.

“Philtatos, where are you going?”

“I need my bass.”

Ajax jumps up, unusually light on his feet. “I know where the music room is. Can I borrow one? I want in on this!”

Achilles waves him away, throned like a prince from his half-shared recliner, and gently pushes Patroclus back into sitting. Eventually, Ajax returns with his bass, mindlessly tuning while Patroclus is still nodding along to the instrumental. For the next few minutes, he hums an occasional melody, making faces as he tweaks the sound here and there.

“Is this really how you both wrote Sins,” Achilles asks Antilochus, unwilling to interrupt whatever brilliance is forming in Patroclus’ mind.

“Honestly, tonight’s bud is a treat. When we wrote your song, it was just basic shit and a little bit of liquor, because we were young and dumb and thought having an apartment meant we were grown when we weren’t.” Antilochus grins. “In other words, I don’t know what Pat is about to do. I swear what I brought wasn’t that strong.”

“Achilles!” Patroclus shouts, leaning his head into Achilles’ neck. “You’re going to learn the chorus, so you can sing it at the end, okay? Make sure to listen.”

“Oh- okay. You’re going to sing this whole thing now, then?”

“Yep. Have it all in my head. Ajax- play. Something simple. It’ll be…easy.”

Ajax gives him the thumbs up.

“Can I do the last chorus too, Pat?” Briseis asks, pushing her lips out in a pretty pout. Patroclus agrees- no one notices how Achilles’ eyes sharpen for a millisecond in response. Patroclus sniffles, waving his hands over his face to straighten it out, then asks for the beat. The beat has no time to enter before he’s breathily singing on it.

Hello, welcome to the other side

You're lost

Baby, step outside your mind

You've been really good

You've been really good

You've been thinking 'bout being bad

Ever since I put you on-on-on

He gives Achilles a strangely heated look as he sings ‘you’ve been really good’, blinking slowly like a cat before closing his eyes and returning to his rhythmic sway. Ajax’ slow bass on the first downbeat is perfection, quivering in their chests as Patroclus sings the bridge and chorus.

I'm on cloud nine

Baby, you're behind

You can follow me

You can follow me if you want

To go downtown with the drugs in your body

Take that step, you're the life of the party

Know that step, you're the life of the party (oh, oh, oh, oh)

He adds an intense clap that echoes throughout the room, clearly lost in his own vibes as Ajax slowly strums the bass to last throughout the cry. Briseis’ jaw drops in humor, realizing that he’s directly quoting her- this man really just came up with a whole song just to clap back at a joke! Forget big brained- he’s on another level tonight!

I got two little ladies

I got one little room

There's a room full of liquor

Baby, what you wanna do?

The way you move got me feeling so, oh

I been thinking 'bout it, baby

I been thinking 'bout it lately

I'm so far gone and you are too

Show me how you-

As he repeats the bridge, Patroclus locks gaze with Achilles- are you learning? Are you watching? Achilles is feeling a whirlwind of emotions- awe, pride, love, and lust (it’s like everything the man does turns him on)- and he can only nod back- yes, always- like prey caught in the gaze of a snake.

Across the room, Automedon has pulled out his phone, recording with a wide grin on his face. This impromptu performance really looks amazing- the purposely low light of the room shadows Patroclus, offering an ‘inside look’ visual while hiding any reddened eyes and any remnants of smoke, and the way he and Achilles recline next to each other so naturally gives double the fandom eye candy.

The chorus approaches for what seems to be the last time, and Patroclus begins to nod his head on the countdown to cue Achilles and Briseis in.

Girl, you're a star

Oh, you knocked one down

Girl you knocked it down

Girl, there's one, two, three

Go downtown with the drugs in your body

Take that step you're the life of the party

Know that step you're the life of the party (oh, oh, oh, oh)

It’s not an unnoticeable shift, the change in voices, but Patroclus’ harmonization allows Achilles and Briseis to seamlessly blend into the chorus, adding yet another layer to the chant by the end. The instrumental ends, and everyone joyously applauds.

“That is a perfect IG video,” squeals Antilochus. “Eros, Achilles, Briseis and Ajax, produced by Antilochus? On one serendipitous track? Everybody’s social media is blowing up tomorrow. Expect no rest. They’ll probably want you to record it for real. I’m gonna get a raise.”

“Not that you can’t do it again,” Antilochus dismisses confidently. “Right, Pat?”

“…”

“Pat?”

“Oh my goodness,” Briseis coos. “That’s so precious.”

Everyone looks back to the recliner, where a visibly soft Achilles gently thumbs Patroclus’ cheek as he lays slumped on his shoulder, fast asleep after a very long day.

Patroclus curls up on top of the private toilet, the distance bass of the dance studio barely shaking the floor as he takes a couple grounding breaths. He needs to be careful not to close his eyes for too long, otherwise he might fall asleep on this plush seat cover, and that will be even more embarrassing. After one final shaky breath, he pulls out his phone and moves to his call history. His thumb hovers over Achilles.

The phone rings.

“Pat?” Philomela’s voice chirps. “Baby, is that you?”

Patroclus’ shoulders shake as he laughs. “It is me, Mommy. How are you?”

“I’m okay! You don’t sound too good, are you getting rest?”

No. The opposite is true, in fact. Patroclus has been in such high demand that he can barely find a free space to breathe. Ever since that damn video went viral, there have requests and contracts galore for everyone involved- Patroclus wants to choke all his friends for thinking it was a good idea to post it. The features are easy enough to do- go to the studio, hear what sound they’re looking for, and spend a couple days writing and recording until they have what they want. If he’s not doing features with other artists, he’s helping write for newer PME artists, as well as working with Antilochus on composition. If not that, he’s in some meeting involving speaking to representatives of a company for whatever brand deal they want to make next using his image.

You’re a joy to work with.

Such a charm.

You’re so easy, Patroclus.

You work so hard!

We need more hard workers like you!

He feels like he could puke, but he cringe-smiles through it all. Diomedes has hired an assistant for him, and PME’s lawyers are very capable of handling everything without him being in a single room, but it almost feels like an obsession the way he is determined to learn their ways. If anyone wants yet another piece of his soul, it will be on his terms.

“I’m all right, Mom. Your house is almost ready, they’re just putting the final touches on it. Are you ready to move?”

It’s clear that Philomela notices the deflection, but she gracefully lets it go.

“I am! They told me that I’ll have a very pretty birdbath out in the garden, and that-”

They discuss her new home for a few more minutes, delighting in the idea of such a free, simple life. It’s a wonderful daydream, and Patroclus loses himself in it before finally accepting he has to leave.

“I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay. And Pat, sweetheart- remember that you don’t have to carry it all, okay?”

“I hear you. I’m just… being emotional like this over something silly.”

“You’re not being silly. Needing rest and feeling overwhelmed are not silly things. That’s what they taught me in my meditations class.”

Patroclus chokes up, nodding into the phone, and then with a small goodbye he hangs up. His mother might not think it’s silly, but he does. He’s felt so stupid and depressed, and it’s all been triggered over something as little as dancing.

PME has been experimenting with Patroclus, a command sent down from the lofty investors of Olympus. Outside of his vocal training, they’ve directed him to start working on his ‘stage presence’. A triple threat was always an asset to any entertainment company, with Achilles, Deidameia, and Briseis the prime examples of the ideal pop star- and more importantly, worth the investment.

Patroclus can’t act- while he can do a cameo, sing for an episode or a series, he will never be front and center on a TV or movie screen. Therefore, the next viable option was teaching him to dance. He doesn’t have to dance given his style, Odysseus had explained, but having the skill increased one’s crossover capability, as well as the range of possible stage performances.

After a couple weeks of squeezing in even more to his already saturated schedule, here he is, and well…

Every session of cramped legs and sore feet leaves him full of regret and self-hatred. He wants nothing more than to throw those stupid dance shoes out the windows and hide under a blanket. He inherited his mother’s beautiful voice, but it seems not a single ounce of her fluidity or flexibility. Watching the other dancers modify him his moves or give him new directions, claiming ‘you’re doing better today!’ in condescending voices has been one of the most painful digs to his adult self-esteem that he ever thought he’d experience. It shouldn’t be bothering him like this, it’s not personal! And yet…!

The singular positive of this situation has been training with Briseis and her choreographer, and even that hadn’t gone over as well as he’d anticipated. None of his pending stress about the situation was helped when Achilles was strangely offended that he’d accepted Briseis’ offer instead of his.

I’ve been working with my choreographer for far longer and he’s very capable, he’d complained as he finished handing his last suitcase to the valet. I don’t understand what’s wrong with him that you don’t want his help.

It’s not that I don’t want his help or that there’s something wrong. Bri already offered and I accepted.

Just cancel.

No Achilles, I’m not going to ‘just cancel’ on her because you were too late.

Rather than pouting the way he normally does when something small but unimportant doesn’t go his way, Achilles’ face had contorted into something ugly.

It’s not like- Achilles don’t-

No, no, don’t mind me! Since I was ‘too late’, I won’t push it anymore. It’s done.

You make this face when you have more to say.

I’m not making a face.

You are. Your entire brow is tight.

I’m fine! I’m leaving.

He’d slipped on his sunglasses, blew a nonchalant kiss to Patroclus, and breezed out of the house on his three-week trip. This tense, unacknowledged moment has left him unsure of where they’re both standing, and the added emotional stress of finding a way to approach it has him cancelling all of Achilles’ calls. It’s not his proudest move, sending back apologetic texts to dodge everything until he’s ready to handle it.   

The real reason why he’d told Briseis first, had accepted her offer of help so swiftly, was because he didn’t want Achilles to witness him like this. Depressed, annoyed, furious at himself at so many things beyond a stupid dance… Besides, he can barely keep up now; how was he about to keep up a happy façade with the man teaching the prince? It feels stupid to worry about it, especially when Achilles has been trying to meet him where he is, but everything within Patroclus wants to be alone anyway.

“Pat?”

Oh shit. He was still curled up on top of the toilet- he hadn’t moved an inch since hanging up the phone.

“Pat?” Briseis tries again. “Are you okay in there? Eat something bad yesterday?”

The awkward joke is enough to warrant a wet chuckle. “No, that’s not it. I’m just… I’m just overwhelmed. I’m coming out now.” Sluggishly, he opens the door. Briseis’ worried expression falls further at the visible distress on his face.

“Oh, Pat. You were crying.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Were we not teaching you properly? Did you hurt yourself?”

“That’s not it. It’s fine.”

Briseis walks him out into the hallway before sitting down on the wall, patting the space next to her.

“It’s not fine. What’s up?”

“We’re going to be late-”

Briseis aggressively waves them off. “We’re already late. Besides, they can’t do anything I can’t do.”

“That’s the bit then, isn’t it?” Patroclus smiles sadly as he slides down the wall. “You can do it. I can’t. I’m embarrassing myself, trying to be something I’m not.”

Briseis’ eyes widen, and she purses her lips. “Okay. I’m going to tell you this as a friend, as a sister if I may-”

“Of course.”

“That sounds a little deeper than just the dancing, Pat.” When Patroclus’ head falls into his raised knees, she quickly continues. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re embarrassing yourself! You’re new to this, that’s all. And you really have been getting better! It’s just that some of us in that room have been dancing since we were little kids.”

“I don’t have an entire childhood’s worth of time to get good at this, Bri.”

“Fair, but all anyone expects you to do is to try, right?”

“Agamemnon’s wallet and Odysseus’ ‘pep talks’ suggest otherwise.”

Briseis smacks her lips. “If Agamemnon and Odysseus were smart, they’d know not to push one of their newest stars at risk of losing you altogether. All they need you to do is what you’re already doing- this is incidental.”

Patroclus sighs. “What I’m already doing is hard enough. I don’t know how you or Achilles manage it all.”

“Extreme competitiveness.”

The smug response finally makes Patroclus genuinely laugh, and Briseis grins as she shrugs.

“It’s the truth! You’re a very serious yet chill guy when it comes to this business. You sing because you love it, and that love reflects in your work. Achilles and I sing because we love it, yes, but we also want to see ourselves crowned at that number one spot in our genres. It’s a cutthroat life that I wouldn’t suggest for anyone unless you like spilling metaphorical blood. Which, more than us, I guess you’d know about. Too soon?”

Patroclus huffs, elbowing her. “I don’t think it’s fair to say I don’t want to be at the top. I certainly won’t get there like this, though. This entire experience has done nothing for me, except compound all my stress into one situation. It’s been some time since I felt this demotivated.”

It’s not everything that he wants to say out loud, but finally admitting he’s had enough releases some of the pressure in his chest. Exhaling, he leans his head back against the wall. They sit there in silence for a few moments until Briseis turns, deep in thought.

“So, you think you’ll tell Odysseus that you’re done with this?”

“Yeah. I do. At least for right now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with lightening the load, I suppose. I’ll miss seeing you here. We all adore having you around, like a precious baby chick trying to fly. But,” she concludes, rising and holding her hand out. “If that’s how you feel, come with me.”

Bemused, Patroclus takes her hand and walks back to the studio. All the dancers crowd around, curious to see what happened, but Briseis only claps her hands together.

“Practice ended early today, please go home. Except for K; you stay.”

A chorus of awws, boos, and cheers for freedom circulate through the group as they gather their things and leave. When the door closes on the last one, Briseis waves over the choreographer and whispers something to him. His face changes, as though she’s offered an intriguing idea, and then he grins. He flits over to the mats, while Briseis spins to Patroclus.

“As your departing gift, we’re gonna teach you to twerk.”

Patroclus’ brow couldn’t raise higher if it tried. “What?”

“For yourself, for your confidence, for stunning Achilles- for whatever you need. You said you didn’t get anything out this, but this is a guaranteed hit, I promise you! Now, K is going to warm up again, and we’re going to get you right.”

Patroclus watches as K stretches, then sharply flips his hand high in the air for Briseis to cue the music. A wider, disbelieving grin spreads on his face when the music starts.

Murda on the beat, so it's not nice

Booty so big (work!) Lord, have mercy (work!)

“Briseis.”

Why I keep bossing like I do?

Why I keep flossing like I do?

Why I keep saucing like I do?

Why it keep costing like it do?

All this ass up in my jeans-

“Briseis, you know I can’t-”

You can’t get up in between

You tryna get a piece of me

I can teach you a couple things!

Ignoring him, Briseis hustles over behind K on the mat, bouncing on her feet to the beat while mouthing the lyrics. The moment the bridge starts, she seamlessly joins in the routine. Her movements are so sharp, sinuous, hitting every vocal cadence without looking mechanical in any way.

He say he like that Laffy Taffy

He so goofy, call me "daddy"

He go stupid, he go daffy

Introduce me to his pappy

He can never live without me

I'm so real, I'm never capping

If he got it like that, like that

I can take it, take it there

'Cause my-

“This is what we’re going to teach you to do by the end of this, Pat!” she calls over the music. “Pay attention!” She mouths the last lyrics- I can teach you a couple things- while pointing right at Patroclus.

The moment the vocals rise, they drop into a fluid, fervent grind. Hands firm on the ground, their knees slide against the ground, allowing their stomachs and groins to dip deep while pushing their asses back into a clear suggestive ride. It requires a lot of control, rolling one’s stomach while also lifting each individual hip and cheek.

Frankly, it’s hard to watch objectively. Patroclus isn’t blind; Briseis is gorgeous, and it is clear she knows how to move her body. The music video was much the same, really- Briseis serving looks in some of the prettiest, sharpest fashion, other times hitting a routine that focused on the erotic athleticism required. Also, there’d been thighs and cheeks galore. Patroclus found it hard to equate the goofy best friend he knew with the supermodel on the screen.

How to surf it, man,

How to work it, man,

It’s on purpose, I’m doing it big!

Body language, like speaking Spanglish,

I’ll educate ya how to do this shit,

Temporary,

That’s never rare-y

I’m necessary, yeah,

I am that bitch-

(You can’t get this thickness out of your mind!)

At some point during her performance, Patroclus can see why she loves it so much, the way she loses herself in the music. It’s clear that while she’s performing physically on a mat in a studio, in her mind’s eye she’s in front of thousands of adoring, cheering fans. It’s something he notices with Achilles when he really gets into his groove. It’s a sense of freedom, a sense of ease and mastery that makes everyone watching yearn to have it. He’s been there before, if only once. Maybe when he’s not feeling so low, it might be fun to learn to let go like this again.

Shaking off his thoughts as the song ends, he watches Briseis high five K and dance over to him.

“Briseis. As fun as it looks, you know full well I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. What do I always tell you about your ass?”

Ears warm, Patroclus murmurs an answer.

“What?”

“That I’ve got a great ass!”

“Precisely! You have an enviable ass.”

“You do have an enviable ass,” K adds helpfully.

“Trust me Pat, Achilles had to learn to move like this, too. I saw Sexyback; you think he just picked up any of that naturally?”

“Yes?”

“No! Just because he has a nice body now doesn’t mean he didn’t have to train it. Just trust me, okay?”

She says it emphatically, but Patroclus knows that if he really doesn’t want to, she won’t force him. He looks down and his feet.

“You won’t laugh at me?”

“No. Not at you. With you, maybe, but not at you.”

It’s enough for them to draw Patroclus in. Without the full group there to witness his lack of coordination, he finds himself relaxing, enjoying himself more. After an hour, he’s learned a natural hip roll, how to isolate each part of the roll, and how to pop. He even attempts to do all three in K’s shameless lap, with both of them cheering him on as he gives the world’s most amateur lap dance. 

When they’re walking out of the studio, Briseis slaps him on the back.

“I know you hate hearing it, but you did such a good job today! Maybe you just need to have a private choreographer, or maybe just a motion coach to capture the crowd. That was essentially what you were doing at Elysium.” She grabs his hand, swinging it playfully. “You just have to remember not to compare yourself.”

He squeezes her hand tight. “Thank you, Briseis. Really. For being such a good friend- no, for being such a good sister. For everything. I feel much better today.”

Patroclus should have known that it wouldn’t last long, that society wouldn’t have seen his platonic affection as just that. He should have never got comfortable and forgot where he was. The moment they step outside, the cameras are flashing, and people are pointing at their held hands.

The quiet precision that Achilles places his phone on the nightstand with is the equivalent of throwing it across the room, the action was so full of molten hot fury. The article was full of pictures of Patroclus and Briseis’ held hands as ‘proof’ of infidelity, including a ‘secret interview’ that discussed the both of them being out of sight for a ‘long period of time’ that ‘must’ have meant sex. Fans were losing their minds about it; half of them accusing Patroclus of being a filthy cheater and Briseis a homewrecker, the other half arguing that the two had been good friends for some time and that hand holding was not inherently romantic.

None of it was what Achilles needed to hear today. He shouldn’t have looked at the article at all, knowing he would just hurt his own feelings even more. It had already been an exhausting two weeks of traveling, jumping from event to event, and he didn’t have much patience left to deal. Achilles had actually been looking forward to this last task- recording a new single and getting basic mocap done with Ajax and Patroclus.

Patroclus, whom he misses and worries about every day. Patroclus, who told him he was ‘too late’ and might as well have punched Achilles in the chest. Patroclus, whom he foolishly stormed out on before leaving on this trip, which is likely why he hasn’t answered any of Achilles’ calls. Patroclus, who has been out holding hands with Briseis unconcerned about how the press would perceive it, how Achilles would feel about it-

He’s not going to get upset about it-

He’s upset-

He’s fine-

He’s deeply upset-

He’s feeling intensely hateful-

Achilles stiffly rises from the bed, walking in circles to try to alleviate some of his nervous energy. Patroclus wouldn’t cheat on him with Briseis, he wouldn’t, they’re just friends and he knows this- doesn’t he? So why is he still so furious? Either way, he shouldn’t be letting the paparazzi get to him- he knows that they’re toxic like this. Normally when he’s at home, he doesn’t even bother to give them any attention, but maybe he’d been so desperate to know anything about his lover that this one slipped through the cracks.

He should focus on the work ahead. Ajax has been excited about this attempt at a new sound for himself, has been hounding Achilles about working on his lyrics and being prepared so that they can have their next hit. Yes- that’s what he should do.  

Breathing hard, he rushes over to the nightstand, fingers shaking as he pulls out the notebook and pen and slams them onto the desk.

It’s clear he doesn’t want to write, the way his fingers curl into wounded fists, but he knows that it’s the healthier thing to do than going outside and maybe punching a tree. The last thing anyone needs is for him to be seen responding in any way that can be deemed negatively. For a moment, he hears Patroclus telling him how proud he of him for making a set of thoughtful decisions… and his nostrils are flaring all over again.

In what might be Achilles’ last inkling of consideration for the night, he texts Odysseus and Ajax with an update that he’s changing his lyrics and will forward them tonight. Before they can bombard him with demands for explanation, he places his phone on Do Not Disturb and turns on the instrumental.

Abstract words that hardly feel like lyrics pour onto the page, full of his chaotic thoughts and anxious, curling feelings. After a few minutes, he’s no longer breathing like an enraged bull. Yeah- this is what he needs to get out right now. Even if it doesn’t make a lot of sense without what he sees in his head, but that’s what the mocap and animators are for.  

His phone buzzes; there’s only a couple of people who are set as emergency contacts and can connect through the DND setting. In seconds Achilles is pounced upon it.

Hey; we’re going to be recording everything on different days due to a schedule conflict

I’m sorry

The fury that had cooled within Achilles roils within him anew, rising through his throat and searing his ears and eyes. A text. Another fucking text with another fucking apology! And it’s not even confronting the obvious elephant now in everyone’s fucking living room, the thing that he should be apologizing for! He’s been missing this man, worried about him and feeling guilt, and for what?! A quiet, logical part of his brain reminds him that Patroclus had a very minimal part in this collab anyway, and that maybe he wants to discuss everything in person, but it is swiftly overtaken by a gleefully vengeful Achilles that wants to fight.

Plenty of time for tabloid fodder though

No don’t call me now!

Now I’m the one that’s not interested

Please answer the phone.

I was going to talk to you about it

After updating you on the lesser situation first

Do you believe those tabloids?

Gee I’d know what to believe if my bf talked to me

Esp when he once flew across a country to confront me

Over a TABLOID

Triggered by YOUR lack of communication!

I’m not saying I’m right but pot and kettle

You know Briseis is like a sister to me

We have never been romantic in any way

We both know she wants more than ‘sisterhood’

No, *we* don’t

*I* do not like her that way

And she respects that

Does she?

Are you sure of that, Patroclus?

Bc you chose her help over mine

You’ve been enjoying choosing her more often

Are you serious?!

I’ve been giving you space over that

Bc I knew you were still mad at me

But I have not been ‘choosing her’ more

I think we should talk about this later

I don’t want to talk about it anymore

Keep it the same way you keep all your secrets

Between you and your ‘sister’

You KNOW why I had to-

Why would you even-

You are being childish and insufferable

And I don’t want to do this rn

Bc I don’t feel good

So leave then!

 Suffer without me!

The triumph of having the last word immediately turns into feeling like shit as Achilles drops his head into his hands. He shouldn’t have let the spite win. He’d at least thought he’d feel a little better after getting it out, but all he’s managed to do is potentially break up with the love of his life. So now he’s insecure, exhausted, miserable, and potentially single. Achilles reaches for the phone once again, sick to his stomach. It would be so simple- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just scared and anxious and I took it out on you. He presses the call button, and it goes straight to voicemail.

Defeated, he drops it back onto the nightstand. Even this can’t be easy, as it falls onto the notebook, off the desk, and scatters the pages onto the floor because of course it does. From the bed, he can see the title at the top of the paper.

“Ha! Sure.”

Holding back his tears, he crawls under the covers and tries to fall asleep.

The dawn slowly rises over a cartoon world that has clearly seen better days, with the sounds of police sirens and car crashes filling the audio. The camera rises swiftly, above the smog filled clouds, following the line of a huge, draconian tower. The side of the tower has a singular label underneath the large windowpane that surrounds half of the cylindrical structure.

‘Feel Good Inc.’

The camera zooms into the building, now revealed to be much larger than it seemed, with a wicked cackle in the background. It follows over the heads of shadowed people, closing in on an exhausted blonde man in battered street clothes strapped into an office chair.

“Feel good,” Achilles sings, pupils fully dilated, skin pale. His repeated lyric is followed by a simple, bass beat and vocalizing. Across the room, a man- twin to the blonde Achilles in the chair, shirtless, with black hair and a scowl on his face- is surrounded by throngs of people with hands caressing his body. It is clear that he is jailer to the blonde, as he alerts when Achilles’ straps are released for him to stand.

Achilles lifts a megaphone to his lips, a freezing gust coming from them, walking zombie-like through the crowds as he tries to convince someone to hear him.

“City's breaking down on a camel's back

They just have to go, 'cause they don't know wack

So while you fill the streets, it's appealing to see

You won't get out the county, 'cause you're bad and free!

You got a new horizon, it's ephemeral style

A melancholy town where we never smile

And all I wanna hear is the message beep

My dreams, they got a kissing

'Cause I don't get sleep, no…”

His face smashes into the windowpane, his reflection barely visible as he sings the chorus to a rising windmill in the distance trying to rise above the clouds.

“Windmill, windmill for the land

Turn forever hand in hand

Take it all in on your stride

It is ticking, falling down

Love forever, love is freely

Turned forever, you and me

Windmill, windmill for the land

Is everybody in?”

The scene turns back to the inside of the prison, as the real Ajax appears on large screens surrounding the prison.

“Laughin' gas these hazmats, fast cats

Linin' 'em up like ass cracks-”

Achilles’ whole body is forced to turn around towards the screens, away from the windmill now coming closer into view. Ajax’ face is everywhere he turns, message unavoidable. In contrast to an imprisoned Achilles, it is clear Ajax is far from suffering, perhaps even a part of a better world than the one far beneath the clouds.

“Yo, we gon' ghost town this Motown

With yo' sound, you in the blink

Gon' bite the dust, can't fight with us

With yo' sound, you kill the Inc

So don't stop, get it, get it (get it)

Until you're cheddar headed

And watch the way I navigate

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha”

It is revealed that the evil cackle from the beginning was Ajax the whole time, as now everyone- his giant, leering face, the black-haired jailer, and all the shadow prisoners are watching Achilles lose touch with reality, his body morphing in and out of shape as he painfully grips at his head. Just as it seems like he’ll lose form altogether, he turns back to the panoramic window.

The music lightens as the windmill passes the window. On the edge of the cliff, leading the structure in its flight, sits Patroclus, eyes closed peacefully as he lightly strums a hopeful melody. Birds fly past him, the free wind blowing his curls. Achilles’ eyes widen, a myriad of emotions- most of all happiness, hope, yearning- run through them. For the first time in the whole music video, you can see the color come back to his skin, to his irises.

The light and shadow flip like a nickelodeon as his shadowed figure sprints past the gigantic, golden windows, desperately and pointlessly chasing after as the chorus plays once more.

“Windmill, windmill for the land

Turn forever hand in hand

Take it all in on your stride

It is ticking, falling down

Love forever, love is freely

Turned forever, you and me-”

He finally slams his hands into the last section of window as the windmill leaves him behind, and Achilles’ expression, clearly about to shatter with defeat, is hidden by the shadow once more as he steps back.

“Windmill, windmill for the land

Is everybody in?”

Ajax’ taunting rejoins the melody.

“Don't stop, get it, get it

Peep how your captain's in it (feel good)

Steady, watch me navigate

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

As it repeats, Achilles slowly makes his way back through the prison.

“Feel good.”

He steps through the throng, under the eyes of the jailer- himself.

“Feel good.”

He straps himself back into the chair.

“Feel Good.”

He lets his head fall.

“FEEL GOOD.”

The laughter echoes through the prison, and black-haired Achilles- finally accepting that Achilles’ spirit has been sufficiently crushed- returns to his women and his music. With the last repetition, the chair falls back into darkness, a reversal of the first scene.

Odysseus looks unusually subdued as he exits the elevator into the grand lobby, gilded surfaces and marble statues no longer impressive to him as he storms past. With all of the divinely crafted light, there’s still plenty of room for shadows, and it’s from one that Diomedes deftly slips into stride. They make their way out of Olympus’ main headquarters, not speaking as the valet closes their car door and waves them away.

Odysseus stares out of the window, hand covering his mouth. The uncomfortable silence quickly becomes too much for Diomedes, long jaded by the chatter of his coworker and friend.

“What did they say?” he asks. Without turning, Odysseus hands Diomedes a crisp, ivory sheet of paper from his binder, the Olympian family crest bright and gaudy at the top. Sliding on his glasses, Diomedes scans it, and a disappointed horror curdles in his stomach.

“I’ve accepted that working in this field meant that I would have to give up pieces of my soul,” Odysseus murmurs, “but I can’t say that working with the uber wealthy has ever become any easier despite that.”

Diomedes growls as he drops the paper into his lap. “I’m not shocked-”

“Likewise.”

“But it’s so… petty.”

“What more could you expect out of those two?” Odysseus snorts, referring to the gorgeous calligraphy ‘A’ and messily scrawled ‘H’ on the signature line. “When they work together, I look like a mere saint.”

The message is clear, end goal obvious.

“They see this as a promotional stunt,” Diomedes confirms. “‘Great segue into reality TV’; ‘a perfect way to garner interest within fans’. Do they not care at all about them? No, no, don’t give me that look, it was rhetorical. Fuck.”

“The worst part is, I know exactly to do it,” sighs Odysseus. “They told me what they wanted, and I knew exactly what needed to be done. It’s almost too easy, considering how mad those two are for each other. I might be too good at this job.”

He’s quickly comforted by a firm hand on his shoulder. “I know you can think of the least painful path. Try to get them in and out efficiently before Achilles gets his hands on you, or worse- me. Because I know you’ve dragged me into this.”

Odysseus snorts, then huffs a genuine laugh. “You’re going to be essential. Besides, my vacation is in three weeks, with beaches, my lovely wife and my brilliant child, and not a single thought of work. I can’t afford a messed-up face during that! Besides, Patroclus won’t be the problem. Achilles might be good at causing trouble, but luckily, he’s not better at it than me.” He sighs one last time, before straightening his shoulders, shuttering his emotions behind his eyes. A classic, Cheshire cat grin forms on his face.

“Now, I’m thinking that we’ll leak it into the public conscience with a hashtag-able name. Maybe the ‘Heartbreak Era’? No? Too on the nose? Fine, I didn’t like it either. How about-”

Why is that every time Patroclus thinks that things are going to get better, that he’s overcome at least one difficulty, here comes two more. The undying hydra of fame, even.

He’s not felt this lonely in a long time.

He never realized how much space he’d shared with, how much of himself he’d given to Achilles- and vice versa- until he was no longer there. Even when they were apart, there was always an unspoken acceptance that they’d be okay; that when they next saw each other, they would begin to heal. They were alone, but they were not lonely. Somewhere in the world, their other half awaited them, breathed for them.

But Achilles hasn’t come home in weeks, and this time it’s on purpose.

It’s so much emptier than he ever imagined.

The first couple days after the Feel Good video shoot were filled with his self-righteous anger and depressive lows, his frosty attitude causing titters amongst the crew members that inevitably became early gossip. He didn’t care. He still hasn’t watched it. He simply did not want to talk to Achilles, not after what he said.

Once he calmed down, he’d unblocked the number ready to apologize and try again. Instead, he witnessed the return calls stop altogether. Any calls back ‘could not be completed as dialed’. Even his social media had gone silent, all while the Ant Army found endless sadistic ways to harass fans of Eros and Briseis in the comments of their videos and social media. Even Briseis’ social media finally cut off the comments, but Patroclus’ business accounts remained suspiciously available.

Patroclus had never thought Odysseus was spiteful, and he hadn’t expected it upon approaching him about the situation. However, from the way the man had sat him down and told him upfront that Achilles was so upset at his potential infidelity that they suggested he ‘take some space from the relationship to cool his head and focus on work’, he might as well have just slapped him. Insult to injury was Achilles actually taking the advice. It was so unlike him, to simply give up, not after everything they’d been through… But unless they were holding him captive, why else would the calls stop? Why else couldn’t his phone connect?

Briseis wasn’t in contact with him anymore either, her personal team going into hyperdrive to shield her from all of the rumors and harassment once they realized PME would do no more. He’d managed to apologize to her before she’d gone ghost, and she’d been kind enough to accept his apology. It’s not your fault that these people are batshit, she’d said, struggling through tears on the other end. It breaks his heart that her kindness to him has been repaid with this. He can only hope that she’s managed to find peace and safety amongst family and friends, as well as more trustworthy team members. Patroclus furiously wonders why PME isn’t officially doing more than allowing just a mere comment block, but they seem to be dragging ass in general lately when it comes to-

“Eros! Eros! Please, if you could just give me one moment of your time-”

And this, always with the fucking paparazzi! Every time he took even a moment to step outside, there was a horde of people trying to get his opinion on the stupid ‘#RoyalSplit’, as though him spiraling at the crumbling of a years’ long relationship was the latest trend. Scowling, Patroclus turns away from the persistent woman holding out a microphone at his face. What the fuck is his security detail doing, and why was this woman allowed to trail him this long?

Odysseus had said something about replacing his regular team temporarily, but these new guys were so distant in comparison, saying and doing nothing as daily paparazzi harangued him. What happened? Did you cheat on Achilles? Why Briseis? Is it because you argued? Why did he put out that music video? Are you going to put out a music video? Did you sleep with Briseis? Who’s the better lay? Why-

The straw that breaks his back is when this reporter, determined to catch him at the end of his short walk, manages to tug his shoulder bag and ask:

“People say that you see her as a sister? Is that part of the attraction?”

Patroclus freezes mid-stride, horrified that she was able to touch him, horrified that she could think-

“I can’t take it anymore-”

It’s purposely antagonizing-

“That was so fucking asinine-”

-and somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Odysseus reminding him that if he can’t control his emotions, he can’t control the narrative. But at this moment, it’s fuck Odysseus, and fuck the narrative. If they cared so much about the narrative, they’d have him protected when he actually needed it. He swivels around to this woman, sunglasses dark enough to hide the hellfire in his eyes but his pressed lips enough to sell a severe look.  

“What is wrong with you people?! Why would you ask me something like that?! Is it funny to you? To see me upset? Do none of you akekeing away on your phones have close friends, or is that such a wild concept? Do you want to fuck someone you see as your sister? Be serious! Briseis is my friend, she did nothing wrong, and at the end of the day, no part of this breakup is any of your fucking business!” 

For the tiniest of moments, Patroclus feels triumph.

And then the ruthless woman smiled like he’d announced the lottery.

“You just confirmed that you broke up. This just in, the Royal Split confirmed! You said that she did nothing wrong, yes? So something else must have happened! I have even more questions now, if you’re so inclined-”

Patroclus sweeps away, his security team finally deciding to close around him to prevent the swarm of people now interested after his ill-timed blow up. He slips on his face mask for extra protection, tears welling up in his eyes. That was so stupid of him, he should have just kept his mouth shut. How humiliating. He jumps into the car awaiting him, twenty minutes late.   

“Take me home. Now.”

He unlocks his phone and shoots Odysseus and Diomedes a quick set of texts.

Yes, I messed up.

I’m not attending anything else for the foreseeable future.

Please leave me alone.

And give me back my regular fucking security detail!

Sitting silently in the back of the car, Patroclus sniffles, fighting the sobs shaking his frame. Instead, he reaches into his bag and pulls out his journal. It’s been a while since he wrote music from a source of pain, and it feels crushingly familiar as he takes his pen in hand. His old dark poetry and agonized lyrics form a watery blur as he flips to the next empty page. It’s going to run out soon, he jokingly notes as an aside. Too much sadness. After his fingers slip on the first free page, he drops the journal in his lap.

He’ll try again later, when he can lift his head from his hands.

Achilles wants to know why Diomedes is watching that clip out loud. Because fuck Achilles’ emotions, fuck that he has to hear via social media that Patroclus thinks they’re over, right? He’d think that Diomedes knew better than to try him when he’s this stressed, but no!

It doesn’t help that Patroclus sounds so ragged that it’s tearing Achilles apart. He can hear the sharp pain in his voice, hear how he stands to defend his friend while damning himself to scrutiny, and it joins the vast echo chamber in his head shaming him for ruining his relationship out of childish jealousy.

He’d tried to call him every day after they fought, to no avail. It had reached the point where Achilles was ready to fly back early when Diomedes facetimed him.

“Odysseus wants to speak to you.”

“I don’t care.”

“It has to deal with Patroclus; I think you do.”

Suspicious but subdued, he’d allowed Diomedes to add Odysseus to the call.

“What is it? I don’t have time for this.”

Odysseus looked him square in the face, no greeting, and slapped him with one of the most sickening things he’d ever heard.

“Patroclus is triggered at the thought of seeing you. You need to give him some space for him to feel safer.”

Achilles’ face contorted in horror, heart thumping so painfully he thought he was going into cardiac arrest. All the noise in his head went silent, except for the blood rushing in his ears.

“What?” Did… he think that Achilles might be violent with him? “But…I wouldn’t- not him-”

Odysseus sighed again. “This… situation, it’s particularly upsetting for him. He’s been on edge lately from the public pressure, and then the Ants getting fired up… We think it’s better if he can get some space for himself to calm down. In fact, it’s imperative that you leave him alone until he’s ready to talk.”  

“But-”

“We’ve sent you a temporary phone for work and schedule purposes, and we’re having your regular phone cut off for now.”

“How-” Achilles cuts himself off. There’s very few people able to refuse the money and power of PME and its looming financial backers from Olympus. It’s not even worth asking.

“Try giving it all a break, focus on work or something else for right now. Other than social media, you in particular will fry your brain. He’ll call when he’s ready. Don’t hurt him any worse. We’re just going to ride this out.”

Achilles, so shaken he can hardly speak, nods. “If… that’s what makes him…feel better, I…”

There’d been no more contact after that. Why would there be? Patroclus was rarely the type to yell, usually doing so to defend others. But when it came to himself, Achilles knows his soulmate- for he feels the ache of loss every second, that will always be true- will hide. Hide himself, hide his emotions, gather himself until he felt strong once more. It was exactly what happened the first time, and instead of thinking it through…

“There’s steam coming out your ears,” Diomedes comments, finally muting the phone.

“If you don’t stop playing that video, there’ll be blood coming out of yours.” Achilles retorts, seething. “Why am I even still here?”

Diomedes only blinks. “I’m keeping an eye on you while we wait for your next appointment.”

Achilles flips his hair in a huff. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to destroy something in transit from one meeting to another, I promise. I think I’ve seen you more in the past month than ever, I miss our long distance.”

Unfazed, Diomedes only flexes his fingers before picking his phone back up.

“If you must know, I’m stopping you from making a fool out of yourself by bothering Patroclus. I’m sure you don’t want any more problems with him.”

Achilles scowls down at his feet. Arrogant bastard. He shoves up from the chair, aiming for the door.

“Achilles.”

“I’m just going to the bathroom. You don’t have to watch me piss. I’m not…” His shoulders lower in defeat. “I’ll be back.”

Diomedes is half raised, but the crushed, yet honest expression on Achilles’ face stills him. Subtly shaking his head to himself, he sits back down.

The bathroom is luckily empty, allowing Achilles to dry heave and hyperventilate for a couple moments in peace.

Maybe he really doesn’t need me anyway.

He attempts the breathing exercises that they taught him in therapy, finally able to center himself, but there’s not much he can do for his red rimmed eyes or demoralized spirit.

If he’s safer without me… if that’s what helps him… I can wait…

I can wait…

He’s trudging back from the bathroom when he sees a familiar brunette hauling gigantic binders in the distance and gasps.

“Automedon!”

Automedon stiffens, hustling into a strange waddle as he tries to flee the footsteps increasing in speed behind him like an inevitable car accident. He squeaks as Achilles yanks him by the cuff and shoves him against the wall, bracing around him.

“What,” he cries defensively, trying not to make eye contact. “Next you gonna knock my books out my hands?”

“Oh, calm down, you nerd,” Achilles growls, moving his arms once it’s clear Automedon isn’t going to make a break for it. “Where the hell have you been the past few weeks?”

“You know, just… working on my private projects. You were told in an email!”

Achilles’ eyes narrow. Honestly, once he has his friend in front of him, something clicks. Automedon holds water like an upside-down boot once he’s passionate about something. Whatever it is he’s hiding, Diomedes knows from experience that he was a high risk around a hair trigger Achilles.

Automedon squirms under Achilles’ gaze. “I also got sick there for a minute, so I took some time off, and-”

“Knock it off. You know what’s up, don’t you?”

“I know a whole lot of things! For example, I know if I don’t get these files to Diomedes, he’s going to be very frustrated, and-”

“Automedon.” Achilles’ voice wavers. “Please. You know I… you know I hate being unsure of myself, and I hate being unsure about him…”  

Automedon, still tight against the wall, exhales, expression falling.

“You and your pitiful puppy face; I don’t know how I keep falling for this trick.”

“Because you’re my closest friend, and you know I’d never let them fire you.”

Automedon rolls his eyes, but his expression is pensive. “Look, right now, I might only know a little bit more than you. Everyone has been kept minimally informed. Even Antilochus and the other sound engineers have noticed how tight communication and schedules are, and that’s just from being in closer contact with you, Bri, and Pat. You and Briseis have been on social lockdown. Patroclus has been the opposite; it’s practically been open season on him. PME is releasing a new Eros track today too, so it’s clear that they still expected him to show up despite all the extra pressure.”

Achilles frowns. “But they know, out of all of us, he’s the one that would be most vulnerable to all of that.”

“Exactly!” Automedon shakes his head. “That’s what’s strange about this whole thing. Odysseus and Diomedes are strategic titans in both the management and communications field. They managed to contain the nuclear fallout that was Elysium. They rehabilitated your image when you decided to go apeshit on one of the world’s most famous sports stars. They managed to get Patroclus’ dad arrested for his financial abuse and domestic violence. Something like this is run of the mill rumormongering; this should be cake to them! So why…”

Why haven’t they done more than the minimum?

“It’s like they’re trying to feed into it,” continues Automedon, “and I know that part of the job is that ‘all publicity is good publicity’, but…”

Achilles’ mind spins. Everything Automedon is theorizing makes sense, but he’s been so distraught that he hasn’t been able to see it from a larger perspective.

“Well anyway, that’s all I have. I hope this isn’t the new work culture. It’s suffocating. Everybody who knows you three knows the truth, and even if we didn’t, something like this should have never had the power to change things this much.” Automedon pauses, shaking Achilles with the stack of binders. “You look mad. You can’t tell them that I told you this, I wasn’t supposed to ‘encourage’ you. If you can’t keep calm about this-”

Achilles claps his shoulder. “No. No, I got it. I can- I can keep quiet.” Automedon raises his brow, and Achilles groans. “I can! Enough. How is-” He stops, but his desperate tone reveals what he wants to ask.

“He’s not okay, if I’m being honest. Antilochus told me that he was struggling to record the other day. But he pulled through, apparently very well.”

A small flicker of pride burns within Achilles. “Of course, he did. Patroclus is a natural in the booth, a true artist. I wish… I wish I could have seen him. I wish he wanted to see me. But I scared him.”

Automedon frowns. “Scared him? How?”

“I snapped at him. Over the Briseis thing.”

“Dumbass. And they’re keeping you apart?” He tsks. “I don’t know, Achilles. I saw that paparazzi video, and he didn’t seem scared. Just really sad. Definitely angry at the cameras though; I’ve never seen him that mad.”

Achilles cheeses at the ground. “I know. I’m so proud of him for telling her off. It’s crazy, but I’d rather him do that to me. Anything other than this… silence.” I just want to go home. To him. It’s a couple moments until he realizes Automedon hasn’t disagreed, and Achilles flicks his head. “You were supposed to say ‘oh no, not that’, or something.”

“Nope. I agree with you- your favorite thing! Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have to get these binders to Diomedes.”

“We?”

They bicker on their way back to the office room, Achilles’ temperament much lighter than when he walked out. For just one moment, Achilles makes eye contact with Diomedes, narrowing his gaze suspiciously. Still, in a moment of growth, he bites his tongue. Diomedes smiles knowingly to himself, sending a subtle thumbs up text to Odysseus.

Ever the masochist, Achilles continues nightly to listen to sad playlists while he hovels inside the gloomy hotel room that has become his self-imposed prison. It’s strange; he couldn’t bring himself to go home to Phthia, despite Peleus’ concerned calls, out of fear that there’d be too many memories, that he’d go running back before Patroclus was ready. Yet, out of every artist he listens to, the only one that could ever convey the melancholy he feels is the one causing it. It was the same when he thought Patroclus was near death; the misery of hearing a recording of his voice the only balm to the searing pain of missing the real thing.

Achilles sets his third glass of red wine on the side of the deep bathtub, peeling off his fluffy white robe and then testing the water. Part of him wonders if he keeps taking all these hot baths to make up for the lack of warmth, and he snickers at himself. Pathetic. As he relaxes into the water, head firmly on the towel pillow, the suggested playlist moves to the next track.

Hm. This one is new to him. It starts off slow, melancholic piano echoing. Achilles’ eyes pop open when Eros’ low voice begins.

We found each other

I helped you out of a broken place

You gave me comfort

But falling for you was my mistake-

I put you on top, I put you on top

I claimed you so proud and openly

And when times were rough, when times were rough

I made sure I held you close to me-

The chorus drops into a slow beat, reverberating through the water and sending frisson rippling through Achilles’ body.

So call out my name (call out my name)

Call out my name when I kiss you so gently

I want you to stay (I want you to stay)

I want you to stay, even though you don't want me

Boy, why can't you wait? (why can't you wait, baby?)

Boy, why can't you wait 'til I fall out of love?

Won't you call out my name?

Achilles can’t listen to this.

But he can’t turn away.

I said I didn't feel nothing baby, but I lied

I almost gave a piece of myself for your life-

Automedon had said that he heard it was hard for Patroclus to record this, this lyrical example of an exposed, raw nerve. Had he stopped in the booth, paused to breathe, all while allowing others to observe his misery? Had it been cathartic for him, the last of his emotions about their relationship, before letting it all go? Is this their relationship’s swan song?

And when times were rough, when times were rough

I made sure I held you close to me!

So call out my name (call out my name, baby)

So call out my name when I kiss you

So gently, I want you to stay (I want you to stay)

I want you to stay even though you don't want me

Boy, why can't you wait? (boy, why can't you wait 'til I)

Boy, why can't you wait 'til I fall out of love-

Babe, call out my name (say call out my name, baby)

Boy, call out my name, and I'll be on my way, boy

I'll be on my-

Achilles silently screams into the thick, heated air, as Eros’ voice croons on my way over and over, both calling to him and pushing him away. His desperate, wet hands slide up his neck, over his eyes, and fist into his hair.

Achilles storms towards Diomedes’ office, wrath boiling hot in his eyes and ears. On his business phone is numerous calls to Odysseus, who is conveniently not answering his phone due to ‘being on the happiest of beach vacations’ according to his chipper fucking voicemail. If Achilles finds out where he’s vacationing, he’s going to string that man up by his ankles and drag him along that beach. And if he doesn’t find out, he’ll just wait until he comes back. He’s got plenty of time, because he certainly won’t be spending it recording.

It had all been a ‘slip-up’, presumably. Achilles had been emailed the lyrics, a duet with an unnamed artist. A break-up song. As though he wanted to record something like this after hearing what he heard last night. No. He wants his boyfriend back, he wants his phone back, and he wants to shove a foot up his managers’ and PME’s asses. In the midst of calling to tell Diomedes to say that he wouldn’t be hiding any further, Automedon had sent him a covert picture of the desk, zoomed in on the name of the other artist on the contract.

Achilles saw red.

His security couldn’t keep up with him, the way he raced down the hotel stairs, parkoured over the garage parking lot walls, and into the car he’d secretly had brought to the lot. They’d made Achilles ‘behave’ for long enough; he’d forced himself to be patient despite every part of him wanting to crawl back home and beg forgiveness- to then pull some shit like this? As he weaved through traffic all he could imagine was taking those lyrics and slamming Odysseus’ face into them.

By the time he kicks in Diomedes’ door, he’s already mid-roar.

“Do you think you’re funny? What in the fuck do you think you’re playing at with this shi-”

The furious wind is knocked out of him. Silent, gaze and presence so frosty that it near cools Achilles’ temper instantly, Patroclus glares at an unfazed Diomedes and a quivering Automedon. They both turn at his bombastic arrival, and Patroclus’ expression shifts momentarily before he quickly hides his eyes.

“Achilles. I see both of you are on one accord, arriving like this; that’s good news.”

Achilles wavers for a moment, before glaring furiously. “Where’s Odysseus?”

“I’m sure you heard the voicemail. He’s on vacation. I can’t bring him back any faster. As for you, Patroclus. I will continue to be sorry, I really will, for your experience. It was not purposeless nor thoughtless, but it was cruel, given our prior set expectations and standards for your care. I think it’s been long enough to show the higher ups that it simply isn’t for the both of you, and that things will return to the way they were.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Achilles demands, claiming the seat next to Patroclus. “Higher ups? What isn’t for us? What’s going on?” Diomedes slides a sheet of paper from Patroclus to Achilles, pointing to it. Achilles glances at Automedon, whose expression is hard as he nods.

“I was explaining to Patroclus this entire situation, actually.” Diomedes calmly explains. “It was a lot for him to process, so I was telling him that he needs to go home and get some rest while we handle everything.” He turns back to Patroclus. “I’ve cancelled your remaining engagements for the week.”

“Oh, now it matters what I need,” Patroclus sneers quietly, but he rises from the table. He’s pushed the chair in when Diomedes lifts a hand.

“Perhaps you should consider the other thing we discussed. I think it would be best for both of you if you moved with expedience.”

Patroclus freezes, visibly restraining his expression, and Achilles’ breathing drops. What would be best for both of them? Move? Is Patroclus going to move out? After writing a song like that? He can’t, he can’t do that, Achilles needs to explain first, he needs to-

“Come home,” Patroclus whispers, gripping Achilles’ chair, before swiftly leaving.

The two simple words cleanse Achilles’ spirit, his mind clearing so powerfully that he near forgets where he is in the rush of relief.

He still wants me.

He wasn’t letting us go.

I have a chance.

I can come home.

I can go home!

Laughter distracts him, and he turns a pout back at an amused Diomedes and Automedon. Diomedes holds out his hand, indicating that he wants the work phone back. Achilles throws it at him, grasping his own phone back fiendishly.

“I know you’ve been tired of staying at that hotel,” Diomedes wryly comments.

If he never sees that hotel ever again, Achilles won’t cry. “I gave him space. Clearly it was the only thing you said that was worth trusting.”

“Do you still want to discuss things?”

Achilles is already half out of his seat, manically searching for florists within a ten-mile radius.

“Right now? No.”

“Well. For the record: Odysseus and I didn’t agree with this call either. He tried to damage control, to meet the happy medium. We are honestly sorry that you both had to go through what you did.”

Achilles bites a laugh. “Happy medium; oh, miss me with that bullshit, Diomedes. Whatever the hell you planned with Olympus, this ‘schtick’ you ran with Odysseus, this conversation- it isn’t over. I will be back. No- we will be back. And you’ll all get what’s coming to you for hurting me and the one I love.”

Though his tone is serious, it’s hard to take the threat seriously when Achilles is not looking at them, beaming ear to ear at his phone as he says it.

“Go save your relationship,” Automedon teases, relieved to see his friend so happy.

Achilles grabs the paper and sprints out of the office.

The evening light is low in the sky when Achilles finally finishes bringing all his things inside. Most of the lights are off, the hallways feeling barren as he makes his way to the bedroom to shove his suitcases into his closet. A neat Patroclus’ pack your things when you get home rule still feels instinctive to him, so it’s disheartening to see the evidence of his lover’s distress in the crinkled, unmade bed and overflowing dirty clothes hamper.

When he makes it out to their balcony, there are a couple stars twinkling in the sky. Patroclus sits serenely in his chaise, looking up at them. Achilles makes plenty of subtle noise to alert him to his presence, plus a couple of curses as he tries to organize all the gifts he’s brought. Once it’s as presentable as he can make it, he turns and inhales.

“Patroclus.”

When Patroclus finally turns to face him, blinking slowly, all of that newfound bravado seeps of Achilles’ body, leaving behind a torn, vulnerable expression and a nervous wreck.

“I- um- I brought you some things that I know you like. Your favorite flowers, a full bouquet! Some rose and eucalyptus bath oil, for relaxation- I thought it would be something different, a smell that would be wonderful on you. And- I know you like pecan turtles, so I went to a nearby bakery and bought a bunch of them fresh! I put them in your favorite blue crystal bowl, here. A nearby store were also selling fleece blankets, and I got you one. It’s got the loveliest blue flowers on it.”

Patroclus is silent, slowly looking him over, and Achilles’ shoulders fall in a desolate acceptance.

“I- I can see how this sounds. I get it. I… I can stay in one of the other rooms tonight, if this is too much, too soon. I just… wanted you to know I was back. So… yeah. I won’t… interrupt your peace anymore. I’m sorry.”

He turns to leave when-

“You’re not.”

Achilles’ gaze rises in hope, as Patroclus scoots over on the chaise, his watery, relieved look an offer to join him.

“I’m so happy you’re back.”

Achilles oscillates for a moment, swiftly grabbing the blanket before joining Patroclus on the chaise. He holds it out, lingering, until Patroclus takes the other half and pulls it over himself. The moonlight glows over them, the night quiet and waiting for more.

“So I-”

“I know that I-”

They pause, laughing awkwardly.

“You should go first,” Achilles offers.

“I just- I’m honestly shocked. I told myself I was childish, dramatic, to think that I would sing and you would just magically come home. And yet, I still dreamt of it. I figured you’d yell or something when I tried to say it earlier. It all seems so...easy.”

Achilles blinks. “You didn’t think I would come back?”

“No. It hurt enough recording the song, but what hurt worse was thinking that I was punking out, singing my feelings that I couldn’t bring myself to say to you in person. I was absolutely convinced you’d hear it and mock my feelings, and I’d have to see yet another tabloid with ‘your’ comments about how pathetic I was. Made me sick to my stomach. I felt so stupid.”

“I wrote my verses and the visuals of Feel Good with the same goal,” admits Achilles, “So I can’t exactly call you pathetic, when I started it. I started this whole thing, god, I-” He shoves his hands into his eyes.

“I didn’t listen to it until yesterday.”

“What?”

“Feel Good. I was so upset about us that I couldn’t bring myself to listen to any of your music, or any music really. It’s been a very silent few weeks.”

“I listened to your music every night.” This time Patroclus blinks in surprise, and Achilles lightly shrugs. “I did. I would pour wine, fill my tub, and soak while listening to music that fit my emotions. If your music came on, so be it. In a terrible sense of irony, it encompassed how I felt far beyond anyone else I was listening to. By yesterday, I just… it was overwhelming.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Patroclus keels over in a fit of giggles. Achilles’ mouth pops open.

“What?”

“That is such an Achilles thing to do, like who else would do that? I’m sure you looked like quite the Renaissance painting.” He continues to laugh. “I’m sorry, it’s not that it’s funny that you were sad. It’s just, of all the things I imagined you might be doing while we were apart… that was not it.”

“It might be misery with pizzazz,” Achilles half-jokes, “but it’s still misery, Patroclus.”

“I know.” Patroclus’ laughter fades. “You didn’t start this, Achilles. You did hurt me, but we were clearly hurting before our fight. I was in disbelief after I watched the video. Not only was it an amazing piece of work, but-” He looks at Achilles, deep eyes wavering, and points at himself. “Do you… do you really think I’m going to leave you behind? Me?”

Achilles grips Patroclus’ pointed finger, curling his hands around it like a prayer.

“Yes, you. Don’t treat yourself like this, Patroclus. Of course, you. You are… you are so much. A muse, a powerhouse, a safe haven, a prayer… I lack the talent to describe just how wonderful you are. Every time I gaze upon you, I am in the presence of something divine. It took me a long time to treat you the way you deserved to be treated, and even now I feel that I could be doing more, but I just don’t know what.”

“Achilles-”

“Please let me finish.” Now that he’s begun, Achilles finds all his insecurities tumbling out. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but when we were younger, I always felt like no matter what I did, you would be there. I wholly took that for granted, to the point that it began to tear our relationship apart. You had to threaten to leave for me to understand that you didn’t feel valued, something I didn’t even notice. You had to hide who you really wanted to be when you were in front of me. I wasn’t even aware of what I was putting you through until you nearly died.”

“And this is going to sound so selfish, and it’s why I felt so shitty about it.” Achilles’ throat scalds. “You didn’t just survive, you thrived, going so far all on your own. Everything you touch turns to gold. While I am overwhelmingly proud and happy for you… It clicked that I’m not dependable to you, Patroclus. You don’t need me, but I’m terrified of losing you. I cannot conceive of a life where you aren’t there- and twice now, I’ve had to try- but half of your life has been defined by holding yourself back for me.”

It feels like a stone, but Achilles swallows. “I live in a constant anxiety that one day you’ll realize that you’re sick of me and what I have and haven’t done. That one day I would behave in some thoughtless way that I always have, and you’d just decide that you’d had enough. That I hadn’t protected you enough, that I hadn’t even truly known you, and I wasn’t worth it. I wanted so badly to make up for everything I’d missed, to make myself worth standing by, but instead I let my fear of a distance growing between us actually form one. Worst of all, I lashed out like a coward. I directly caused the fallout I feared the most.”

When he quiets, it hits Achilles: all that misery and anxiety, and he’d finished saying what he felt in less than two minutes. It feels petty, that this short monologue could have caused him so much strife. Still, he looks from under his lashes in penitence, ready for Patroclus to look at him in disgust, to realize that the partner he’d spoken so highly of was so childish and insecure.

Patroclus’ eyes close. It is so strange to him, to hear these words from Achilles, the most confident, genuine person he knew- good and bad. There’s never been a thought that Achilles was afraid to voice, an opinion of his own he didn’t value. Achilles: pop superstar, supermodel, shining actor… his lover. It’s difficult for Patroclus to comprehend that out of the two of them, Achilles would be the one worried about this. And yet, it all clicks. The way Achilles has been treating him like he’s fragile, the way he’s been insistently trying to involve himself. His frustrated rage after In The Night, his inexplicable upset when Patroclus had chosen to accept Briseis’ offer for help over his.

Finally, he reaches forward to gently grasp the sides of Achilles’ face, tilting his gaze up.

“I told you before, and I’ll tell you again any time you need me to: I’m not going anywhere, Achilles. I’m yours. I’m sorry you ever doubted, that you thought I would ever just discard you, or on some whim I would just decide that I didn’t love you anymore.”

By now both their eyes are misty, shining tourmaline and emerald in the light.

“I’m… I’m sorry, too. To be honest, both of us were sitting on such ugly thoughts. You thought that I didn’t trust in you, but I thought you would find me too dependent upon you. That I wasn’t living up to being your partner.”

“Patroclus, you-”

“No- my turn, please. I’ve been feeling very...low, even before our fight. I was so ashamed of myself that I didn’t want to reach out to you; I didn’t want you to see me feel and look so incapable and defeated. You love me out loud, and I’ve always felt and valued your love, even when it’s a naïve love. Not once have I ever imagined my life as better or fulfilling without you in it. You heard my song, I- We’ve been through so much together, like you said, and I treasure all of that. It’s wild to me to think you don’t know that.”

“I know,” Achilles whimpers. “I know, I was so- no, you were talking. Sorry.”

Patroclus half-smiles. “You spent your childhood amongst the entertainment world, and I get the feeling that even if you hadn’t, you would have taken all this on with a confidence unrivalled. So how or why would you want to understand how demotivated I felt? I thought you’d decide I was just disappointing and weak. I was afraid that I couldn’t keep up, and that you would be the one that decided I wasn’t good enough. That you would see me and realize that you could have anyone else, so why waste time with your high school sweetheart who couldn’t handle a couple business meetings, or fumble through a dance routine without having a depressive episode? It was safer to keep to myself. You would hate me if I called you back too late, and I couldn’t handle that, so I didn’t call at all. The longer I took, the more I felt it to be true.”

“Of course, not communicating was not the answer. Now, I didn’t appreciate the things you said about me and Briseis, and you were wrong for being spiteful that way. I was even happy to be angry at you at first, to feel self-righteous after so much self doubt. But once I got over it, I realized that I might have actually ruined us for real. They told me that you were so angry at me that you didn’t want to hear from me and was focusing on work. ‘Achilles, following orders?’ I asked myself. You must have been furious! I spent so long afraid to talk to you, and once I actually couldn’t, I felt like I was going to fall apart without you.”

“Following orders?” Achilles scowls, squeezing Patroclus’ hands. “They told me that you were triggered and that I’d scared you. That it would be safer to wait until you reached out first.”

Patroclus’ expression curls in disgust. “What the fuck? Why would they say something like that?”

“Clearly, our happiness and mental health weren’t worth more than some stupid ass pilot for a reality show.”

“That’s so fucked up,” hisses Patroclus.

Achilles nods in assent. “Incredibly. From now on, we’re just going to ignore them and buy some burner phones or something. Bypass all this bullshit. Fuck them.”

Patroclus snorts. “Burners? The growth. I remember when we were young, someone treated my flip phone so disdainfully, and now he wants to buy some.”

“This is for romance. Same idea. If you want me to go find a rotary phone for you to prove my love, I can do that too.”

They giggle, heads nudged together.

“This whole time, both of us were worried about the same damn thing,” muses Achilles. “So stupid. It’s on for me for not emphasizing it more and acting so ridiculous, but Patroclus: I would never look down on you for needing help. I want you to trust me enough to want my help! Besides, you could have two left feet and I’d blame the choreographer because evidently, they can’t see what brilliance you have planned.”

“That’s a bit far.”

“I don’t care. I’ll go far; I will go right over the edge. I don’t care.” Achilles shrugs when Patroclus quirks his lips at him. “I can’t blame you for being nervous to reach out, the way I was acting. I’ll do my best to stop taking these things personally, if it means you’ll trust me enough to communicate with me. Odds are, I’ll encourage you to do whatever you want as long as it doesn’t hurt you. I’ll be the first one there, if you want me. Just tell me what you need.”

Patroclus looks down, then back up. “I definitely want you to admit that Bri didn’t do anything. I know her life is hard right now because your crazy ass fans think she’s a problem. Thankfully Diomedes said he’s going to actually do something for her and me now, since this… TV show drama shit is a wrap. I need you to do the right thing. Please. That’s not fair to her.”

“Naturally.” Now that Patroclus is in front of him, has professed his love and his fears, Achilles can’t even believe he’d been jealous enough to act so foolishly. “I’m sorry about buying into that. I was being a dick. I know that you and Briseis aren’t a thing. Even if you did have feelings for her, you are entirely too honorable to be unfaithful. It was an insult to your love and your character, and it wouldn’t make you trust in me.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll write something up for my page, and I’ll let you review it before I send it to Automedon.”

Achilles is already hustling to get his phone out, and Patroclus smiles ruefully.

“You know, those tabloids and their ‘mystery session’ rumors… if you want to know the truth, I was learning how to twerk and give you a lap dance.” Achilles drops the phone in his lap, expression aghast, and Patroclus laughs. “You talked yourself right out of that.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“…Could I possibly talk myself back into it?”

Patroclus snorts when Achilles pleads with wide puppy dog eyes. “I don’t know.”

 “Noooo! I can’t believe this. Damn!” Pouting, Achilles locks his phone and shoves his face into his knees. “I really- I didn’t think I could feel any dumber. Fucking idiot.”

“Behave, and we’ll see.” Patroclus grins as Achilles releases a pathetic cry into the blanket. Once he’s done, Achilles lifts his head and blows some hair out of his face.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“The… core source of your depression… It’s the meetings, isn’t it?” Patroclus flinches, and Achilles knows he’s hit pay dirt. “I had a feeling. The company lawyers and your assistants do get paid to do this for you!”

“I know that. You’ve told me this multiple times.”

“So why do you go, knowing they only stress you out?” Achilles places a comforting hand on his arm. “Only if you’re willing to tell me right now.”

“No, we just talked about communicating more. It-” Patroclus inhales, holds it, then exhales slowly. “It’s because of Menoetius and Thetis,” He breathes, watching Achilles stiffen at the mention of his mother. “I feel compelled to go, in a way. I spent half of my life, like you said, under a contract meant to torment me for the profit of others. It’s hard to let go of that fear that it’ll happen again. Too many artists end up in these devastating, inescapable contracts, and I don’t want that to happen again just because I wasn’t paying attention when someone got greedy with my life. I don’t know if I could survive it.”

All his supposed emotional growth, and he’s still the scared little boy that couldn’t speak up for himself in a meeting. It makes Patroclus sick with disappointment. He slumps into Achilles’ side, and Achilles runs a soothing thumb down his cheek.

“I’m going to say this, and may lightning strike me down if I betray it: if anything like that ever happens again, I will break every contract I have, grab you, and we will run away together.”

“Achilles.”

“I’m serious.” Achilles looks down, making sure Patroclus can see he means it. “I couldn’t protect you the first time. I’ll be damned if it happens again. You have a support system; a larger, smarter, wiser one this time. For me, I’ll do everything in my power to prevent that. Even if I have to give up every penny, every fan, all of it- none of it means as much as you. But, before all of that- because I know you think I’m being extreme, and you genuinely love making music- I want you to know that it’s safe and okay for you to just say no.”

“It’s not that simple,” Patroclus whimpers. “I can’t just refuse contracts outright without discussion.”

“You could, but what I meant was the meetings. No one deserves to run you or your time into the ground, especially for free. While I know we can’t all be me and tell management where to shove it, you can always send an email with the appropriate contacts saying, ‘send me the final copy of the contract for review, will accept or refuse with commentary’.”

Why does it suddenly sound so easy when Achilles says it? Patroclus won’t lie- the idea of sending an email versus seeing all those suits for the millionth time is tempting. Perhaps he’d been a little too suckered into acting like a ‘nice professional’ that put in 110% a little too often. He nudges Achilles.

“That seems so mean. I don’t know how brave I’d be to do that.”

“Mean? You’re so precious. Do you want me to come to one of your meetings? I’m willing to bet after having me there to haggle with them, they’ll be much nicer to you. Everyone sees how nice you are, and they take advantage. Gotta be a bitch sometimes, Patroclus.”

“I’m not going to be a bitch. But I might take you up on your offer.”

“Excellent.” Achilles wraps an arm around the back of the chaise. “Either way, I just want you to know that you’re safe, okay? Nothing is going to happen if you tell them you won’t be in, and if they really need you to be there, they will request it like the adults they are. You think I’m a natural at this, right? Just trust me. If they give you problems, I have no issue being your forwarding contact. Please send them my way, and then sleep well at night.”

Patroclus doesn’t know how well he’d actually sleep at night knowing he’d let Achilles loose with his hard-built professional bridges and disrespect-lit matches, but Achilles’ honest passion suffuses him with long missed warmth and peace. His shoulders drop, his jaw unclenching, and he exhales slowly. Achilles sees his body relax and softly smiles.

“There we go. Much better already.” He’s feeling tired but proud of their progress, and his own body is just about to relax when he sees the heat in Patroclus’ molten brown eyes.

“I missed this. I missed you,” Patroclus whispers, his hand raising to Achilles’ cheek. Elated, Achilles scrambles to his knees and rushes in. He places a hand behind Patroclus’ neck, so it doesn’t hit the chaise as he scoots in until his knees slam the back. Their bodies are pressed tightly together as they kiss messily, huffing for air amongst quiet whines. Patroclus wraps a hand within Achilles’ hair, gently but firmly pulling back so that he can better bite down on his collar. Achilles near comes from the tight tug, and he grinds their hips together to relieve some of the pressure. Patroclus hisses in the middle of his bite, a red hickey blooming under his pressure.

“Right now, right here,” Achilles breathes. Hands shivering with excitement, he barely manages to kick off his own pants before reaching for Patroclus’ zipper. He grips Patroclus tightly and moves to line up. Despite his heavy breathing and the warm touch leaving him dizzy, Patroclus grabs Achilles’ hand.

“No. You’re not ready,” he whispers breathily. Achilles only nudges his face with hand to kiss down his cheek, laughing quietly.

“You’re going to laugh at me for this,” he admits, “but I left out a certain part of my bath time routine earlier.”

Deftly, he uses one hand to raise the blanket while using the other to pull Patroclus’ hand to his cleft. His breath hitches when Patroclus slides a finger in, eyes flickering with pleasure.

“See? Already soft for you.”

Patroclus snorts in amusement, a wicked grin on his face. “No way. You have to be a masochist. How did this even help?”

“I missed your touch. I dreamt of you taking me, of making me beg for your forgiveness. I missed last night though, and that was because your latest single left me a pathetic mess.”

There’s certainly a comment to be made about ‘pathetic mess’, and Patroclus has it ready when Achilles removes Patroclus’ finger from his hole and shoves three of his long, russet fingers into his mouth, his tongue messily sliding along their length. Patroclus’ ears burn, his heart throbs, and the rest of his blood swells in his groin. Achilles slides off his fingers to lick his lips.

“You had something to say,” he teases, blinking lasciviously as Patroclus’ pupils expand. With a coarse moan, Patroclus uses one hand to pull Achilles forward by his chin, placing his spit slick fingers back at his entrance.

“You wanted this,” he hisses. “Tell me if it hurts.”

He shoves all three fingers in, and the burn is so exquisite that Achilles leaks onto himself. Tongue fervently deep in Patroclus’ mouth, he rocks back and forth. The blanket still covers them, a pointless act of decency that cloaks them in intimacy. It will be filthy before long; the way Achilles pants and whines. Ready for more, he slides off of Patroclus’ fingers. Greedily grabbing Patroclus, he bottoms out in one thrust, slapping into Patroclus’ lap. Ever the gentleman, Patroclus cloaks the blanket around his neck and back, tightly gripping it as he shoves his head into Achilles’ collarbone.

“Mmmm, this might not be a good idea,” he shudders. “It’s jumping. It’s already jumping.”

His sensitivity makes Achilles curious. Patroclus’ eyes are closed tight, his lips pressed, and it makes for such an erotic image. Achilles rolls his hips, and Patroclus whimpers. Oh, yes. Achilles grins.

“I want to see your face during this, Philtatos. It’s okay if you come first. You need release.”

Without a by-your-leave, Achilles starts to ride, and he’s quickly rewarded for his voracious greed. Patroclus’ head tilts back, his mouth agape as he sobs his ecstasy to the stars. Driving upward, his hands grip Achilles’ thighs so tightly they’re leaving marks. Achilles is ruthless, drawing out each moan. The slaps quickly become faster and unorganized, Patroclus’ chest spasming with pleasure.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Achilles cries, thighs burning with exertion. “Shit, go ahead, come for me, I want it, I need to see it-”

The luscious, melodic cry Patroclus releases grips Achilles in a chokehold. If he’d release it as a chorus on a single, Achilles is confident the track would go platinum. For a couple jubilant moments he loses himself as he vehemently rides out every drop of the warmth filling him inside, leaving his own mess on Patroclus’ shirt. Limp, Achilles falls onto Patroclus, and they breathe heavily together. There’s an odd cracking noise, and suddenly they’re flying backwards towards the ground.

“Fuck,” Achilles scowls, once his heart stops racing. “The fucking chair broke. I’m sorry Patroclus, I’ll replace it and-”

His pledge fades off as he realizes Patroclus is…laughing. Full throat laughing, his hands over his eyes as he cackles. Achilles raises a brow.

“You okay?”

“I’m- I’m fine!” Patroclus snickers, still caught in his laughter. “It’s all just so funny now that I’m happy. I can’t believe it. We’re okay. I’m okay.”

It’s a little worrisome, but Achilles lets it go. If Patroclus was happy, he was happy.

“We could be better than okay if you’re still interested,” he tempts, voice low. Patroclus’ laughter peters off with interest. “Now that we’ve taken the edge off... Maybe you could take the reins this time.”

Ten minutes later, Achilles’ hands are woven to one of the bed posts, a blood red silk scarf just tight enough to prevent him from escaping, but loose and long enough to let him squirm for more. Captivating, his arms are pulled long in front of him, his body knelt in supplication with his ass high in the air. He lays one cheek to the bed as he struggles against Patroclus’ hold, his probing tongue and firm grip around him sending constant flashes of electricity up Achilles’ spine.

It’s everything he dreamt of while soaking pathetically in a hotel tub; envisioning his lover taking him back, taking him. Achilles wanted something a little more aggressive from Patroclus this time, requesting (begging, even) that he be shown what he would have missed. It was a challenge for sure, but his mild-mannered lover rose to it. Many men would consider dominant to mean commanding, maybe even cold. Patroclus played a little different.

When Achilles comes for the second time, Patroclus pulls away, leaving him a mess behind and in front. Achilles whimpers, going to turn his head when a firm hand grasps it, gently pressing it back into the bed.

“No, no. This is what you wanted,” Patroclus murmurs warmly, not letting him move, and Achilles whines. It is what he wanted. Quietly, he runs hot fingers around Achilles’ thighs, around to his twitching dick, glossing over it before moving up his abs and to his chest, pinching at his nipples. “Your body is lovely. I really missed it. Did you miss mine?”

“Yes,” Achilles gasps, heaving when Patroclus crawls onto him, chest to back. “God, yes. Please-”

“Did you want more?” Patroclus teases, slowly grinding his hardness into Achilles’ back. “Wait. But you didn’t. You wanted to be alone. You thought I was with someone else.”

“No, no, no, I was wrong.”

“Maybe you wanted someone else?”

“No, never. I’m yours.”

“I don’t know…”

“Take me as much as you need until you believe it. I’ll take it all. Just… please.”

Achilles shivers when Patroclus slips away, left alone and vulnerable, and he tears up from abandon. Just then, Patroclus slowly makes his way inside him, leaving Achilles choking at his girth.

“Hold on to the bedpost,” Patroclus rasps, and Achilles scoots up, wrapping his fingers as best he can around the post. The moment he’s secure, Patroclus wraps one hand around Achilles’ stomach, and the other around the front of his neck. Slowly, he moves his hips, the creamy slide driving Achilles as insane as the tantric rhythm he’s chosen. It burns with pleasure, but it only lingers at climax, never fully reaching. He writhes and whines in Patroclus’ grasp with each grind, unable to move his own body. He wants to wrap his hands in the soft curls, wants to feel, but every time his wrists tug just before he can reach.

“Stay still.”

The command is even more devastating when Patroclus slides his hand from his neck to around his dick, slowly stroking in rhythm with his hips. This hip roll must be something he picked up from his dance lessons. Patroclus’ stroke game has always been passionately effective, but this new precision has Achilles’ soul trying to leave his body. And you said you couldn’t do a routine.

“I can’t, I want more,” he mewls. “I can’t-”

“You can. You’re doing a good job.”

“Don’t be nice to me like that,” Achilles whimpers. “Nice and cruel at the same time, it’s not fair.”

“Oh. So you’d rather I-” Suddenly, Patroclus pulls away, and Achilles’ legs are yanked from underneath him, his knees spread wide, each ankle in Patroclus’ tight grasp. He can’t gather his wits before he’s being pounded, the punishing pace a complete 180 from the toe-curling love making. Achilles cries with every impact, his fingers digging into the sheets as he screams for mercy, for more.

“Is your hair in your face?” Patroclus grits, unable to see Achilles’ face. “Here, let me help you.”

He lets go of one leg to grab a fistful of hair, tugging while continuing his onslaught. A deluge of exultant moans rush from Achilles until he comes all over the bed and himself. Once he empties completely, Achilles’ legs give out. He lies flat against the bed, mildly uncomfortable against the sweat and stickiness underneath him.

“Achilles,” Patroclus whimpers. “Flower petals.”

“What’s wrong?” Achilles shifts, immediately attentive at their safeword. “Are you hurt?”

Patroclus shakes his head, his gaze still focused hard on the sheets. “I… I know you wanted this, but I… I really want to hold you right now. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry! It’s okay! It’s okay, just untie me, please.”

Patroclus is usually the one to break first from their amateur scenes, his focus usually wavering towards the middle, so this isn’t overly surprising. Achilles usually follows it up with soothing words and affection as they both come down from the experience. Instead, the scarf is hardly tossed off the bed before Patroclus has Achilles on his back, considerately away from the wet spot, and is re-entering him with a blissful sigh.

“What, what?” Achilles whispers, a mix of delighted and panicked as Patroclus lifts up one of his legs, leaving little bites up the calf and on the top of his foot. He dwells around Achilles’ red ankle, leaving an open mouthed kiss on it.

“I missed you,” Patroclus whispers, gripping behind Achilles’ knees and pushing them closer and closer until they’re at his ears.

“I love you.” And Achilles’ eyes flutter shut with impact.

“I love you, I love you, I-”

Over and over he repeats himself, at first with a slow pump, quickly speeding into a pleading cry as he drives Achilles’ into the bed. It’s enough to hurl Achilles into yet another back-blowing orgasm. Instead of stopping, this time it’s Patroclus who is ruthless and continues. The overstimulation leaves Achilles breathless, nails clawing into the sheets and his lover’s back as his moans devolve into sobs, and then those into screams of release.

They recline in the tub, the brand-new oil Achilles purchased suffusing the room with the loveliest scent of roses and the stress relief of the eucalyptus. Patroclus’ head lays against a soft rolled towel, and Achilles has cuddled into his chest and neck. As requested, quiet jazz plays in the background, and Achilles can feel Patroclus hum along to it.

“I can see what you meant,” murmurs Patroclus. “This is great, soaking in the bubbles with music. Except I’m soaking in happiness instead of self-pity.”

Achilles scoffs, smirking. “It’s nice to see your sass is back.” Patroclus laughs, shaking the water. Slowly blinking, Achilles lifts his gaze. “I had an idea.”

“Okay?”

“Would you like to come on a vacation with me? I’m thinking two weeks of complete radio silence.”

Patroclus’ brow furrows, and he opens his eyes. “When?”

Achilles shrugs. “I don’t know yet. We can have Automedon and your people go over our schedules and bloc out a time.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me tempt you,” Achilles purrs, glowing. “On the beach, or out on the water. Nobody bothering us, no phone calls, no drama. Soft beds, soft breezes, hard drinks. I’ll order all your favorite meals, multiple times a day. We can do anything we want. I’ll plan the whole event; you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It sounds wonderful, and yet Patroclus fidgets. “Are you sure? I’ve already been off my game and hiding inside; I know everyone’s mad at me.”

“Yes, and no one that matters is mad at you. I promise you’re okay. Please, Philtatos? You obviously don’t have to, but I really want to do something nice for you.”

Unable to resist Achilles’ pleading look, or the idea of a vacation from it all, Patroclus accepts.

“Fine. Keep me updated on the plans, though. Not because I’m scared! I just know that sometimes you like things to be grander than I might want. I just want to relax, not rest on a bed of encrusted diamonds or something.”

“That would be uncomfortable anyway,” Achilles retorts, nose up, but he’s grinning ear to ear when Patroclus squeezes him tight in a hug from behind.

“I know I keep saying it,” he whispers into Achilles’ wet skin, “but I missed you so much. I could hardly function. The news couldn’t get enough of my breakup either; seeing my ‘ex’ really had me fucked up.”

Achilles huffs. “Don’t worry. I’ve been kicking your ex’s ass every day since then.”

“I don’t know. Based on what I heard earlier, it sounds like you were fucking him.”

“Hate sex, Patroclus,” Achilles dismisses, tugging on Patroclus’ beard. “Truly, not my proudest time. No one compares to you.”

Curly beard covered in bubbles, Patroclus bursts into giggles, his face youthful and bright with joy. It’s the most he’s laughed in nearly two months.

I want this every day, Achilles realizes, his heart clenching. Seeing Patroclus, happy, safe, and fulfilled gives him a sense of wholeness that he now fiercely yearns for.

I have to make this forever.

Patroclus is warm in their freshly changed sheets, and Achilles is about to join him when his phone vibrates. He would have ignored it, really, he would have. But the way his scalding wrath boils into his throat when he sees the caller ID won’t allow him to.

“Philtatos,” he calls back, voice barely hiding his umbrage. “I’ll be in bed in a second.”

Patroclus frowns, lifting his head, but Achilles swiftly walks back into the bathroom and answers the phone.

“You have some nerve,” he hisses, and Odysseus calmly chuckles on the other end.

“I heard you wanted to speak to me directly.”

Achilles breathes deeply, trying to calm himself. He wants to unleash hell. He wants to leave nothing but ashes where Odysseus once stood. However, he is being better, for himself and for Patroclus, and that means learning to give grace. Internally toasting to some growth, he speaks.

“Listen well, so that we can both get back to our lives. Contrary to popular belief, Odysseus, I do respect you and your skills. You and Diomedes, which is why I have no problem working with you and trusting Patroclus to your wisdom. And I recognize that your necks were likely under the boot of Olympus to make you so flagrantly betray Patroclus’ trust and to undermine our relationship. I despise that you went along with it, but for my soulmate’s sake I am doing my best to understand why you would have made that choice.”

There’s a smug sense of satisfaction to hear Odysseus’ honest shock through his silence.

“But let me make one thing clear: if you, Diomedes, or any of that megalomaniacal monopoly ever put Patroclus’ safety at risk again after everything he’s been through, if you ever try to make either of us question our love for one another, we are done with PME, and we are done with them. You more than anyone know what I will do for Patroclus, Odysseus. You know how far I will go. You love your wife and son; you know how low you will stoop to care for them. We are similar, in that regard.”

“We are, indeed.”

“And just because it needs to be said: we won’t be doing that reality show. We will never allow people into our lives that we don’t welcome inside. We aren’t Olympus’ Barbie dolls to play with as they will. In fact: fuck Olympus. Fuck Apollo. You can have him call me directly, and I’ll say it myself.”

Achilles is dead serious, and Odysseus laughs heartily.

“I might respect you more right now than I ever have, Achilles. I understand. I do want to warn you, if I do send along your bold message, it might ruin some of the relationships that your mother worked hard to build for you. Do you care so little for her efforts?”

Achilles flinches at the smooth implication. Mother and son haven’t spoken in months, but he’s not so ungrateful to ignore that she’d given up so much of herself to cement his favor amongst the industry deities. At the same time, he doesn’t want to choose her, or them. He wants to choose his love. He just swore he’d keep Patroclus safe, how can he back down so soon? Before he can reply, Odysseus speaks again.

“Listen. While I won’t say it exactly the way you’d like, I will pass on the intent. And I want you to know that I am genuinely sorry, to you, and to Patroclus. I am. We are all pawns in Olympus’ eyes, and know that my sympathies will always fall to you before it ever goes to them.”

“Except when it comes to yourself and yours.”

“Except when it comes to me and mine.”

Sometimes, Achilles is terrified of the mind behind that man. “I’m glad we came to a conclusion.”

“Likewise. My wife calls for me, and I’m sure Patroclus calls for you. Good night, Achilles.”

Achilles hangs up, and re-enters the bedroom where Patroclus waits, sat up and gripping the sheets.

“What’s up?”

“Odysseus. I set things straight. He says he’s sorry.”

“I’m sure he is,” Patroclus huffs, but his hands relax. “I had been thinking about music again…  lyrics… something for me and Bri, and as for me and you… I had an idea.”

Achilles slides into bed, lowering Patroclus to the mattress. “What’s up?” he mimics, and Patroclus rolls his eyes.

“How would you feel about doing the song Diomedes sent us anyway?”

Brow raised, Achilles thinks about it. “You want to?”

“Well, I never want to do any type of TV show. But now that we’re on the same page, the song might not be a bad idea. We’ve never sung our feelings on a track together, at least not like this. Maybe it would be an experience. I don’t know. I just wanted to hash out the idea, maybe-”

“No, no! I’m listening.” Achilles lays his head on the pillow, gripping Patroclus’ hand. “If you want to try something new, I’m all for it. Let’s do it.”

The camera soars through an idyllic land reminiscent of Ancient Greece, increasing in speed over the flowing grass and scrub until it rises up stone stairs. At the top, two large soldiers slowly open the grand doors for a strange bard. While he wears an unassuming chiton, he’s noticeably anachronistic, with glasses and holding a pen and notepad. The camera follows the strange bard into the beautiful, well-lit halls, walking up the purple carpet. The palace is gorgeous, lined with flowering trees and lush plants, littered with servants wearing expressionless black masks. They all hold bronze plates filled with fruits and breads, jewels, and scrolls.

The trumpets start their melody as the soldiers standing on either side begin to move their spears out of the way, until the visual rests on a figure sat higher above on a wide backed throne.

Eros turns to the camera the moment the beat drops, already prepared to dictate to the strange man.

“Y’all take a rumor then y’all go and wear it out-

Fuck all that, talkin’ ‘bout who’s and the whereabouts-

I walk in Neiman’s and Marcus, I’m buried out-

Walk in the bank and say, ‘Fuck it, let’s clear it out’.

I’m the same dolla sign slime, they gone hear me-”

Eros wears a long, deep purple toga cinched tight at his mid-waist, and when he rises to slowly walk down the stairs, it trails all the way to the floor, melding with the end of the carpet. Matching eyeshadow, gold bangles and a gold-plated choker complete the look, and he’s messily riveting as he accepts a glass of wine and gestures to the bard to listen and follow with a finger.

“Yeah, album gon’ hit like it’s ‘82

Got a new whip and it’s navy blue (Navy blue)

Top of the game, only twenty-two

Look at me, n----, then look at you (Look at you)-”

While continuing to drag whoever has displeased him, Eros leads the scribbling man out to a balcony, gesturing out to the countryside filled with workers. At odds with his displeasure, Eros waves beatifically, and the workers all joyously faint with an ‘ah!’

“Bitch, I do not do labor (Uh-huh)

You know I done got too major (Ah)

Bought a new house, few acres (Uh-huh)

I done went and got new neighbors

So fuck all that, ‘E, be considerate’-”

The chorus repeats as Eros returns to the throne room, where someone else now sits. The camera caresses all of Bri as she reclines decadently, her deep blue dress bedecked in rubies, emeralds, and topazes. The short skirt only comes to her thighs, revealing long legs and golden anklets at her sandaled feet. Her braids are up in a ponytail, the ends dripping with cowry shells.

Eros holds out a gentle hand so that she can stand and meet the bard. As she grins with a playful delight, the image cuts to another room of Bri, surrounded by four masked dancers. All five hit a sharp choreography as she performs.

“(Real hot girl shit) They can’t stop me

Say I can’t do it, bitch, watch me (Watch me)

All you lame hoes turned hatin’ to a hobby

Damn, watchin’ me gotta turn you on (Turn you on)

I should have my own category in porn

Ooh, I’m just such an obsession

Tea about me in IG suggestions

Thick, no add-on prosthetics

Everything about me came from genetics! (Yeah)”

The moment her line hits the ‘yeah’, all of the dancers collapse around her feet in ecstasy. The video cuts back to Eros and Bri descending the staircase, and she whispers wickedly to the furiously scribbling messenger.

“I been gettin’ money, I ain’t new to this

Miss one, catch one, I ain’t new to fish-”

Her sexually explicit teasing clearly agitates some of the servants, whose masks turn from black to red with ugly expressions marring them. In slow motion, some of them throw their plates down, stomping with fury and pointing fingers at her.

“Baby, all these hoes imitate me

You gon’ fuck a Stan or the real Slim Shady?

Toxic-”

They stroll past, unbothered as soldiers drag the tantruming servants out. Eros remains stoic and dismissive, not even offering them a glance. Bri smirks, patting Eros’ arm as they walk united. They exit the large doors during the last chorus, revealing the wondrous sunset outside. In front of them, the strange bard gratefully prostrates at their feet, visibly excited to share the news he holds in his hands. He raises his head to see Eros and Bri staring down at him, their eyes glowing with a sinister golden light. Soldiers surround him, and the camera pans to the sky alongside flying birds. As the last notes fade, it pans back down, and the large doors close with a boom.

WizSosa: Ooh eros is TIDE of yall! Those looks! I’d call that man Sir in a heartbeat

NsmileBree: THE ARROGANCE! THEY DON’T GAF DO THEY

Simplywe: They said you want rumors?! We can provide rumors!

Matrode: The audacity to do this after being accused of infidelity with each other. Gross.

EditorSupreme: Bri heard yall called her a villain and wanted to serve

                         Matrode: @EditorSupreme Achilles deserves better.

                         EditorSupreme: @Matrode Achilles already confirmed via tweet that it was all a misunderstanding. Your mother deserves better.

Witchmedium: Tbh Eros x Bri is a cuter couple anyway but let me mind my business

The plush white chair isn’t good enough for Achilles, the way he strikes a leonine pose in it, but unfortunately, that’s all the station could offer. He wears a loose, emerald blazer with a crisp white shirt, matching pants, and boat shoes, his wavy hair messy as though he’s just showered. Despite the effortless look, it all screams of manicured wealth. Not everyone could pull this off.

The young and ambitious interviewer, Charis, had been forewarned about the mercurial Prince. Funny, alluring, and magnetic; one might be tempted to think they’re having a conversation with an exuberant neighborhood artist rather than a superstar. However one could never, will never reach that sort of intimacy with him, as every cat comes with claws- any unpleasant question can instantly turn the interview sour, and the once charming man can become hostile. In all, it can be a very high stress event and should be handled with care. 

Gazing into his sharp eyes, yet another thrill runs through Charis’ body- no one had been exaggerating.

To this point the interview has been simple enough, mainstream questions to prime the future audience that Achilles fields with an experienced ease. But now it’s time for her real questions, the ones that actually got her this interview with PME, and from the way Achilles’ body shifts upright into the chair, she can tell that he knows it too.

“So,” she nervously begins. “This is your first official interview since the #RoyalSplit. How do you feel about that?”

Achilles rolls his eyes at the hashtag, his lips pursed, and her stomach drops. Already?

“That hashtag certainly annoys me. So, annoyed.”

It’s not my fault! “I can imagine it would annoy you,” she cajoles, trying to rein in the already derailing train. “Well, if it helps, I was already praying for you both to reconcile. It’s clear how happy Eros makes you, and vice versa.”

Relief suffuses through her when Achilles’ narrowed eyes warm, his posture relaxing. She’s back in his good graces!

“Speaking of Eros, he just released two new songs- We Don’t Talk Anymore with you, and Dolla Sign Slime featuring Bri. We’ll discuss the latter first.”

Charis speaks with outward authority, and Achilles smiles slightly, nodding. He’s impressed. She’s impressed him!

“It was certainly a visual!” She continues, high on his grace. “Sure we’re used to Eros being so vulnerable, so open with his emotions. But this is the first time I think he’s ever been so…”

“Sassy? Displeased?” Achilles finishes, laughing. “You’re right. The funny thing is, if you ever spend time around them, you know how them that song is. Their playful dynamic shines through it.”

“I found that while it was Eros’ track, it is very Bri inspired with its sound.”

“They both had something to say, and felt her sound and approach worked best. Simple.”

“So do you enjoy the song?”

“I do! Very much! I’m very proud of him for trying something new. Patroclus is a very humble man, despite everything about him being something to brag about, and I love that about him. But I also love watching him flex, and I think he should do it more often. He very rarely reveals his snappy side to the public.”

“That’s why that incident with the paparazzi was so shocking to so many of us,” Charis pushes. “He’d never been so outwardly angry before.”

Achilles hums, a low, distasteful noise. “He had every right to be upset. You wouldn’t like it if a stranger grabbed you or hurled gross, unfounded accusations at you.”

“It was still scary, though?”

“It was human, and I’d like for all of you to remember that language when you speak about him. I’ve done scary things.” Having made his point, Achilles continues. “Anyway, he’s a gentleman, but he feels things very strongly. He’s fiercely protective of those he loves, in a way that he isn’t always of himself. I’m glad that he’s finally letting that side of himself come out as his confidence in entertainment grows.”

Charis can make a couple inferences as to what Achilles might be referring to. However, it is specifically in her agreement that she cannot discuss Elysium or Eros’ family life without direct prompting. Internally cursing management, she attempts a work around.

“You seem very passionate about that. Of his confidence.”

Achilles’ eyes gleam with joy.  “I’m very passionate about it! Like I said before, Patroclus- both he and Briseis, really- have a lot to be proud of. To see both of them, relatively new to both PME and the entertainment world, have this star power is already rare enough as it is. But they don’t just have it- they are it. They’re the next big thing on the scene, whether you like it or not. So many of these strong Anti reactions are from hateful people who resent that. But I think it’s a good thing- it means they’re just where they need to be.”

“You think people are intimidated by the image of someone like Eros, and everything that comes with?”

“Absolutely. And I support him in that.”

There’s no stutter in his tone, no waver in his posture- Charis can tell he is telling the complete truth.

“Well, I guess such devotion is going to make this question a bit unnecessary, but I’m going to ask: the video didn’t make you feel any type of way about them? Many viewers felt that it was disrespectfully intimate, that they were shoving what they could be in your face, especially after all the rumors.”

“Intimate. Well first, all they did was hold hands in that video, so I’m not sure where the implied intimacy came from,” dismisses Achilles with an annoyed hair flip. “People have done more suggestive things on screen. Hell, Patroclus and I have done more suggestive things on screen. Regardless, I don’t feel any type of way about it because I am choosing to trust my partner. I regret allowing rumors to get in between us the way I did, especially when I know his character. She and Antilochus were there for him during a time that I couldn’t fully be. I will always appreciate that he wasn’t alone. That’s all I’ll say.”

But there’s so much more there, she internally weeps. Give me something, please!

“Are you sure?” The plea unintentionally falls from Charis’ lips, and she quails in fear when Achilles’ face curls into a disgusted scowl.

“You can hardly hide your greed,” he spits, rising. “Do you all think our pain is your come up? I’m leaving.”

“No, no, wait,” She scrambles, holding her hands up as he rises from his chair. “I didn’t mean it like- I’m sorry, I’ll move on! We still have to discuss your song with him, right? I’m sorry, it was disrespectful!”

Something flickers in his eyes, and Achilles squeezes them tightly shut. Barely placated, he slowly sits back down, his arms folded across his chest.

“I promised,” he mutters to himself, his words trailing off.

Thanking God that he was choosing peace (and that this was going to be edited out in post-production) Charis gulps some water and tries again.

“Okay! Now that we’ve squashed that. About your collab with Eros. I’m not going to ask you the background! But I am interested in knowing how it all came together. How was it working together professionally again?”

Achilles lights up. “It was what brought us back together, actually! Oh, let me share with you-”

Charis’ eyebrow twitches. But you were just super angry about sharing two seconds ago!

“We were sent the ideas and some preliminary lyrics separately, so we didn’t know we’d be collaborating. Someone dropped a hint to me of who I was working with, and I got so furious that I stormed Diomedes’ office. I didn’t even get the chance to curse him out. As soon as I opened the door, Patroclus was there, and the wind left my sails. Neither of us had seen each other for so long, and suddenly we were on one accord.”

Letting her earlier frustration go, Charis scribbles notes, fascinated. Suddenly, she has a tempting question. “Was it a #ScyrosSiren sort of make up?”

Achilles cackles with delight, ears turning pink. “It was exquisite, so write that down,” he purrs. “Anyway, after we worked things out, Patroclus asked if I was still interested in making the song. We’d never worked on something... something cathartic like this together. It’s completely up his alley, this sort of sound, and I trusted myself in his expertise.”

“Feel Good seemed expressive in that way, though.”

“It was, but it was still a sound I was familiar with. This song was very... softly exposed, like… if Feel Good was an angsty, frustrated experience, We Don’t Talk Anymore was like crying in front of a live audience.”

“A live audience who will then vibe to your tears. 100% Eros expertise.”

“Absolutely. Working with him allows me to learn both from him and about him. We both love to sing, but I’ve always enjoyed music as a performance, as a technique and an art. He has always been so personal with his lyricism, his emotional intent, and his instrumentals, and that’s why it’s always so effective in its delivery.”

“That’s so poignant. So it went well, I’m assuming?”

“Phenomenally. We ended up reworking the entire song. The lyrics they had provided for us didn’t work out, but when one of your company’s most active songwriters is the one singing…” Achilles shrugs, confident. “Of course he made it better. It was harder for me, similar to when I recorded Feel Good. Meanwhile, he records music like that all the time. The raw emotion of Call Out My Name? Truly, I don’t know how he did it.”

Charis fervently nods in agreement. “God, same. I cried after hearing it the first time, but then I played it again on my speakers. I also need to hear it live in concert. It’s so powerful, emotionally. It’s evident that you both were having a hard time, being apart like that.”

“Mm. Indeed, it was very…” To her disappointment, Achilles trails off. “We were more on even footing when we were recording. I worked with the directors for the visuals. There were times where it was a bit much- having to pretend to yell at each other and cry made him a little nervous- but we worked through it. He did his best, and I think he did a great job.”

Charis has learned a couple things about the popstar during this conversation: he’s a little Off-kilter, kind of inconsiderate, and passionate in both good and bad ways. But if one thing has shined through-

“You really love him, don’t you?” She asks, voice soft.

“I do.”

“You sound so proud of him.”

“I am. I’m proud of us.”

Charis smiles. She can see how being around Achilles is exhausting, but Eros- Patroclus- must be quite the man to hold the adoration of a man like this. Before she can question anything else, the director frantically waves her hand from behind the cameras. Time’s up. Introduce the music video.

“That’s unfortunately all the time that we have left today!” she exclaims, speaking to the ‘audience’. She turns back to Achilles, reaching out for his hand. “Thank you so much for coming in to speak with me!”

He accepts it, charming smile on full display. “Of course. Thank you for having me.”

He might be crazy, Charis thinks to herself, but damn he’s sexy. Good luck, Eros!

“And now, for our viewers who have somehow not seen the new single- which, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard-”

The entire world is in black and white, all the color drained from the screen and from the home. Vast windows allowing in gray light shine on a minimalistic townhome, full of ivory couches and blocky furniture. It all looks sterile, unlived in- no, like someone has simply taken their things and left. The pop of a bottle of champagne breaks the silence, followed by a long, fizzy pour. The camera pans to Eros, who sighs as he takes a long sip and stares out into the blank nothingness. His white, Saint Laurent shirt exposes his heart, allowing some of the wine to spill onto it.

There’s a small buzz, and in fumbling for his phone, he reveals an iridescent red string, the only glimpse of color in the entire world, attached to his right pinky. His eyes fill with a hope, the string glowing a bright red, but the color dims with his expression. He leaves the screen as the song begins.

“We don’t talk anymore

We don’t talk anymore

We don’t talk anymore

Like we used to do.

We don’t love anymore

What was all of it for-”

The next scene is Eros in a deep walk-in closet, sitting on an ottoman and staring into the bare half of the room.

“I just heard you found the one you’ve been looking-

You’ve been looking for

I wish I would have known that wasn’t me

‘Cause even after all this time, I still wonder

Why I can’t move on

Just the way you did so easily-”

The front stage is set, with glimpses of a visibly depressed Eros appearing in different spots in the room. Every now and then, it raggedly flashes to a memory. The kitchen- kissing deeply, screaming at one another as Achilles cries. The couch- cuddling, Achilles storming away with a hastily packed bag of clothes.

“Don’t wanna know

Kind of dress you’re wearing tonight

If he’s holding onto you so tight

The way I did before

I overdosed

Should’ve known your love was a game

Now I can’t get you out of my brain

Oh, it’s such a shame

That we don’t talk anymore-”

Eros croons the chorus, his face reflected in the window as the screen fades into the bright white sky. The visual falls down to the busy street, slipping into a dimly lit limousine. Achilles slumps inside, wearing the same shirt but in black, face haggard as he stares at nothing in particular. The same string beats red from his pinky, twitching every time his phone flashes with a notification.

“I just hope you’re lying next to somebody

Who knows how to love you like me

There must be a good reason that you’re gone-”

He gets out of the limousine when it stops, staring up the broad side of the residential skyscraper. The screen doesn’t reveal his eyes, only that he bites his lip, and retreats back into the car.

“Every now and then I think you might want me to

Come show up at your door

But I’m just too afraid that I’ll be wrong-”

Achilles shoves his hands into his eyes. Snapping from across the kitchen island, watching Eros’ expression shatter with pain from poor words chosen. Storming away, shoving clothes into a suitcase. Fleeing to hide his foolishness, to maintain his pride.

“Don’t wanna know

If you’re looking into her eyes

If she’s holding onto you so tight

The way I did before.

I overdosed

Should’ve known your love was a game

Now I can’t get you out of my brain

Oh, it’s such a shame

That we don’t talk anymore-”

The chorus picks up as Achilles scrolls through his phone, checking all of his notifications- none of them seem to be what he’s looking for. The screen momentarily flashes to Eros inside of the walk-in, throwing open doors and dresser drawers. Finally one text appears that Achilles lingers on, an exuberant invitation for a party where ‘he could get laid and relax’. He grimaces, locking the phone. Purses his lips. Then unlocks it.

The song enters a melodic break as the sky turns pitch black, the only lights around Achilles from the string lights at the party he’s attending, people dancing all around him like a blur. There are plenty of people there in shades of monochrome, but the only ones he’s spoken to are all wearing white. It’s clear they are interested in him, but he can’t seem to invest, his pinky twitching every time he thinks he might. The string on his finger continues to beat alongside his heart, dim and desperate. 

Back at the apartment, Eros is still inside the closet, knelt low to the ground in defeat. All of the empty doors have been thrown open.

“Don’t wanna know

Kind of dress you’re wearing tonight

If he’s giving it to you just right

The way I did before-”

Tears falling onto the carpet, the string near gray, he reaches his phone. At the party, Achilles stands in the lonely grass, distanced from the partygoers. Downtrodden, he checks his messages.

“I overdosed

Should’ve known your love was a game

Now I can’t get you out of my brain

Oh, it’s such a shame-”

As the duet sings the final chorus, Achilles races home at a full sprint, pedestrians and cars be damned. At home, Eros closes the closet doors, slumping onto a barstool next to the island.

“That we don’t talk anymore

We don’t talk anymore

We don’t talk anymore

Like we used to do

We don’t love anymore

What was all of it for?

Oh, we don’t talk anymore

Like we used to do”

Achilles stumbles into the skyscraper lobby, messy audio of him shoving his way in between people and sprinting into the elevator and pressing the top button, impatiently mashing the ‘close door’ button.

“(We don’t talk anymore) don’t wanna know

Kind of dress you’re wearing tonight (oh)

If he’s holding onto you so tight (oh)

The way I did before

(We don’t talk anymore) I overdosed

Should’ve known your love was a game (oh)

Now I can’t get you out of my brain (whoa)

Oh, it’s such a shame-

That we don’t talk anymore.”

The music ends as Achilles hurtles into the kitchen, Eros lifting his head in surprise. At some point, between the moment the text was sent to right now, full color has subtly returned to the world around them. The red string sparkles with life, pulled taut between them. 

Dasthin: Imagine if they’d had to do this while actually broken up

IffyQuote: Eros coming through with the miserable mambos again 

KenjiVengeance: THEY’RE SO DRAMATIC AND FOR WHAT? THE RED STRING OF FATE? OKAY.

WzyXoxoX: I swear that whole #RoyalSplit was just for attention bc what is this

                 MitziThaDevil: @WzyXoxoX It was in the interview, he JUST said why they did it

Footballposhy: What’s with these bisexual ass shirts showing off their pecs- my god, the pandering, I’d like five please

KenjiVengeance: @Footballposhy and we STILL can’t see Eros’ scar! Two videos in a row of the man’s body and they always hide it!

MitziThaDevil: if you lack comprehension skills after all this, hop off the app rn

The water is deliciously hot as Patroclus sinks his feet into the vibrating footbath. He’d arrived home around five in the morning, bone tired as he flopped into bed, street clothes and all. It was near sunset by the time his eyes peeled open, his feet still miserably sore. A long shower, fluffy robe, and a cider complete the experience, especially when he has to drag himself through a scan of his social media.

Dropping two singles and their corresponding music video in the span of two weeks was much harder than he’d anticipated. Racing through the airports, recording on his feet all day for two days, sitting in makeup and standing in costume, back-to-back takes for three days, flying to their next location and then doing it all again. In comparison to their slow-as-molasses pace in the weeks prior, PME had certainly moved urgently to make their points! If only they’d been so caring when it was all going down, Patroclus bitterly thinks, before he sees the latest tweet and groans.

“Come on. We just made some,” he whines, reading the fan account tweet with tens of thousands of likes and retweets begging his official account to tell them when the next collab would drop. “They just happened. I appreciate you all, but please.”

He logs off from his mandatory fifteen minutes, dropping his phone into his lap with a sigh. On the bright side, social media was now an idyllic wonderland in comparison to the toxic wasteland it had been. It helped that every five tweets discussed Achilles’ interview, with endless threads underneath them full of opinions Patroclus is never going to read. He assumes that they’re mostly positive, considering the hashtags #RoyalReunion, #Erochilles, #Patrochilles, and #QueenBri are trending first through fourth place since the interview was posted.

He's just closed his eyes when his phone buzzes, and he wearily checks the screen. Achilles’ name (now surrounded with hearts, after Achilles demanded he add some emojis) commands his attention, and he swipes to answer. “Are you on your way?”

“I miss you too,” Achilles scoffs, pleased despite himself. “I’ll be home in two more days. What are you doing?”

“Soaking my feet.”

“Did you use the oil?”

“I did.”

“Mm. Good,” purrs Achilles. He falls back onto the hotel bed, laying an arm behind his head. “So: how did I do?”

Patroclus chuckles. “Well, except for the Ant naysayer accounts, I think everyone else is really happy.”

Achilles rolls his eyes. “Haters thrive off of hating things, so consider them well fed! A great job between us, then.” He brings the camera closer to bat his lashes. “I meant to ask- did you ever manage to steal that salmon chiton? I would absolutely love to see you in it again.”

“I’m not going to steal from the set, so calm down.”

“Boo. You could have just called and asked.”

“Mhm. Keep to the topic. Thank you,” Patroclus emphasizes, eyes intense. “Thank you for being so gracious about Briseis. For being so loving about us. And especially for behaving yourself.”

Achilles pouts. “You could have stopped at the middle thing. Really. I actively stopped myself from leaving when she irritated me and everything. I do behave myself, believe me.”

“I’ll do that when you stop telling people about us sleeping together.”

Achilles grins rakishly, shrugging. “Well, she asked me if it was good. I cannot tell a lie, Patroclus, and with you, there’s zero reason to. But if it actually makes you uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”

“I appreciate it. Don’t bother trying to seduce me into it with a pose.”

Cackling, Achilles flicks the camera. “I was stretching, actually, because I’m tired. I’m ready to be home with you. Actually, I’m ready to be on our vacation. It can’t come fast enough.”

Patroclus agrees. Now that he’s allowed himself to fantasize of relaxing, it’s in danger of consuming every other thought. “Were we able to connect our schedules?”

“Yep! Right now, we’ve got two weeks blocked out in about a month and a half. I’ve already contacted one of my Dad’s travel connects; he’ll plan everything and let me know what options we’re looking at.”

“And you’re going to bring me the options, right?”

“…of course.” Achilles grimaces, awkwardly looking away, and Patroclus scowls.

“Did you forget what I asked already?”

“No! I just have to…CC you on some emails, is all. Anyway! Did you skip your meetings today?”

“I did! Though I feel like I shouldn’t have.”

“Remember, you don’t have to feel bad-”

“I don’t! I just asked myself, ‘What would Achilles think?’ and stopped thinking completely.”

“…I heard your little jab in there.”

“Anyway,” Patroclus teases, trying to soften his next revelation. “What I was curious about is that it’s a collaboration request for a songwriter on Deidameia’s next album. I fly out tomorrow afternoon and I’ll be back the day after. We’ll meet at home.”

There’s a poignant pause as he allows Achilles to process the news. Scyros Entertainment had reached out concerning the Pop Princess’ new album, apparently begging Eros to be available to write and/or feature on some of the songs. Patroclus couldn’t help but wonder if this was a strategic effort. Not only would he be a steppingstone to bolster Deidameia’s own crossover appeal- that was a given- but it was more likely a step forward towards another collaboration with Achilles. The idea of playing with the original “royal couple” leaves Patroclus with a queasy feeling. Deidameia’s kiss had left plenty of her fans with repetitive ammo suggesting he’d stolen Achilles from her, despite all evidence otherwise.

“I’ll be honest: I don’t like it,” Achilles finally says. “I don’t trust her, and I worry she might try something with you.”

Patroclus startles. “Me? What, like to murder me, or sleep with me?”

“Ha! Both, probably.”

“Achilles. I thought we talked about trusting me-”

“I do trust you. That’s the furthest thing from my mind. She’s just… she’s bit hard to deal with at times.”

Achilles rolls his eyes when Patroclus snorts. “You’re hard to deal with at times.”

“Yes, but you know me, and I love you. It’s different. Everyone at PME respects and likes you, for the most part. She’s new ground, and she’s probably not going to be pleasant to you. I just… don’t want you to be surprised or hurt by her or her company’s behavior. Her lawyers were really angling for me and her to be their ‘big couple’ so they did a lot of things to try to make that happen, but naturally that fell apart. They didn’t end up cashing in the way they expected. I don’t want you to be the target of that resulting bitterness, especially since it’s clear they want a piece of you- good or bad. Just remember to choose yourself, if you have to.”

Achilles is using his professional tone, driving home how serious he is. Patroclus’ nerves are still on edge, but something within urges him to take the chance. It doesn’t seem fair to assume that Deidameia, despite her childishness in years past, wasn’t still a consummate professional in the field.

“I mean, if I don’t like it, I just say no, right?”

“Right.”

“And maybe she’s different now?” Patroclus tries, voice high.

“I doubt it,” Achilles drawls. “But if anyone can make a difference, it’s you, Philtatos.”

Achilles was right.

This is not like working with Achilles; it’s not a superior, knowledgeable, loving, sweet, and patiently guiding process (at least for Patroclus). Nor is it like working with Briseis; dynamic, hilarious, exciting, and gleefully petty.

No- Deidameia, her glare molten lava from across the conference table, very visibly cannot stand him. Patroclus wanted to hold out an olive branch by accepting this offer so swiftly, perhaps show some solidarity, but he’s regretting it as he quails under her wrath. The meeting itself is a messy affair; the lawyers have spent the majority of the morning arguing the paperwork, Scyros’ lawyers arguing amongst themselves and then with PME. He’s about to leave, delay his schedule to count this as a loss, when he witnesses something that freezes time.

Deidameia tries to comment, and one of the lawyers hushes her.

It’s just an instant, an action none of the other overbearing men in the room notice or care about. But Patroclus does see it, and he sees her face fall in indignity before she turns back to Patroclus and continues to glare, gaze now watery.

It all clicks into place.

He sees himself, small and ignored as people speak of his fate over his head. The cash cow, the one filling their pockets, shushed as though she was a child and not the driving force behind the creativity. Is this how he looked his whole life? In every meeting? Pitiful and upset? There’s also something else in her eyes that he hasn’t experienced in a long time- hunger.

He has to do something.

“Stop pouting, Deidameia,” one of the lawyers finally huffs in frustration. A wrathful flame flickers in Patroclus’ chest.

“Enough,” he commands. His voice is low, not as much bass as he’d been going for, but the entire room silences. “First, could I get an everything bagel from the table, please? All the toppings.” He waits until one of the gophers brings him the bagel wrapped in a napkin. “Thank you. Now, please: everyone except Deidameia, leave the room right now.”

Both PME and Scyros’ lawyers jump, and one of them- the one who’d been nasty to Deidameia- scowls.

“Excuse me, but you are not-”

“I’ll pull out of this deal altogether.” His nerves have vanished, and he looks straight into the lawyer’s eyes. “I’ll text Odysseus right now. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

The cunning man’s name drop is enough to strike fear into all of their hearts, and they swiftly stand and shuffle out. The moment the door closes, Patroclus moves to the seat across from Deidameia and places the napkin in front of her.

“I’ll grab you a water,” he murmurs, turning to the table half full of food. He grabs a bottle and gently places it in front of the untouched bagel. Deidameia’s gray gaze flickers between the food and Patroclus, scowling suspiciously.

“I could have been allergic.”

“I’ll get you something else if you are.”

Deidameia flinches, licking her lips. “You’re going to tell everyone I’m a pig who can’t help herself.”

“Not only would I never do that, but I wouldn’t need to feed you to do that.”

“Did you spit in it?”

Patroclus’ eyes narrow in disbelief. “You just watched the guy grab it, but here-” He stands, showing Deidameia as he grabs a new bagel. “Eat. Please. Take your time, I’d hate for you to choke.”

“You’d be the only one here that did,” she sadly murmurs, and Patroclus’ heart aches. After one more scrying glance, Deidameia tucks into the bagel, her eyes closing blissfully as she eats. Once she finishes the first one, she wolfs down the second, polishing off half the bottle of water before wiping her mouth. A triumphant smile breaks out on her face.

“Have they not been letting you eat?” Patroclus prods, and without looking at him, she nods.

“Getting too big to pretend to be their favorite teen princess,” she bitterly reveals.

He grimaces, disturbed. “You’re an adult.”

“I know that. And yet here I am, starving, playing nice with and leaning on the kindness of the guy who stole my high school crush. Truly, beauty is pain, or so I’ve always been told. Another day, another drama I suppose.”

Patroclus inhales slowly, resisting the urge to argue against ‘stole’. So he’s confirmed that she’s no longer the bubbly, self-centered girl she’d been in high school. Of course she wouldn’t be. None of them are the same- he’d been right to trust his gut. He only knows how to do one thing to help when it comes to suppressed feelings, but luckily, that’s his job today. Gritting his teeth, he swallows his pride and goes for it.

“Okay,” he allows. “You don’t have to play nice. Why should you, right? How about this- tell everyone how you feel through the music. That’s what always helps me.”

Deidameia scoffs, but she turns towards him, curious as he pushes a notepad towards her. Already inspired, Patroclus scribbles on his own notepad with one hand as he points at hers.

“For the next five minutes, I want you to write down some of comments assholes like that guy have ever said to or about you.”

She blinks. “Are you serious?”

“Very. Trust me. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. My name is going to be on this too.”

He timidly smiles from underneath his lashes, praying that she’ll believe him, and exhales in relief when she takes the pen and starts writing. It must be therapeutic because once she starts, she grins manically, cackling every now and then. At the end of the five minutes she practically throws the notepad at him, decent enough to grimace apologetically as Patroclus takes a look.

“Wow. These people are…” he mutters. “I thought the shit I got was bad. What even is this one? It’s misogynistic and completely illogical!”

Deidameia tosses her hair back in laughter. It’s not a cruel sound, at least not towards him, but it’s not happy either. “You have the privilege of being signed with PME and being Achilles’ boyfriend. You’re also a man, so… different societal expectations there.” Patroclus can only nod in agreement, and Deidameia covers her mouth as she looks at him- genuinely, this time. “What was your idea, then?”

“Well, I figured that I could take these things you’ve heard, and we could organize them into lyrics. Feel free to jump in at any point if you have ideas! I brought my guitar just in case. I even came up with a title.”

“What is it?”

I don’t want you to be the target of that resulting bitterness, especially since it’s clear they want a piece of you- good or bad. “Piece of Me.”

“Hmm. Piece of Me.” A hopeful smile stretches across Deidameia’s face. “Yeah. I like it!”

For the next hour they go over the comments that Deidameia wrote, taking some and reforming them into a rhythm that she likes. She also offers ideas for the instrumental that Patroclus takes down with a promise that he’ll take them to the sound engineers.

“To be honest, I’d tell them myself, but that thing you did there earlier to throw your weight around- I think you enjoyed doing that,” she’d mused, giggling when Patroclus flushed to his ears. By the time they’re done with their first draft of the song, Deidameia is already coming up with choreography to the beat she hears in her head. Patroclus lets her finish blocking, and then straps his guitar back on.

“Do you want to try the chorus? I’ll do the background parts.”

“Hell yeah! Start at the second verse, actually. I want to see how it all flows.”

Patroclus plays the notes, tapping a four-four for Deidameia to jump in.

I'm Mrs. 'You want a piece of me?'

Trying, and pissing me off

Well, get in line with the paparazzi who's flipping me off

Hoping I'll resort to some havoc, end up settling in court

Now, are you sure you want a piece of me?

(You want a piece of me?)

I'm Mrs. 'Most Likely to Get on the TV For Strippin' on the Streets When Gettin' the Groceries'

No, for real, are you kiddin' me?

No wonder there's panic in the industry, I mean, please

Do you want a piece of me?

Deidameia starts dancing, weaving seamlessly as though she’s wearing a leotard on stage, and not a business suit in an office room.

I'm Mrs. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

(You want a piece of me?)

I'm Mrs. 'Oh my God, That D, she’s Shameless'

(You want a piece of me?)

I'm Mrs. 'Extra! Extra! This Just In'

(You want a piece of me?)

I'm Mrs. 'She's Too Big, Now She's Too Thin'

(You want a piece of me?)

Deidameia squeals with joy, jumping up and down, reveling in her triumph. Once she’s done, she suddenly swivels back to him, inspiration flashing.

“Let’s work on some other songs. Quick, before I lose my motivation!”

Three hours pass, and they manage to get through three songs- Piece of Me, Gimme More, and Break the Ice. Deidameia is happily admitting that it’s the most productive she’s felt in a long time when there’s a knock at the door. They’re expecting some extremely miffed lawyers to show up, so when an older man enters the room, Deidameia stiffens. Heart beating anxiously, Patroclus rises, subtly shielding her.

“Daddy,” she murmurs. Eyes wide, Patroclus turns back to Lycomedes, who only looks between them with a curious eye.

“I was worried something uncouth was happening in here,” he explains softly, “when I got a call saying my daughter was in here with a young man for two hours past their appropriate meeting time.”

Patroclus’ jaw drops- he hadn’t even thought about that- and Deidameia hustles in front of Lycomedes, grabbing his hands.

“It’s nothing like that! We were writing songs, Daddy! They’re so fun, too! I’m so excited for them!”

She’s bouncing up and down on her toes, and Lycomedes smiles adoringly at her.

“Well, okay. It’s time to go, though. Tell…” Lycomedes glances at Patroclus, who suddenly feels like he’s being judged.

“Patroclus, sir.”

“Tell Patroclus goodbye, then. We had dinner scheduled, remember?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t forget.” It’s clear that father and daughter love each other very much, and Patroclus can only hope that Deidameia tells her father about how his lawyers treat her. That this isn’t just Lycomedes pretending to be a good father, the way his own barely bothered to.

“Oh, wait-” he remembers, reaching into his portfolio and pulling out a business card. He quickly scribbles his private number on it, and hands it back. “Here.”

Deidameia looks at the business card, and back up. “Are you sure?”

She’s not the polarizing villain that the media has made her out to be, and after today, Patroclus is confident in his relationship that her past interest in Achilles doesn’t feel like much of a threat anymore.

“Yeah. In case you ever need help, or something.”

It almost feels ingenuine when he says it- what could he really do beyond today, to help? But Deidameia smiles softly.

“You… make him a better man, you know. Achilles, I mean. I can see it.” she muses. “If I’d known you were like this, maybe I’d have crushed on you, instead.”

Patroclus’ shoulders hike to his ears, and Deidameia laughs, waving goodbye as she strolls out of the room. “I’m going to get a large burger tonight, and we need to talk,” she states as she passes Lycomedes. Lycomedes’ lips press with humor, and he turns to Patroclus.

“She looks happier. Thank you.”

Lycomedes bows slightly and follows Deidameia out, leaving Patroclus behind to feel a giddy pride.

Patroclus happily sways in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a stew while shaking his hips to the lyrics of Deidameia’s earlier hit, Toxic.

“With a taste of your lips, I'm on a ride,” he quietly sings, “You're toxic, I'm slippin' under-”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Patroclus jumps out of his skin, spinning to see Achilles watching him from the doorway, barely hiding his smile. Patroclus scoffs, turning back to his vegetables so that Achilles can’t see him blush.

“Maybe I should be,” he accuses, petulant as Achilles boldly laughs, making his way to Patroclus’ side. He gently wraps his arms around his waist, slowly turning Patroclus around until he can cradle his face in his hands.

“I’m home,” Achilles murmurs, pulling Patroclus down into a soft, lingering kiss. Patroclus safely places the knife on the counter and draws Achilles in closer, pressing tight against the small of his back. The kiss isn’t the only thing heating up when Achilles giggles, pulling away.

“I think you might want to pay attention to your food,” he suggests, sniffing the air. Patroclus, still dazed by the kiss, clenches.

“The stew meat! Fuck!”

Luckily, he manages to save the roasted chunks in time, dumping it into the crock pot. Relieved, he takes the plate of chopped veggies from Achilles and dumps it in too. Patroclus sets the time on the crock pot and then takes a calming breath.

“What are we eating tonight,” asks Achilles, “since this is an overnight deal? Where’s Chef?”

“She’s off tonight and tomorrow. I figured I’d make something easy, so we don’t have to cook lunch and dinner tomorrow. As for tonight, there’s food in the oven. How long have you been home?”

Achilles gathers dishes to set the table. “Long enough to unpack, shower, and change clothes. You’ve been so busy dancing to her music that you didn’t notice me come in.”

Patroclus pokes him in the nose as he sets out the tray of steak, broccoli, and potatoes. “Don’t be that way.”

“I’m just saying! You’re unusually full of energy- you made two meals!” Once the table is set, Achilles pours them each a glass of wine. The moonlight gleams over the glasses, shining over the table in the small booth.

“I’m honestly just relieved,” explains Patroclus, sitting. “Deidameia’s actually not so bad! At least not to work with professionally.”

“I’ll pass,” Achilles sighs. “I still gag when I think of her kissing me on stage.”

Patroclus grimaces. “That’s fair, I won’t deny you that. Well, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to me or you. It all went really well. Her lawyers were unbearable; you were right. I told them all to leave the first day so that I could work with her.”

“Really?” Achilles glows with pride, swallowing. “I love it when you’re assertive. I wish I could have seen it. I’m glad you felt safe, though. I worried.”

“Yeah! I think it made her feel better, to be allowed to be a part of the creative process. They weren’t even letting her eat well! It’s clear that Scyros sees her as means to an end…” Patroclus pauses, staring down at his plate. “It reminded me a lot of how I used to be treated, before. I guess I felt… empowered, now, to help her.”

“You’ve always helped others, though. Even before. Briseis and Antilochus have you to thank for supporting their journeys.”

Patroclus shakes his head. “If we didn’t know you, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Philtatos,” Achilles firmly chastises. “Don’t sell yourself short. I wouldn’t have stepped in if you hadn’t been passionate about helping Briseis, and if you hadn’t started singing over his instrumentals, Antilochus would not have the portfolio to enter PME as quickly as he did. You’ve always been that way, helping others in a way I might not ever have.”

You… make him a better man, you know. Patroclus smiles, an expression so bashfully sweet that Achilles near tears up.

“You’re so cute,” Achilles coos. “Just… make sure you’re taking care of yourself, too.”

“I will,” Patroclus placates, and Achilles frowns, but says nothing. “Deidameia has asked me to be in one of the videos.”

“A duet?”

Patroclus plays with his fingers. “Not quite. She just wants me to be there in a… sexy capacity.”

Achilles pouts into his near finished plate, stabbing the last floret of broccoli.

“And… I’m interested in it,” Patroclus quickly continues. “She asked me, and I felt like it would be kind to accept. I feature in the background anyway, so-”

“You don’t-” Achilles interrupts. “You don’t have to ask me for permission, you know.”

“I wasn’t,” Patroclus growls, defensive. “I just didn’t want you to misunderstand or something.”

“Do you actually want to do it, or are you doing it because she asked?”

“I want to do it.”

Achilles places his utensils down, his eyes unusually hot. “And you’re confident in it?”

“I- I believe so. I just want to show support.”

“Okay.”

They finish their dinner quietly, and Achilles cleans up his place, puts the dishes in the dishwasher, and hastily leaves the kitchen. Patroclus’ heart sinks into his stomach, still sat at the table. Was he too harsh? He didn’t mean to be rude. He can hear Achilles moving around- what is he doing? Sheepish, he walks into the living room.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I-”

He pauses, confused. The shades are all closed, and Achilles is currently pouring a large amount of whiskey into two lowball glasses with a ball of ice in each. A new bouquet of roses is set up nicely in the vase, and a candle burns, spreading a warm, cinnamon scent.

“Now I feel worse,” he mutters, especially when Achilles hands him a glass.

“For what?” Achilles asks, sitting on the soft ivory couch. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He lifts his glass in a toast, and they both toss back the drinks. The effect is instant, with Patroclus’ ears and chest warming, his belly sizzling with contact.

“So what’s all this, then?” Patroclus asks, gesturing around.

Achilles grins wickedly. “Well, there is something that I’ve been wanting to see for at least two weeks. We’re both home, and we have off tomorrow, but I’m too impatient to wait and ask.”

Patroclus looks to his left and right, before returning his gaze to Achilles. “Wait and ask for what?”

Achilles reaches to his pocket and pulls out the remote to their speaker system, turning it on, connecting to the Bluetooth. He scoots forward on the couch, holding his arms out for Patroclus. Patroclus moves into his embrace, and Achilles kisses him in the stomach.

“I behaved, right? I’ve been good?”

Patroclus snorts, laughing. “Yeah? So what?”

“Good enough for that lap dance?”

Patroclus flushes and tries to move away, but Achilles has locked his arms behind him.

“Achilles. I thought you were hurt! Is this really what you were thinking?”

“I just want to see what you learned, is all. You said you were feeling confident!”

“You’re such a headass.”

“For you, though!” Achilles teases. “I promise I won’t judge! You could do literally anything and I’ll love it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s you.” Achilles bats his lashes at Patroclus, giving his best puppy dog eyes, and Patroclus sighs. He places his glass down and grabs the bottle of whiskey, chugging it straight. “Hey, wait, are you-”

Achilles is interrupted when Patroclus splays his palm on his chest and pushes him back into the couch. He slams the bottle down into the side table.

“You better mean it,” he commands, voice husky from the burn of the alcohol. Achilles’ eyes widen, and he slowly nods, entranced. “Give me your phone.”

Achilles’ phone is barely in his hand when he finds the perfect song, giggling from how bold he’s feeling. He tilts his chin up, staring down his nose and right at Achilles’ zipper. “Show me how affected you are, or maybe I will be nervous.”

In one smooth motion, Achilles unzips his pants and pulls himself out, gripping it in his hand. He’s already fully hard and pink at the tip, shameless in his anticipation. “Don’t be.”

Patroclus presses play, and Achilles laughs low when he recognizes it.  “You’re hilarious, aren’t you?”

The famous slow beat and robotic ‘yeah’ of Pony weave within the notes of Toxic for a strangely effective sexiness within the medley. The strength of the whiskey, plus the headiness of Achilles watching him with a slight flush, leaves Patroclus lightheaded with lust.

Baby, can’t you see I’m calling?

A guy like you should wear a warning

It’s dangerous, I’m falling-

He backs up for just enough space in front of his lover, then reaches for Achilles’ fingers. He brings them to his inner thigh, slowly moving them up his zipper. When he gently rubs Achilles’ thumb over the button, Achilles obediently unbuttons and unzips his pants. Patroclus retakes his hands and moves them to his waistline, tugging each thumb in his belt loops. Grinning, Achilles pulls down his jeans, pausing right under Patroclus’ ass so that they cup the cheeks and his growing bulge.

Too high, can’t come down

Losing my head, spinning ‘round and ‘round

“God I’ll never get tired of this,” breathes Achilles, marveling as he frees his hands to squeeze his ass. “You really do have a phenomenal lower body. Just… crush my head with your thighs.”

Biting his lip to not laugh, Patroclus gently grips Achilles’ hands and guides them to slide down his pants, Achilles gratefully caressing his legs on the way down. Once his pants are kicked away, he slowly kneels, bringing his face into Achilles’ lap. He slides his warm hands from Achilles’ thighs to his ankles, squeezing them tight with a playful look. 

(If you’re horny, let’s do it)

And I love what you do (ride it)

Don’t you know that you’re toxic (my pony)

(My saddle’s waiting)

(Come and jump on it)

One of Achilles’ hands firmly holds himself, the other reaching out towards Patroclus in awe. Patroclus spreads Achilles’ legs just slightly, nipping the inside of his knee. Then he crawls his way back up the couch, straddling the air just so over Achilles as he brings his hand to under the bottom of his shirt. To the pulse of the beat, Patroclus strips off the top, allowing Achilles to trail up his chest with soft fingertips.

Too high, can’t come down

It’s in the air and it’s all around

Can you feel me now?

Patroclus braces one hand on the back of the couch, the other to grip the sides of Achilles’ neck. His touch sears, and Achilles strokes himself to take off some of the edge. They’re so close that they can feel the other’s body heat, the smell of their body wash and slight sweat intoxicating.

(If you’re horny, let’s do it)

And I love what you do (ride it)

Don’t you know that you’re toxic (my pony)

(My saddle’s waiting)

(Come and) don’t you know that you’re toxic (jump on it)

Focused, Patroclus rolls his hips and ass, grinding down into Achilles’ lap and bouncing. He suddenly recalls Briseis’ lessons about isolation and variety, switching between his hips and full body rolls. He’s just drunk enough that he can ignore that voice in his head critiquing him, saying that he’s not really doing anything, he’s just making this shit up as he goes.

(Taste of your lips, I’m on ride)

You’re toxic, I’m slipping under

With a taste of poison paradise

I’m addicted to you-

The bitter voice in his head is silenced by the drunk-in-love expression his soulmate is wearing. Achilles hisses subtly from the friction, no longer able to touch himself for this to work, so he just death grips the soft couch with one hand and touches everywhere he can reach on Patroclus’ body with the other.

“Oh fuck, mmm,” Achilles whispers, voice shivering as he tries to stay calm. “Is this really what she taught you?”

“I… might have looked more into it…” Patroclus whispers back. It doesn’t feel sexy, and he regrets it as soon as he says it, but Achilles’ eyes roll back in his head with another moan. His hand squeezes Patroclus, and he moves him away just slightly.

Intoxicate me now with your loving now,

I think I’m ready now (I think I’m ready now)

“I might actually burst. For me?” he whimpers, grabbing his dick and stroking it using the puddling pre-cum at the tip. “I need you to tell me it was for me.”

It was never for anyone else, Patroclus thinks, his own groin jumping at Achilles’ wrecked expression. “I’ve always been for you.”

Achilles wails, a deep, throaty, desperate cry begging for more. The song fades out and starts over, but neither of them are concerned about the music anymore. Patroclus stands up to pull down his boxer briefs, springing forth, and jumps back onto Achilles. Breathing hard, their hands are hot as they overlap, messily stroking to completion. Achilles’ back starts to arch, his grip twitching first, and he keens as he comes. The slickness helps Patroclus, plus the sounds of Achilles sobbing helplessly from overstimulation, and he follows shortly after. They slump into the couch, chests rising up and down against one another.

“I’m getting you messy,” Patroclus murmurs, trying to pull away. His drunken high is gone, brought back to clarity from working it out and orgasm. Achilles refuses to let him go, wiping his hands on his shirt before bringing them to Patroclus’ face.

“That was the only part I thought I signed up for,” he breathes, laughing. “That was amazing. Wow. I thought you were just going to grind on me. Oh, that’s a song too- we have to do this again to that. That was so good, Philtatos. You said she only taught you how to twerk, but then you did all that, and I just- I don’t know where that came from but if you ever want to keep practicing- both for sex and just to do so- I am here! I- please pick me to help. Oh that was so good. I’m so happy.”

Achilles is babbling excitedly, glowing, and Patroclus only laughs softly.

“This is just a treat, Achilles. A treat.” He rises from the couch, holding out his hand while ignoring Achilles’ crocodile tears. “Now let’s go get cleaned up.”

WelBradley: “Eros only does the erotic ad-libs in Gimme More, but he serves as gorgeous eye candy in a Victorian navy blue ruffled top with the V neck stiletto sharp down to his belly button, the leather pants tight against his hips. We certainly enjoyed watching Deidameia work him over during the steamy music video. This three single run might be one of the best in the Pop Princess’ career so far.”

                   FreshBliki: the way Eros has had both Achilles and Deidameia is unreal. King Shit

                  Vulturre: oh great. Homewrecked his way in between the REAL royal couple and now he’s come full circle

                  Reallystyle: the fact that he literally is just in the video to be gorgeous, ad-lib, and moan, and it WORKS. I had to go to the bathroom multiple times, don’t mind me

                  humanCutie: he’s so unnecessary. Goodbye. Talentless jerk.

                 Elektora: he’s better than me. She tried stealing his man way back when. I could never

                 Messagesma: the song undeniably slaps though. Everything the man touches turns to gold

                 LoverDei: the audacity to break Achilles’ heart and then turn around and do this with Briseis and Deidameia too?! A creep

                                Agent Styx: @LoverDei These are professionals!! They work together! Work!! It doesn’t mean they’re sleeping together!

                 GoodOxie: this is actually such a fun mix! I’d never have thought these two could work!

WelBradley: “There’s been rave reviews about Piece of Me, the first in the three single run, as Deidameia’s rebellious streak finally takes center stage. The Princess was especially grateful for Eros’ help with the writing, saying quote: ‘He was really kind and encouraging. I felt a peace that I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ll never forget his kindness.’ We hope to see more work between PME and Scyros Entertainment in the future!”